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Go.
UPDATE: Just to expand upon that review a wee bit...Great classic cocktails. Divine Pigs n' a Blanket. Darn fine Deviled Eggs. A swank refuge from the Smith Street madness -- if you can go at an off-hour. Otherwise, it simply becomes another outpost of the Smith Street madness. Still, it's a beautiful bar that is sure to keep on keeping on as long as Prohibition doesn't strike again. And, in conclusion: GO.
The Pancakes didn't stand a chance. How could they? They were up against a three-year old girl who had just spent an hour playing up and down a jungle gym.
Besides, they were pretty. Little girls adore "pretty."
Golden brown. Crisped on the edges. They came with sweet, dark brown Maple Syrup.
As soon as that plate was presented to my three-year old friend at the DUMBO General Store, I knew the Pancakes were goners.
Oh, and the way she grabbed one of the warm round cakes without any hesitation, joyfully dunking half the darn thing in the syrup and shoving it into her mouth - it was the perfect embodiment of unbridled glee.
Needless to say, I was jealous. Me, relegated to the constraints of a fork and knife. Harumph!
To make matters worse, she even had that hot pink sippy cup.
Life can be so unfair.
Sometimes decadence is called for. At those times it is good to be in Manhattan's West Chelsea. Very good.
The district is home to some of New York's "uber" restaurants, including Buddakan and Morimoto. However, with an aching desire for decadence of a more hearty kind, I bypassed these Asian treats for something more rarified -- mammoth slabs of bloody steak.
Yum!
My ultimate destination was Craftsteak, but with an hour to spare before my reservation, I decided to take a pit stop. And I picked quite a "pit" for the occasion - Del Posto.
Sidling up to bar in the upper-crusty Italian palace, I was immediately put off by the tinkling strains of "Somewhere" coming from the pianist. Was I in a fine restaurant or had I made a wrong turn and walked into a suburban Nordstrom's? The amiable bartender assured me it was indeed the former and then put his money where his mouth was by shaking me up a Carpano Cocktail, a heady concoction of Carpano Antica, bourbon and freshly squeezed lemon, lime and orange juices.
After a few sips, the musical theater melodies started to fade off into the distance. And, they disappeared completely after one bite into the kitchen's delicate Lobster Tremezzi (pictured above), bite-sized sandwiches that took the classic Maine Lobster Roll on a trip to the Italian Riviera - and straight into my mouth.
Reservation time at Craftsteak was fast approaching, so I sashayed down the block and got ready to be wowed.
"Wowed" I was, as was my dining pal Jenn. From our melt-in-your-mouth appetizer of Wagyu Tartare served with an oozing egg yolk atop, accompanied by crisp Waffle Potato Chips, to our side of moan-inducing Fava Bean Agnolotti with Pickled Mushrooms and Piavé Cheese (pictured below), we were in heaven.
Then there was the steak...
It was a glorious hunk of bovine. A 14 ounce Ribeye from Painted Hills Farm, Oregon, seared to medium-rare perfection. God, were we glad we weren't vegetarians!
Our deep ruby glasses of Hendry Zinfandel only gilded the lily.
Speaking of gilding the lily: What was for dessert?
After the steak, did it really matter?
Uh, yeah!
To that end, let's just say that the pastry chef's Passion Fruit Souffle with Milk Chocolate Sauce was masterful, but it wasn't the Ribeye.
The Ribeye is what I'll truly remember. It's seared in my memory. And, it's that Ribeye that I'll be going back for -- as soon as possible -- and most definitely the next time I'm due for some decadence.
A classic Manhattan is a thing of pristine beauty. Add an additional cherry to my glass and maybe it's a bit less pristine, but even more beautiful.
Still, there is nothing wrong with a variation on a theme.
Three cherries, perhaps?
Nah.
Instead, I'll turn to a bonafide riff that is warming, fragrant, ever so slightly sweet and delightfully bright all at once. Nary a cherry in sight.
Grand Manhattan
2 oz. bourbon
1/2 oz. sweet vermouth
1/2 oz. Grand Marnier
A dash of orange bitters
A piece of fresh orange peel
Pour liquid ingredients over ice. Stir. Strain into a chilled Martini glass. Garnish with an orange peel -- set aflame with great showmanship, if at all possible.
The former guv doesn't do it for me.
On the other hand, Spitzer's Corner in the Lower East Side can get me revved up -- but good.
Today, I ducked into their bar, windows wide open allowing for a gentle breeze, to grab a quick beer and snack after a luxe mani-pedi at Poh Tree Thai Spa. There's nothing like a brewsky after a spa treatment. Herbal teas and Cosmos be damned.
In this case, the beer of choice was a pint of a hoppy, citrus-infused IPA from Bear Republic called Racer 5. The snack was a helping of Guss' Pickles.
I giddily stared at my pretty, painted toes while I crunched and imbibed.
Don't think a Saturday afternoon can get much better than that.
Looks like fast-food Burrito staple Chipotle had decided to take a leadership stance in the lovacore movement. According to the Associated Press:
This summer, Chipotle is purchasing 25 percent of at least one produce item for each of its stores from small and mid-sized farms located within about 200 miles. Those purchases could include lettuce, onions and peppers.
Organic beans, avocados and herbs grown only on a large scale in certain climates won't be part of the program.
Fine dining chefs have long sought ingredients from nearby farmers, but Chipotle is moving that philosophy to a growing quick-service chain.
"It's going to open up the practice of knowing where food comes from to a wider variety of people," said Kate Evanishyn of Slow Food USA, which believes in food production that treats the environment, animals, human health and workers well.
Why do I have a feeling that Burger King, McDonald's and Taco Bell won't be following suit?
Chocolate be damned. Ripe, juicy late-spring strawberries, tart balsamic vinegar and fragrant basil is surely the dessert of the gods.
All it needs is a dash of sugar, 30-minutes to macerate and, most importantly, a spoon.
A visit to Queens had been on my "to-do" list for a while. My friend Jenn lives in the Woodside section and insisted that I paid call for an evening that would span the globe from Ireland to Mexico in mere blocks.
Her tour didn't disappoint. A bit o' the Irish was found in the backyard of a friendly pub called Gaslight Bar. We didn't get very lit there, but definitely lit enough to ramble down Queens Boulevard and onto Roosevelt Avenue chattering away with bad Irish brogues.
Then I saw it.
A sight that made my eyes pop and my mouth water: a bonafide taco truck. And, from the smells radiating from the small vehicle and the Mexican patrons lining up for evening repast this seemed like a chowhound experience not to be missed.
I ordered up a Carnitas Taco and the woman by the grill set to work.
Within minutes it appeared.
Within seconds it was gone.
The tortilla was warm from the grill, emanating the seductive aroma of maize. The meat was well-seasoned and slightly chewy. The diced onions and bright green of the cilantro gave the dish some necessary zest. The green salsa was pretty darn good too.
Mmmm...
To think, dinner was yet to come!
We walked a couple more blocks and grabbed a seat at the itty, bitty neighborhood fave La Flor, where a bizarre mix of Mexican and Continental fare greeted us on the menu. But there was no going back to Continental after that truck taco.
Mexican was the plan. Mexican was ordered.
Then I saw him.
A sight that made my eyes pop and my face twist in confusion.
There, sitting at a long table filled with garrulous men decked out in various modes of stylish dress was the New York gossip icon himself - Michael Musto.
I didn't think La Dolce ever left the isle of Manhattan, let alone would venture to a common-place outer-borough establishment like La Flor.
Yet, there he was.
Hmmm...
Did this mean I was in a certifiable "it" hot spot?
One bite into the kitchen's Chicken Enchiladas, drowned in mole sauce and I knew the answer was no.
On the other hand, the Flan was fantastic and Musto and company did seem to be having a fabulous time.
Guess another trip to Queens will be in order this summer.
I'm hoping to spy Perez Hilton next time around.
Over a civilized lunch at the civilized Theater District restaurant ViceVersa a disturbing trend was brought to my attention.
Pepper mill abuse.
My dining companion, a good friend and business associate, noted it when our waiter came over with a substantial specimen, asking if we wanted some of his freshly ground stuff.
OK. He didn't quite put it that way. Still, he did look awfully disappointed when we didn't take him up on the offer.
It all begs the question: Why the heck do restaurants seem hell-bent on bringing over a phallic grinding device at the onset of a meal?
And, when you get down to it, as my lunch partner said, "Why can't the chef season my food properly before it comes to the table in the first place?"
Clearly, I'll need to mount a full-scale investigation into this pepper mill predilection -- especially if the next waiter who offers me a crack at his over-sized pepper mill is hot.
There is no question that the government must get involved when it comes to foodstuffs that could endanger the public. The tomato salmonella scandal case in point.
But, sometimes the government can go too far in restricting what we put down our gullets.
For example, take the European Union. Apparently, the EU put laws into place requiring that asparagus for sale had to be at least 80% green and that a bend in a cucumber at a market could result in prosecution.
Now, they're seeing the errors of their ways -- and perhaps learning to enjoy the pleasures of a well-curved cucumber.