VittlesVamp

Astoria Has Run Out Of Basil & Other Irene Cooking Adventures

Not to make light of the damage that Irene has sent our way, but I have to admit that her arrival gave me a great excuse to hunker down with a DVD or two of West Wing's first season, spend relaxing hours with a good book, and cook with and for fine friends.

It all started on Friday night when my archaeologically-inclined pal Kristin stopped by for dinner pre-Irene. In truth, except for the vino, she actually brought dinner with her. Dinner direct from Astoria's fabulous produce stalls.

After I mixed up us a couple of cocktails, she expertly sliced up ripe tomatoes, cut into soft, fresh mozzarella, drizzled the platter with a bit of Champagne vinegar and fruity olive oil. The only thing the plate missed was the bright green of basil. It seemed there was a run on basil in Astoria, so we had to do without. (Who knew that basil would be more coveted prior to a hurricane than staples like milk and eggs?)

What did we use as a substitute herb? Dried oregano. The strong stuff, straight from Greece. A few spoonfuls and the platter was complete. Add a bottle of Liberty School Cabernet Sauvignon and we were welcoming Irene in excellent spirits.

Yesterday, the platter was finished as the center of a glorious omelet lunch. Then dinnertime arrived, as I presented a Roast Chicken with Potatoes, Onions, Fennel and Red Peppers to a table that included Mr. P, Mr. L, a bottle of Champagne and a bottle of Joel Gott Pinot Noir. We even poured a glass for Irene, in the hope that she was not unlike the Prophet Elijah, and could be calmed with a nip or two.

Mr. P and Mr. L departed and then Irene finally paid call as I drifted off to sleep. She wasn't a terrific houseguest, but she wasn't as bad as expected. (Maybe that extra glass of wine worked?)

Today, once the rains had subsided, I met the mighty winds with a smile and took a power walk to work off brunch: homemade Buttermilk Pancakes with Blueberries.

It's almost 6pm now. Think my cooking may be done for the weekend. I have leftover chicken in the fridge and another DVD to go.

Two questions: Is it possible to have a "hurricane" weekend every year -- but without the actual hurricane? And, do you think I can vote for Jed Bartlet in the next presidential election?

M. Not So Wells

I hate to kick a restaurant when it's down. And between the whole kerfuffle over M. Wells losing its lease and the Alan Richman ruckus, I decided to let the dust settle before I offered up my two-cents about this incredibly hyped Quebecois-meets-Queens restaurant.

To make a long and tiresome story short: I just want my two-cents back. In fact I want every single penny that I plunked down for the bill at the end of the evening.

Call me a curmudgeon, but if I'm going to wait for over two-hours for a meal, I expect said meal to be worth the wait. In the case of my recent dinner at M. Wells with the inimitable Lady M -- no such luck.

The cramped room was bad enough. The lack of proper air-conditioning made it a notably schvitzy evening too. And, the oblivious hipster woman sitting behind me who decided to whip her Rapunzel-like mane behind her and into my face was a special treat.

In the end though, I figured the food would make up for these failings.

Not so much.

Case in point, the Tomato Tart pictured above. It sounded marvelous: fresh tomatoes and gruyere cheese on a delicate crust. What we got was a slab of greasy pastry drenched with copious amounts of Dijon mustard, sprinkled with a bit of cheese and topped with a few thin wimpy slices of tomato. It was capped off with an unstoppable pool of oil.

Ick!

The Caesar Salad with Herring was a bit better, but the romaine was so slicked down with dressing and overpowered by a shower of cheese, that I had a hard time getting more than a few bites down. The Steak Tartare was a dreadful gloppy mess, accompanied by Flintstone-size mammoth hunks of bread.

The Lobster Roll that we split was definitely a saving grace -- but a saving grace that came with an ample amount of both mayo and butter. It may have been yummy, but I could feel my arteries clogging within seconds of it sliding down my gullet.

All in all, it was a big greasy, stomach rumbling, unfortunate excuse for a meal.

Thank goodness for dessert.

After a major disappointment of a dinner, we gleefully lay waste to a gorgeous slice of M. Wells' Maple Pie.

Next time -- if there is a next time -- I'm skipping the main menu altogether and going straight for dessert.

But, perhaps I'll just forgo the spot altogether.

I don't care what Bon Appetit says, there are many other restaurants in New York worthy of my attention and wallet. And, if need be, I'm sure I can figure out how to make Maple Pie at home.

Dinner Party -- Bring Wine & Your Camera

Dessert kind of got ridiculous. No. Redonkulous.

Up until then it had been a regular dinner party. We started with chilled Manhattans and assorted nibbles. At the table, we tucked into Tomato-Peach Salad and followed that up with Shrimp, Mussels and Scallops in a Lemon-Pernod Sauce.

Then it was time for dessert: individual Blueberry Crisps finished off with scoops of homemade Ricotta Gelato.

Then the madness began: I whipped out my camera for a few sweet shots. Inspired, my Spice Hunting friend Max whipped his out too. (His camera, people! Get your mind out of the gutter!)

Snap. Snap. Snap.

It was like we were paparazzi and the Blueberry Crisps were Paris Hilton with a wardrobe malfunction.

But then the tables turned: Snap. Snap. Snap.

My archaeologically-inclined pal Kristin was taking photos of Max and myself taking photos of the crisps.

As I said earlier: redonkulous!

One the snaps is above. It's Max's. Enjoy.

BTW - After the photo shoot, we dug into dessert. It was delicious.