As I reviewed previously, I finally found the ‘perfect’ LA burger at The Village Idiot on Melrose, but a friend heard that the “in” burger in LA was now at the Father’s Office bar/restaurant and suggested we try it. I say “bar,” because when he called to make a reservation, “they” told him that “they” didn’t take reservations because “they’re” a “bar.” No problem… how busy could a “bar” be at 12:30?
Richard and I arrived at the “bar” on Helms Street at 12:00 and the line behind a rope was out the door and down the block. A rope! At noon! Get a grip. And, who knew so many people in LA started drinking that early in the day.
Standing in line while waiting for our friend we noticed that many of the tables were empty. We heard someone ask the guy “controlling” the rope why we had to wait in the hot sun when so many tables were empty. His reply: “Father’s Office is a ‘bar.’ The kitchen needs time to prepare the food for those already sitting and as soon as it caught up on the orders, I’ll let more people in.” Reasonable solution? Hire another cook!
By 12:20 the kitchen had “caught up.” We had already exceeded our blazing sun exposure for the day and opted for a table for three inside the “bar.” There we found out you have to order your own food, get a number and put it on your table so the busboys (there’s no waitstaff) can find you. Just like Carl’s, Jr! A “restaurant!”
For a “bar” the menu included some pretty fancy entrees, including a huge gourmet beet salad someone was eating at the next table. But I was there for the latest “in” burger and since there was only one offered, that’s what I would be ordering as soon as our friend arrived. However, when he did arrive, the keeper of the rope sent him to the end of the line (which had grown in leaps and bounds). My friend explained that his party was already seated but was still refused entrance. When we went to talk to this “Burger Nazi,” he told us that he was “just following orders.” We countered that he should not have seated us until our party was complete as is the policy of other restaurants. “We’re not a restaurant!” he whined. “We’re a bar!” I laughed as I watched more than 50 people at tables eating and eating and eating very “non-bar” gourmet-presented food… most without any alcoholic beverage.
When my friend tried speaking with the “bar’s” manager, security approached him as if he were Al Qaeda. The manager listened to him and a few people waiting on the line who agreed with my friend, then repeated the “bar’s” policy. My friend had to go to the end of the line. At that point, several people waiting on line, left.
First of all, none of us has a problem with waiting our turn. But we’d done that -- for more than twenty minutes.
Second, besides the obvious PR problem this generates, it makes no sense economically. It’s ridiculous to let half a party (in our case 2/3’s) sit at a table for more than a half-hour without ordering when the establishment could be turning over the table. But, hey, maybe good service and turning a profit on food isn’t a concern. This is a “bar.”
So… did I want to sit at the table for yet another 20-30 minutes or so (by now it was 12:45) to have this “in” burger… the only choice being one with caramelized onions, gueryere cheese, maytag blue cheese and arugula... for 12 bucks!?!? The mix of flavors sounded gross. Way too ‘over-the-top” trendy without thinking what tastes would actually blend together to make a good burger. Nah. I didn’t.
So… sad to say, I can’t review LA’s “in” burger. But, I can review the self-serving, “we’re so hot we don’t give a damn attitude.” However, if you find yourself in LA and want a great gourmet burger (with a choice of cheeses and toppings) in a hip restaurant and “bar” with fabulous service and a terrific selection of beers, wines and a great martini, may I suggest you run as fast as you can away from Father’s Office and head straight for The Village Idiot.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
THE VILLAGE IDIOT... IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO PLEASE A FOOD IDIOT LIKE ME
I love hamburgers. Not skimpy, fast food hamburgers, though they have their place… not even those so-called ‘six dollar’ burgers at Carl’s Jr. that drip more sauce than meat juice. When I lived in Manhattan, my non-fast food choices were numerous – each with its own signature ‘taste.’ One favorite was the landmark tavern, PJ Clarke’s burger… but my personal favorite was at Prime Burger, the coffee shop featured in the movie “Breakfast At Tiffany’s” on E. 5lst, directly across the street from St. Pat’s… I salivate just thinking about them.
When Richard and I moved to LA I searched for a comparable culinary burger experience, but never found one until a little over a year ago when The Village Idiot opened on trendy Melrose Ave at the corner of Martel. When I walked through its doors, I immediately fell in love with the room with its high-beamed ceiling, a substantial bar smack in the center of the restaurant, the exposed brick, the raised booths along a wall of expansive windows, dark wooden floors, dark wooden tables and chairs and open kitchen… OK, not everyone would care about all these things – but I love it when I find a space that’s as beautifully designed as this large room. The place was jumping and I said a little prayer that the burger wouldn’t disappoint. To cheese or not to cheese was now my big question. Should I have my burger plain or with melted gruyere? Or should I try the maytag blue… or the smoked cheddar? I decided to cheese with the cheddar. And when I bit into my thick, juicy burger it was cooked to perfection, dripping with ‘real’ beef juices… and the smoked cheddar just punched up the smoky grilled flavor. I tried my next bite with the fresh balsamic red onion relish that comes with the burger. More perfection.
But I soon discovered that The Village Idiot isn’t just about burgers – this 21st century take on an English pub serves a rock shrimp and scallion fritter that I’d write songs about if I could write songs. The mussels steamed in ale are mussels I dream about, and an order of Brussels sprouts with bacon is a must every time I eat there. Among its other dishes, the menu includes fish and chips with a malt vinegar dipping sauce, miso-glazed salmon, an angus rib eye, braised pork shank, cornmeal crusted catfish, steak and potato pie (a personal favorite of Richard’s), a leek and goat cheese tart, savory oak grilled half-chicken, and, of course, bangers and mash - well, not just your ordinary bangers and mash – but oak grilled pork sausage and Yukon mash with carmelized onions and a port sauce… delicious! As you would suspect, the bartenders make a helluva martini and the ale list is impressive. But, what you might not expect is its short but intriguing wine list.
The Village Idiot is a great neighborhood place where you can drop in for lunch (no reservations), bring a book, your baby or your computer and hang out, then stay for dinner (again, no reservations). Or drop in and have a drink, maybe some fritters or a three course meal at the bar. It’s all cool.
When Richard and I moved to LA I searched for a comparable culinary burger experience, but never found one until a little over a year ago when The Village Idiot opened on trendy Melrose Ave at the corner of Martel. When I walked through its doors, I immediately fell in love with the room with its high-beamed ceiling, a substantial bar smack in the center of the restaurant, the exposed brick, the raised booths along a wall of expansive windows, dark wooden floors, dark wooden tables and chairs and open kitchen… OK, not everyone would care about all these things – but I love it when I find a space that’s as beautifully designed as this large room. The place was jumping and I said a little prayer that the burger wouldn’t disappoint. To cheese or not to cheese was now my big question. Should I have my burger plain or with melted gruyere? Or should I try the maytag blue… or the smoked cheddar? I decided to cheese with the cheddar. And when I bit into my thick, juicy burger it was cooked to perfection, dripping with ‘real’ beef juices… and the smoked cheddar just punched up the smoky grilled flavor. I tried my next bite with the fresh balsamic red onion relish that comes with the burger. More perfection.
But I soon discovered that The Village Idiot isn’t just about burgers – this 21st century take on an English pub serves a rock shrimp and scallion fritter that I’d write songs about if I could write songs. The mussels steamed in ale are mussels I dream about, and an order of Brussels sprouts with bacon is a must every time I eat there. Among its other dishes, the menu includes fish and chips with a malt vinegar dipping sauce, miso-glazed salmon, an angus rib eye, braised pork shank, cornmeal crusted catfish, steak and potato pie (a personal favorite of Richard’s), a leek and goat cheese tart, savory oak grilled half-chicken, and, of course, bangers and mash - well, not just your ordinary bangers and mash – but oak grilled pork sausage and Yukon mash with carmelized onions and a port sauce… delicious! As you would suspect, the bartenders make a helluva martini and the ale list is impressive. But, what you might not expect is its short but intriguing wine list.
The Village Idiot is a great neighborhood place where you can drop in for lunch (no reservations), bring a book, your baby or your computer and hang out, then stay for dinner (again, no reservations). Or drop in and have a drink, maybe some fritters or a three course meal at the bar. It’s all cool.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
PICNICKING ON THE I-5
PICNICKING ON THE I-5
Well, it’s that “over the meadow and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go” time of year or in Richard's and my case it’s a “hop a Southwest shuttle, drive the 101, creep along the PCH white cliffs of Big Sur, or meander up the “meadow and woods” of the Interstate 5. Yeh, the I-5. A straight line of boring. An ugly, barren desert landscape that dulls the senses. But beauty is in the eye of the imagination. For us, this road is never boring or ugly because we plan our journey as if it were a drive through the hills of Tuscany or the south of France, complete with a picnic in a beautiful vineyard.
For our latest I-5 trip north to the Sacramento/Bay area for a family pre-holiday reunion, I went to my favorite LA gourmet market (partly because Andy Garcia shops there --- be still my heart) and bought the makings for our picnic: Black Forest ham, sliced aged Jarlsberg, heirloom tomatoes, arugula, an Edmund Fallot imported mustard and freshly baked wheat rolls (fiber) for sandwiches, a couple of bottles of Pelegrino and some lovely champagne grapes. However, not everything in my shopping cart was gourmet. You see, I have this guilty food pleasure that I indulge only on these interstate treks: Reduced Fat Cheez-Its. Why reduced fat? Less “lard,” more cheese, hence – more cheese flavor.
Before we even hit the I-5, I tore open the Cheez-Its box and shoved a handful of these tasty little tidbits into my mouth. I rationalized this barbaric food behavior as one of these trip’s little perks. Not until I’ve had 2 - 3 fists full did I even consider sharing these morsels with Richard. By the time we reached the Grapevine (the mountain ‘pass’ that leads to the San Joaquin Valley) half the box was gone. By the time we reached the pristine lake reservoir atop the Grapevine the Cheez-Its were gone.
As we drove out of the mountain terrain, I once again marveled at the endless miles of moonscape on both sides of the road… distant brownish gray hills and mountains… parched flatland dotted with a few green walnut and citrus groves fed with water stolen from who knows where. Our mouths, already dry from the salty Cheez-Its, got drier. We guzzled down half a bottle of the sparkling Pelegrino as we passed the occasional cow or two grazing on a single tuft of straw-like grass. We drove by the few lonely houses miles apart and made up movie scenarios about who lived there and why. And even after driving this straight “ribbon of highway” over and over again, the sight of sagebrush blowing across the road still sparked my imagination and I pretended to be in an old John Ford western as I pictured Indians on horses atop a distant hill. Little dust cyclones swirled every so often over the sun-baked land. But recently, a few more patches of landscape have become greener. There on the left was a vineyard. There was another one. And, yet another as we eased on down the road. The baby boomers had discovered wine and the valley has jumped on the ‘grapewagon’ turning “The Searchers” into “Sideways.” I yearned for a chilled bottle of chardonnay.
Just as my stomach started to growl we saw the tall palm trees indicating the exit to the Harris Ranch. The Ranch is a major watering hole in the midst of this desert valley… the half-way mark between LA/San Francisco-LA/Sacramento. We parked by the Ranch’s inn/restaurant complex and were pleasantly surprised that the “scent” of the cows corralled just a few miles away wasn’t wafting in the air, allowing us to picnic outside the car.
Inside one of the Ranch’s adobe-esque buildings are three restaurant/bars: the Ranch Kitchen restaurant, The Steakhouse, and the Horseshoe Bar. Famous for their beef (this is a cattle ranch after all!) we often eat at one of the restaurants on the way home to LA. If we feel financially flush, we eat at the Steakhouse and I almost always have the filet tenderloin (rare) with a Jack Daniels wild mushroom sauce… a little less flush and we eat in the ‘kitchen’ where I’ll have either the horseradish flank steak salad (rare, of course) or the Ranch Burger, savory “juices” oozing, dressed with the special house sauce and my choice of cheese. But the trip up is always picnic time.
Also housed in this desert oasis building are a gift shop/butcher/bakery combination and very pretty, clean bathrooms. We hit the loos then bought some baseball steaks (a rare classic cut that’s mouth-wateringly delicious very, very rare) packed in dry ice to bring as a ‘hostess’ gift. We grabbed a huge fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie from the bakery for later and headed back to the car and our gourmet sandwiches. We spread a blanket under a nearby tree and remembered the time we sipped wine sitting under a thousand-year old olive tree in Provence.
Back on the road, we put on the Eagles. Bugs continued to meet their makers on our windshield as we sang along to “Hotel California.” When we reached the fork in the road… one tine leading to Sacramento, the other to the Bay area (today it was tine #2) we shared the cookie as we passed the fields of energy windmills scattered over the rolling, tan landscape that looked like a set from “Thelma & Louise.”
As we approached our destination, the ground became greener and the homes got closer together. I thought about the moonscape we just traveled and the picnic we shared under California’s “Tuscan” sun as we exited the freeway and headed to my cousin’s just in time for chilled martinis – shaken, not stirred.
So, for all of you out there who are about to take a holiday road trip, even if it’s a road you’ve often traveled… make it a picnic! Keep your eyes open. Let what you see and eat fill your senses… you’ll never know what movie you could be in, what country you might find yourself… what simple joys you could be missing. Or, rent a book on tape.
Well, it’s that “over the meadow and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go” time of year or in Richard's and my case it’s a “hop a Southwest shuttle, drive the 101, creep along the PCH white cliffs of Big Sur, or meander up the “meadow and woods” of the Interstate 5. Yeh, the I-5. A straight line of boring. An ugly, barren desert landscape that dulls the senses. But beauty is in the eye of the imagination. For us, this road is never boring or ugly because we plan our journey as if it were a drive through the hills of Tuscany or the south of France, complete with a picnic in a beautiful vineyard.
For our latest I-5 trip north to the Sacramento/Bay area for a family pre-holiday reunion, I went to my favorite LA gourmet market (partly because Andy Garcia shops there --- be still my heart) and bought the makings for our picnic: Black Forest ham, sliced aged Jarlsberg, heirloom tomatoes, arugula, an Edmund Fallot imported mustard and freshly baked wheat rolls (fiber) for sandwiches, a couple of bottles of Pelegrino and some lovely champagne grapes. However, not everything in my shopping cart was gourmet. You see, I have this guilty food pleasure that I indulge only on these interstate treks: Reduced Fat Cheez-Its. Why reduced fat? Less “lard,” more cheese, hence – more cheese flavor.
Before we even hit the I-5, I tore open the Cheez-Its box and shoved a handful of these tasty little tidbits into my mouth. I rationalized this barbaric food behavior as one of these trip’s little perks. Not until I’ve had 2 - 3 fists full did I even consider sharing these morsels with Richard. By the time we reached the Grapevine (the mountain ‘pass’ that leads to the San Joaquin Valley) half the box was gone. By the time we reached the pristine lake reservoir atop the Grapevine the Cheez-Its were gone.
As we drove out of the mountain terrain, I once again marveled at the endless miles of moonscape on both sides of the road… distant brownish gray hills and mountains… parched flatland dotted with a few green walnut and citrus groves fed with water stolen from who knows where. Our mouths, already dry from the salty Cheez-Its, got drier. We guzzled down half a bottle of the sparkling Pelegrino as we passed the occasional cow or two grazing on a single tuft of straw-like grass. We drove by the few lonely houses miles apart and made up movie scenarios about who lived there and why. And even after driving this straight “ribbon of highway” over and over again, the sight of sagebrush blowing across the road still sparked my imagination and I pretended to be in an old John Ford western as I pictured Indians on horses atop a distant hill. Little dust cyclones swirled every so often over the sun-baked land. But recently, a few more patches of landscape have become greener. There on the left was a vineyard. There was another one. And, yet another as we eased on down the road. The baby boomers had discovered wine and the valley has jumped on the ‘grapewagon’ turning “The Searchers” into “Sideways.” I yearned for a chilled bottle of chardonnay.
Just as my stomach started to growl we saw the tall palm trees indicating the exit to the Harris Ranch. The Ranch is a major watering hole in the midst of this desert valley… the half-way mark between LA/San Francisco-LA/Sacramento. We parked by the Ranch’s inn/restaurant complex and were pleasantly surprised that the “scent” of the cows corralled just a few miles away wasn’t wafting in the air, allowing us to picnic outside the car.
Inside one of the Ranch’s adobe-esque buildings are three restaurant/bars: the Ranch Kitchen restaurant, The Steakhouse, and the Horseshoe Bar. Famous for their beef (this is a cattle ranch after all!) we often eat at one of the restaurants on the way home to LA. If we feel financially flush, we eat at the Steakhouse and I almost always have the filet tenderloin (rare) with a Jack Daniels wild mushroom sauce… a little less flush and we eat in the ‘kitchen’ where I’ll have either the horseradish flank steak salad (rare, of course) or the Ranch Burger, savory “juices” oozing, dressed with the special house sauce and my choice of cheese. But the trip up is always picnic time.
Also housed in this desert oasis building are a gift shop/butcher/bakery combination and very pretty, clean bathrooms. We hit the loos then bought some baseball steaks (a rare classic cut that’s mouth-wateringly delicious very, very rare) packed in dry ice to bring as a ‘hostess’ gift. We grabbed a huge fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie from the bakery for later and headed back to the car and our gourmet sandwiches. We spread a blanket under a nearby tree and remembered the time we sipped wine sitting under a thousand-year old olive tree in Provence.
Back on the road, we put on the Eagles. Bugs continued to meet their makers on our windshield as we sang along to “Hotel California.” When we reached the fork in the road… one tine leading to Sacramento, the other to the Bay area (today it was tine #2) we shared the cookie as we passed the fields of energy windmills scattered over the rolling, tan landscape that looked like a set from “Thelma & Louise.”
As we approached our destination, the ground became greener and the homes got closer together. I thought about the moonscape we just traveled and the picnic we shared under California’s “Tuscan” sun as we exited the freeway and headed to my cousin’s just in time for chilled martinis – shaken, not stirred.
So, for all of you out there who are about to take a holiday road trip, even if it’s a road you’ve often traveled… make it a picnic! Keep your eyes open. Let what you see and eat fill your senses… you’ll never know what movie you could be in, what country you might find yourself… what simple joys you could be missing. Or, rent a book on tape.
Monday, August 24, 2009
GOURMET GROUP
From the “France The Beautiful Cookbook”
“In Provence, where it is called the poor man’s truffle, garlic is the basis of the local cuisine. Braised en chemise (“in a shirt” – in other words, unpeeled), the garlic cloves become soft and creamy making a delicious puree that enhances the flavor of poultry.”
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Two years ago Richard and I started a Gourmet Group with three other couples who love to cook as much as he does. We alternate houses. The host couple chooses the “theme,” makes the entree and assigns the remaining courses to the other couples. “Themes” have been as diverse as “white food below the Equator,” “a taste of Julia Childs,” and “Tuscany.” The last dinner was at our house. The theme – Provencal.
I staged the dining room table with antique white tea cloths layered on our old pine farm table, then piled some Richard’s freshly baked French baguettes next to a carved stone chicken rescued from our garden along with some sprigs of rosemary and voila!... a no cost centerpiece.
We greeted everyone with a champagne flute of “Pernod Moulin Rouge” (Pernod and cranberry juice), then enjoyed the “appetizer couple’s” dishes: baked trout with Provencal seasoning... goat cheese gratin of olives, cheeses and tomatoes… anchovy toasts with roasted garlic... white asparagus spears with a turnip and cumin dip... shrimp with a sauce verde of basil & spring onion. Their Parigot rose champagne complemented their dishes.
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Edith Piaf wafted from the ipod as we took our seats in the dining room for the first course: a light salad made with heirloom tomatoes from the “first course couples” garden, grilled sweet peppers, melon, Buffala mozzarella and grilled shrimp with a pesto dressing drizzled on the side. The wine: E. Guigal Rose.
Then it was time for Richard’s roast chicken. Roast chicken for Gourmet Group!!?? Well, this was not just any ol’ roast chicken, but the traditional Provence dish of roast chicken with 40 cloves of garlic which he served with "Asparagus on Asparagus,” a Michel Richard recipe he found on the net. The cooked asparagus had an asparagus sauce topped with poached eggs and black truffles. We spread the creamy roasted garlic on toasted baguette slices made from the bread not used for the centerpiece. The wine was an amazing Pomerol bequeathed to us from wine-loving friends.
Dessert was next. First, the “dessert couple” served a cheese plate of Brillat-Savarin, a Laguiole, a port salut and a roquefort whipped with walnuts. The beverage: a Chateau Bernadou Muscat. Then came their spectacular flourless chocolate cake served with a Banyuls port.
To end our evening in Provence, we made a dark, rich coffee and served it in demitasse cups as everyone helped themselves to more cake.
It took me three days to clean up. Five dishwasher loads, over forty glasses washed by hand, linens spotted and laundered and a zillion plates and platters put away.
For a meal like that, I’d do it all over again tomorrow and I didn’t have to cook a thing!
******
The chicken with 40 cloves of garlic recipe can be found in “France The Beautiful Cookbook.”
“In Provence, where it is called the poor man’s truffle, garlic is the basis of the local cuisine. Braised en chemise (“in a shirt” – in other words, unpeeled), the garlic cloves become soft and creamy making a delicious puree that enhances the flavor of poultry.”
Two years ago Richard and I started a Gourmet Group with three other couples who love to cook as much as he does. We alternate houses. The host couple chooses the “theme,” makes the entree and assigns the remaining courses to the other couples. “Themes” have been as diverse as “white food below the Equator,” “a taste of Julia Childs,” and “Tuscany.” The last dinner was at our house. The theme – Provencal.
I staged the dining room table with antique white tea cloths layered on our old pine farm table, then piled some Richard’s freshly baked French baguettes next to a carved stone chicken rescued from our garden along with some sprigs of rosemary and voila!... a no cost centerpiece.
We greeted everyone with a champagne flute of “Pernod Moulin Rouge” (Pernod and cranberry juice), then enjoyed the “appetizer couple’s” dishes: baked trout with Provencal seasoning... goat cheese gratin of olives, cheeses and tomatoes… anchovy toasts with roasted garlic... white asparagus spears with a turnip and cumin dip... shrimp with a sauce verde of basil & spring onion. Their Parigot rose champagne complemented their dishes.
Edith Piaf wafted from the ipod as we took our seats in the dining room for the first course: a light salad made with heirloom tomatoes from the “first course couples” garden, grilled sweet peppers, melon, Buffala mozzarella and grilled shrimp with a pesto dressing drizzled on the side. The wine: E. Guigal Rose.
Then it was time for Richard’s roast chicken. Roast chicken for Gourmet Group!!?? Well, this was not just any ol’ roast chicken, but the traditional Provence dish of roast chicken with 40 cloves of garlic which he served with "Asparagus on Asparagus,” a Michel Richard recipe he found on the net. The cooked asparagus had an asparagus sauce topped with poached eggs and black truffles. We spread the creamy roasted garlic on toasted baguette slices made from the bread not used for the centerpiece. The wine was an amazing Pomerol bequeathed to us from wine-loving friends.
Dessert was next. First, the “dessert couple” served a cheese plate of Brillat-Savarin, a Laguiole, a port salut and a roquefort whipped with walnuts. The beverage: a Chateau Bernadou Muscat. Then came their spectacular flourless chocolate cake served with a Banyuls port.
To end our evening in Provence, we made a dark, rich coffee and served it in demitasse cups as everyone helped themselves to more cake.
It took me three days to clean up. Five dishwasher loads, over forty glasses washed by hand, linens spotted and laundered and a zillion plates and platters put away.
For a meal like that, I’d do it all over again tomorrow and I didn’t have to cook a thing!
******
The chicken with 40 cloves of garlic recipe can be found in “France The Beautiful Cookbook.”
Saturday, August 22, 2009
It's been awhile...
Right now Richard is baking 'friendship' breads and our home smells like heaven - or what I believe heaven should smell like. When they're finished, he plans to deliver them to friends w/ a starter so that those friends can bake friendship breads for their friends and pass them on w/ starters and so on and so on...
I haven't posted here in a long time and have no idea if anyone will read this blog, but I now have a body of food reviews and essays that appear on my MySpace blog and on the RoobiesFood blog and thought I'd come back here and see if anyone's still around. Hopefully you are because I plan to post more often about food and other musings.
I haven't posted here in a long time and have no idea if anyone will read this blog, but I now have a body of food reviews and essays that appear on my MySpace blog and on the RoobiesFood blog and thought I'd come back here and see if anyone's still around. Hopefully you are because I plan to post more often about food and other musings.
ONE 53 -Rocky Hill, NJ - review
I love vacations. Everybody loves vacations. Some people like to camp out in the mountains or on a riverbed, cooking stew or the ‘catch of the day’ over a campfire. Others like to sail the high seas and rustle up rations on a butane burner and still others love to stay in four star hotels and order room service at the end of the day. But when it comes to eating on vacation, I like finding wonderful new restaurants that surprise me with its food whether I’m in a quiet small town or a noisy big city.
Last summer Richard and I ventured from our Los Angeles home and headed to Princeton, New Jersey to attend the wedding of our own wedding’s flower girl… It was during our time in Princeton we discovered No ONE 53 a wonderful bistro in a quiet neighborhood in the “wilds” of Rocky Hill a/k/a Princeton “adjacent.” The restaurant’s décor is minimalist, accented by modern lighting. The bare tables sport crisp white linen napkins. Yet the feeling you get when entering the dining room is warm and welcoming. This was greatly enhanced by the greeting we received from the owner, Joe McLaughlin, who led us to our table and handed us menus that appeared to be printed on a single sheet of plain brown ‘grocery bag’ paper.
Before we ordered, our waitress told us that the wines on the special Captain’s List were all half price – music to our ears. We decided on the ’06 Cakebread chardonnay, a Napa wine we normally can’t afford. It came perfectly chilled in all its buttery glory.
For starters, I chose a grilled Caesar salad… a stalk of grilled romaine lettuce with a creamy anchovy dressing that was so delicious I wanted seconds, and I don’t even like salads. Richard had the caprese salad… fresh mozzarella and New Jersey tomatoes. What’s not to love, even for me?
Though I didn’t want to give up sipping Cakebread, I decided to get a glass of cabernet sauvignon,Vina Robles to go with the char-grilled flat iron steak I ordered. The steak was tender and grilled to perfection. The hand-cut shoestring fries were golden and crispy. Richard stayed with the chardonnay as he dove into his stuffed poussin with caramelized red onions, cherries and shitake mushrooms. If he had to pick a “last meal,” I think this would have been it. Sated and happy, we passed on dessert as we sipped our decaf cappuccinos.
So, here’s my advice. If you’re ever in Princeton (or Princeton adjacent), dial 609-924-1019 and make a reservation at this wonderful American bistro perched on a quiet, tree-lined street. You won’t be disappointed.
Address: 153 Washington Street
Rocky Hill, New Jersey
Last summer Richard and I ventured from our Los Angeles home and headed to Princeton, New Jersey to attend the wedding of our own wedding’s flower girl… It was during our time in Princeton we discovered No ONE 53 a wonderful bistro in a quiet neighborhood in the “wilds” of Rocky Hill a/k/a Princeton “adjacent.” The restaurant’s décor is minimalist, accented by modern lighting. The bare tables sport crisp white linen napkins. Yet the feeling you get when entering the dining room is warm and welcoming. This was greatly enhanced by the greeting we received from the owner, Joe McLaughlin, who led us to our table and handed us menus that appeared to be printed on a single sheet of plain brown ‘grocery bag’ paper.
Before we ordered, our waitress told us that the wines on the special Captain’s List were all half price – music to our ears. We decided on the ’06 Cakebread chardonnay, a Napa wine we normally can’t afford. It came perfectly chilled in all its buttery glory.
For starters, I chose a grilled Caesar salad… a stalk of grilled romaine lettuce with a creamy anchovy dressing that was so delicious I wanted seconds, and I don’t even like salads. Richard had the caprese salad… fresh mozzarella and New Jersey tomatoes. What’s not to love, even for me?
Though I didn’t want to give up sipping Cakebread, I decided to get a glass of cabernet sauvignon,Vina Robles to go with the char-grilled flat iron steak I ordered. The steak was tender and grilled to perfection. The hand-cut shoestring fries were golden and crispy. Richard stayed with the chardonnay as he dove into his stuffed poussin with caramelized red onions, cherries and shitake mushrooms. If he had to pick a “last meal,” I think this would have been it. Sated and happy, we passed on dessert as we sipped our decaf cappuccinos.
So, here’s my advice. If you’re ever in Princeton (or Princeton adjacent), dial 609-924-1019 and make a reservation at this wonderful American bistro perched on a quiet, tree-lined street. You won’t be disappointed.
Address: 153 Washington Street
Rocky Hill, New Jersey
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
CHRISTMAS IN CONNECTICUT
CHRISTMAS IN CONNECTICUT
For the past 200 years (water from the tap here in LA keeps us young and unwrinkled, just ask any plastic surgeon at Cedars), my husband and I have hosted Christmas Eve supper for friends and family and their families. Richard cooks. I decorate.
Prior to our 200 years here in Tinseltown, we lived in Manhattan and every year we traveled to Connecticut to celebrate Christmas with Vi (my mom) and a variety of cousins. This was before Richard cooked, though I did decorate our apartment.
One year we invited friends and their two bearded collies to join us for Christmas in Connecticut. The basement of my mother’s house was semi-finished and had a couple of beds – perfect for the two guys and their dogs. So we rented a car and drove up I-95 to the town of Danielson, just a teaspoon full of nutmeg away from the Massachusetts- Rhode Island border.
When we pulled into my mom’s driveway, snow was falling and baking smells were wafting from her kitchen. Vi was overjoyed to see us – even the dogs. We sipped hot cider and ate comfort food in front of the fireplace and marveled that the dogs didn’t attack the ornaments on the tree.
While we were sipping, eating and marveling, I decided to take advantage of her ‘free’ washing machine. If you’ve ever lived in an apartment and had to schlep your laundry down to a basement and stuff the washer and dryer with quarters you horde somewhere in your lingerie drawer just so you can have clean underwear, sheets and towels, you know what it means to find a ‘free’ washing machine, but I digress… I turned on the water, added some of mom’s Tide and stuffed my grimy, but beautiful white down coat imported all the way from Paris, into the machine.
Did I mention that Danielson is a tad rural and most homes, even cozy, tiny one’s close to town like Vi’s, had cesspools? Well, everything backed up… and I mean everything.
Did I mention that Vi had only one bathroom? Well, okay, now, none.
Calmly, Vi called whoever it is you call when you have a backed up cesspool, though it was past business hours and was told that someone would be out to the house first thing… first thing the next day.
Did I mention Vi had very nice neighbors? Well, she did. So before we went to bed, we all ‘dropped by’ to use the ‘facilities.’ Vi brought a basket of her homemade cookies.
I was sort of a tomboy as a kid and had what some shrinks might call penis envy. I envied the facility that boys have when using the facilities. I hadn’t had penis envy in years, but I did that Christmas. Vi had a very big back yard that ended in an incline down to the Connecticut river. There was also a back door in the basement which led to that yard and incline and river… During the night and next day, the dogs and the boys availed themselves of that back door that led to the yard… that led to the incline… that led down to the river. Vi and I ran back and forth to her lovely neighbors, each time having to make conversation we really didn’t want to make, but neither of us wanted to be squatting in the snow - if you get my drift.
Did I mention that the temperature went well below freezing that night? Well, it did. So when we all were ready to leave for my aunt’s who lived nearby to shower, the car was frozen. Wouldn’t start. At all. After Vi checked in to confirm her appointment with whomever you check in with when you have a backed up cesspool, Richard called Triple A. He had to wait to call because cell phones weren’t invented yet (we really are over 200 years old).
Triple A arrived at the same time as “cesspool cleaner guy.” The car was soon fixed, but not the cesspool, so off to auntie’s we went.
Did I mention that auntie lived in a retirement village in a tiny, tiny apartment with one tiny, tiny shower? Well, she did. But my aunt’s a hoot and loved me, Richard, and our friends, even the dogs, so we all sipped tea and chatted with her while we took turns in the bathroom. By the time we’d all finished, it was hours later because we kept running out of hot water and had to wait for it to heat up again.
When we arrived back at Vi’s, the bathroom had been restored to its former useable glory. The water was running in the kitchen and normal holiday life was merrily rolling along. We had a glorious Christmas day and as guests arrived no one could stop laughing as we told about our cesspool saga.
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