Burns Night

Last night, I was invited by my friends Julz and Mark to a Burns Night supper at their apartment. Burns Night is a celebration of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, normally held on or near his birthday, January 25. You’re supposed to eat haggis, drink whisky (no “e”) and read his poems, one of which is actually titled “Ode to A Haggis.”

I’d never been to a Burns supper, having turned down my only other invitation several years ago when I was studying abroad in England. I can’t remember why exactly I missed it (I do hate bagpipe music) but I will never make that same mistake twice. I had such a fun time, I think Burns Night is my new favorite holiday.

Julz, our lovely Scottish hostess, is vegetarian. That did not stop her from giving us the full authentic experience, however, and went all the way to Kearny, New Jersey to purchase haggis. Ever since the foot-and-mouth epidemic, importing haggis from Scotland has been banned in the US, but this place in Jersey is supposed to be so good, they supply the U.N. with their haggis. (Insert joke about biological warfare.)

For those of you who don’t know, haggis is a is a dish composed of sheep heart, liver and lungs, onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock and simmered in the animal’s stomach. It’s traditionally served with “neeps and tatties.” (That’s mashed turnips and potatoes to you.)

Ever the gracious hostess, Julz assured everyone that if they didn’t like the haggis, they shouldn’t feel the need to finish it. Having been raised to believe that eating less than everything on one’s plate is like spitting in your host’s face, I appreciated her letting us off the hook, but it turns out, I didn’t need her get-out-of-haggis-free pass.

To me, the predominate flavor in haggis is the liver and I’ve always been a big fan of foie gras. So I am delighted to report that I really like haggis. Surprisingly, everyone else seemed to as well. I looked around and it had largely disappeared from everyone’s plates. One notable exception was an American guy sitting across from me. He ate every last bit of his turnips and potatoes and left a giant mound of haggis. Well, I suppose that’s to be expected. I asked for seconds.

Since I really wanted to get into the spirit (I even wore a Tartan skirt to dinner) I made cranachan (rhymes with ramekin), a traditional Scottish dessert made of oatmeal, whipped cream, raspberries, whisky and honey. Julz told me it was good and getting Julz’ seal of approval was second only to trying haggis for the first time and discovering I like it. What is life if not for new experiences, however small?

It was so nice to catch up with friends I hadn’t seen in a really long time and to drink lots of wine and laugh. By the end of the evening, I managed to find a possible subletter for my apartment and a possible editor for my film. I can’t believe I’ll have to wait another year for Burns Night. Best. Holiday. Ever.

Haggis, Neeps and Tatties

SPiN Ping Pong Club/Ducks Eatery

So this is a combination post about drinks and food… and weirdly, ping pong.  Last night, my brother Victor, his girlfriend Ashley and I went to the opening of Susan Sarandon’s SPiN ping pong club.

The great thing about SPiN is that while it’s trying to make something dorky cool again à la Bowlmor Lanes, it does so without trying so hard.  It subtly embraces the basement vibe with its lowered, exposed ceilings and tube lights and nods to school gymnasiums with strategically placed bleachers without feeling as gimmicky as all that sounds.    Is it possible to be tastefully kitsch?

Ball girls walk around scooping up loose ping pong balls with fish nets and deposit them in the baskets beside each table.  “That looks like fun,” my brother remarked.  “I would do that job for half an hour.”

It was pretty packed and since it was opening night and a Saturday, there was quite a long line to play.  But I actually had a lot of fun drinking dirty martinis while watching from the bleachers.  (Incidentally, this is basically what I did at middle school dances but everything is more fun when you’re old enough to drink and not crippled by low self-esteem.)

I started to get hungry and Ashley told me the grilled cheese was supposed to be famously good.  After struggling to get the waitress’ attention, I went to the bar to order one.  “Do we have grilled cheese sandwiches?” the bartender asked.  I assured him they did.

We bantered back and forth after I told him how hungry I was and how I worried they wouldn’t be able to find me once it was cooked.  “Where are you sitting?” he asked.  I pointed to the bleachers in front of the bar and made him promise it would get to me.  He had the misfortune of having the same name as my father, so I told him I’d remember it I didn’t get my sandwich.

Somehow, before my grilled cheese was ready, a ping pong table my brother reserved opened up.  (There had been a 2 hour wait.  Did that much time pass?  I really must have been having fun.)  The excitement at getting to play made me forget all about my sandwich or telling Thomas the Bartender that I would be leaving the bleachers.

After playing a few rounds, I went over to the bar and he exclaimed, “You!  You weren’t at the bleachers.  We tried to find you!”  He handed me my sandwich, which was thoughtfully covered with a cloth napkin.  Sadly, despite Thomas’ attempts to keep it warm, my ping pong zeal prevented me from eating the grilled cheese in that perfect window when it’s still piping hot and gooey, but it was still very, very good.

The sandwich is composed of sharp cheddar, gruyère and taleggio on sourdough bread.  I’m also convinced truffle oil was involved, which I know is made of artificial flavors and chemicals but tastes so good.  The sandwich actually reminded me of the truffle egg toast at ‘Inoteca.  After a couple martinis, my palate is not the most trustworthy, but nothing could have been more satisfying in that moment.

Before I knew it, a pretty girl came to the table and broke the news to us that our time was up.  We were a little sad to go.  SPiN may go the way of so many resurrected trends before it, but I had a lot of fun and will definitely go back.  Next time I’ll make sure my grilled cheese sandwich finds me.

Address
48 East 23rd Street
Between Park and Madison
New York, New York 10010
(212) 982-8802

Drinks: The Living Room at the Standard Hotel

So I know this is primarily a food blog, but I’ve decided to start a series on drinks to coincide with my reemergence into society. I was talking to an actor on the set of a film I recently produced and mentioned something that happened “back when I had a life” and he responded, “So you don’t have a life now?”

I told him that while I really love what I do, I simply don’t have a social life when I’m in production. I wake up at 5:00 AM, go to set, work 12-14 hours, come home and go to sleep. Sometimes I eat bad take out before going to bed, but usually I just skip it because I’d rather sleep.

So to celebrate wrapping on production period and to herald in a new era of the sort of fun girls’ nights out for which we are a little too old and a lot too young, my friends and I decided to meet for drinks at The Standard Hotel.

I normally steer clear of The Meatpacking District, but I figured having a social life again meant getting out of the 10-block East Village bubble I usually confine myself to like I’m a dog inside an invisible electronic fence.

My friend AnnaRose was the one who suggested the Standard since she’d never been. I mostly agreed because I have a crush on this man, who owns it:

Photo: David Shankbone (via wikipedia)

I sometimes fantasize I’m shopping for fresh herbs with him in the South of France while wearing matching outfits:

Credit: BAUER-GRIFFIN (via People.com)

I’m only joking.  Sort of.  But I was pretty impressed by how the staff maximized social networking sites to promote the place.  Earlier in the evening I tweeted:

Drinks w/@kingrose007. Recommendations? Been so long since I’ve had a life. Thinking of checking out Living Room @standardny. Thoughts?

15 minutes later, they tweeted back:

We think it’s a GREAT idea @oneandonlyjoyce!! We have DJs in the living room all the time, check them out: http://bit.ly/6hmBxv

Well, who am I to turn down a personal invitation?

AnnaRose ended up getting too tired (she was leaving for Sundance the next day), so Courtney and I went alone.  The Living Room of the Standard is described rather aptly on the hotel’s website as “a comfortably modish designed lounge.”

It’s moodily lit with very dim elliptical Chinese lanterns and the furniture seems comprised of carefully selected set pieces from A Clockwork Orange.  The music is stylish, unobtrusive and low enough to have a comfortable conversation.  There’s no actual bar (servers bring drinks to the tables) so no one is standing and the chairs are low and surprisingly cozy, so everything feels very relaxed.

The majority of patrons seemed to be power gays in their 40’s – a lot of well-dressed professional men who might almost be mistaken for their straight counterparts if not for their better-fitting clothes and subtle indifference to women.

It was a nice place, good for two friends to have a pleasant conversation without being hassled by lecherous men.  We each had a glass of wine and started to get sleepy so we decided to head home.  As we were walking out, Courtney looked towards the Gansevoort and said, “We should have gone there.”  (Maybe an evening didn’t feel complete without a little harassment from lecherous men.)

So we decided to just go.  I told Courtney we’d take a quick look around and if she saw one man she was attracted to (just one), we’d stay and if not, we could just leave.

When the elevator doors opened on the penthouse, I felt like a giant wave of testosterone washed over us.  No shortage of lecherous men.  Just a shortage of any we might find remotely attractive.  We headed back to the elevators (but not before being undressed by men’s eyes a dozen times over) and went home.

The next morning, standardny tweeted again:

Hope you had fun @oneandonlyjoyce … and we hope you ended up joining @Courtneyyoung! come back soon! <3

Well, thank you.  Perhaps, my friend, perhaps… It may be one of the few safe places left in New York.

Adour Alain Ducasse

I meant to write about my dinner at Adour Alain Ducasse ages ago, but I’ve been very busy making movies.  Before production on my film started, (back when I had a life) my mother, my brother, his lovely girlfriend Ashley and I took out Kuei Ya-Lei, a dear family friend and the actress who played my mother.

M. Ducasse has more Michelin stars than you can shake a stick at and was one of the first celebrity chefs to build his own global empire.  So Adour has an impressive and venerable name attached to it and is located in a luxurious hotel  in a part of town some might describe as “tony.”

But like so many beautiful, well-bred Upper East Siders with a certain pedigree, it’s also a bit dull.  The food was well-executed but excessively polite.  It was like going on a date with a girl with perfectly blow-out hair, perfectly manicured nails and perfect manners and secretly wishing she were just a little dangerous, even a bit messy and unpredictable.

While the food wasn’t that exciting, the upside of all that excessive politeness is excellent service.  They were kind enough to set aside the private room in the back for us.  Something feels extra special about eating in the place where they keep the wine.  It’s like being backstage at a concert.

We had the tasting menu, each dish competently (if not terribly creatively) cooked:

- CITRUS MARINATED HAMACHI
HEARTS OF CELERY, CORIANDER, PRESERVED LEMON

-GLAZED MULTICOLORWINTER VEGETABLES
JUS DE CUISSON, NAVETTE OIL

-OLIVE OIL POACHED CHATHAM BAY COD
IN THE STYLE OF CHOWDER, POTATO CONFIT, CLAMS, PARSLEY

-MILLBROOK FARMS VENISON SADDLE
AUTUMN VEGETABLES AND FRUITS, SAUCE POIVRADE

While the meal itself was pleasant enough, the real star was the table captain, a woman in a pantsuit with the poise, diction and sensible haircut of a CNN anchor.  She was polite, knowledgeable, accommodating and incredibly attentive.

The only major misstep the staff committed was mixing up the number of rare venison saddles, which left the majority of the table with meat cooked at the wrong temperature.  It was a pretty big gaffe for a restaurant like that, but it was rectified quickly and graciously.  I was apparently the only one bothered enough to ask for a new one and was assured by the captain, in an unwaveringly confident voice that would make Christiane Amanpour envious, that the executive chef was preparing a new one for me personally.

Dessert was probably the most titillating course of the meal, the only one that didn’t seem to play it so safe.  The “CONTEMPORARY EXOTIC VACHERIN” was tart, flavorful and full of whimsical textures- foamy in some parts, creamy in others.

And while it was less innovative, I also enjoyed the ROASTED HAZELNUT SOUFFLÉ: crunchy little bits of hazelnut between hot, pillowy layers of souffle.

The macaroons and chocolates at the end were also quite lovely and the ones we didn’t finish were given to me in a gold box that resembled a treasure chest.

Adour isn’t the most exciting restaurant in the world, but it sure knows how to treat a girl right.

Thai pandan brûlée

Finally got some butane for my torch at Bed Bath & Beyond with Erica yesterday. I couldn’t wait to make standard custard for crème brûlée so I “made” this pandan custard mix (i.e., mixed the powder with water) and then burned some sugar on top.

Don’t Blame Me for the Fried Fish Eaten Alive

A few weeks ago, I wrote about a turtle soup Mark and I made from a turtle we butchered ourselves.  My mother suggested I take down the post for fear that people would think I was “barbaric.”

It wasn’t that she took issue with the manner in which we butchered it or even cared at all about the animal’s welfare and whether or not it was cruel.  She was concerned that people would think I was somehow uncivilized or savage for what I ate.

Yesterday, The Huffington Post (which recently published an op-ed  by Natalie Portman attempting to make a case for veganism) posted a youtube video with the following description:

“Eating “rare” delicacies just got to a new level. In China, chefs have figured out a way to keep a fish alive as it gets deep fried and then waits to be eaten.

Below is the shocking video of a deep-fried fish that’s still living and moving on a plate. Warning, this may be too graphic for some readers.”

It’s pretty clear to me that by posting this, The Huffington Post had no other motive but to be inflammatory. The first tag on the article is “animal cruelty,” which points you in the direction of articles about a puppy that was thrown off a roof and had to be euthanized and a woman whose home is described in the headline as an “animal concentration camp.”

I won’t re-post the video of the still alive, half-fried fish because even as someone who consumes fish very regularly without guilt, I find it disturbing.  How could you not when seeing a fish, whose body is in tatters while his head is completely in tact with one eye looking straight into the camera as it gasps for air?  His gill desperately opening and closing while people laugh cruelly, jabbering away in some foreign tongue while poking the helpless creature in the mouth with chopsticks.

I’m not going to debate whether or not it’s right to eat animals.  You’ve most likely already made that decision for yourself and I’m not going to convince you either way and I’m not trying to.  The debate about whether or not this dish is cruel is not much of a debate.

The issue for me is not the dish itself but how quickly people degenerate into very nasty, flagrant racism. Responses to the video included:

“Asians are evil and have no souls.”

“i am not even going to watch this cause it will make me sick..fucking chinks
its disgusting and so fucking wrong”

“That is horrible!!! Chinese people should be deep fried while still breathing! They are so mean, have no ethics whatsoever!”

Now, of course I’m taking these comments with a grain of salt.  I understand I should be above this and find them ridiculous.  They probably have no idea what they’re saying and how ignorant it is.  But what saddens me is that some people of Asian descent felt the need to express shame for something that had nothing to do with them:

“wow i’ve never been so embarrassed to be chinese. this is f-ing horrible!”

“THAT IS SO F**ED UP!!! omg!!!  torture. why are they laughing? GOD as an Asian person i am ashamed. these people are SICK”

The thing is, if there were a youtube video of a French family eating rabbits for lapin à la moutarde, people would probably object on similar grounds of animal cruelty, but I don’t think an American kid of French descent would be sitting at home thinking, “I’m so ashamed to be French” nor feel the need to apologize on behalf of all European people.

Despite so many enthusiastic talking heads on television proclaiming this a “post-race” era, I don’t have the luxury of individuality.   Because when someone in Hong Kong posts a disturbing video and I know thousands of people think “F*n Chinese will eat anything… dolphins, monkey brain… while the monkey is still alive. Dog, cat… DISGUSTING!!”  I cringe a little inside.

The mystery of the rainbow parasol

I was finally able to stop that guy who rides his bike around Williamsburg with the rainbow parasol, merengue music, and the shiny steel cart hitched to the back. Actually, I didn’t stop him… he was waiting at a red light at S. 4th and Driggs. It turns out he sells Dominican chicharrón for $4 — if you can ever catch him. He uses a giant cleaver to chop the fried pork and serves it on a piece of foil with cassava crackers and lime. I took it home and it was so good. There was more meat than I expected and it wasn’t so crispy that I thought I was going to chip my teeth like at Mariscos Veracruzanos. I have to admit after eating a few pieces I gave in and got out the El Yucateco hot sauce. I’m turning into my cousin, Patrick. He doesn’t eat anything without hot sauce. He actually carries a bottle of Frank’s in his glove compartment.

Au Revoir, Chanterelle

About a month ago, Grub Street broke the sad news that Chanterelle, the grande dame of downtown, closed for good. When it happened, I didn’t have time to bid a proper farewell, but I think it deserves to be remembered fondly. Without the slightest exaggeration, I can honestly say I had one of the best meals of my life there.

One of the most memorable dishes was the Butternut Squash “Risotto” with Fresh Sage and Wild mushrooms. Risotto was in quotation marks because instead of making a rice dish served with squash (how pedestrian!), they fashioned the squash into tiny rice-like grains.

But it wasn’t just a smart alecky visual gag to which so many of today’s chefs are prone. It was flawlessly executed and the flavors were simple and incredibly satisfying. The sage was served as a whole leaf, perfectly crispy against the creamy “risotto.”

I asked one of the servers how the sage was prepared. She explained that the leaves were fried. “But it isn’t greasy at all. It’s just perfectly crisp” I said, astonished. “That’s why we’re Chanterelle,” she replied with a smile.

It wasn’t arrogant. It was the truth. What she said made me smile because like all the servers I encountered there, she took tremendous pride in the  dishes and seemed sincerely happy to be a part of the whole experience.

It struck me that Chanterelle’s nearly flawless food was served by people who loved it as much as the delighted customers. People who worked there were chattier than their peers at comparable restaurants. (And I mean that in the best way possible.)

When I asked questions, marveling at certain dishes I found particularly impressive, the servers would get just as excited and share all sorts of things about preparation and ingredients.

I collect menus from meals I’ve eaten and Chanterelle’s was always special because it was hand-written. It said a lot about the restaurant- both elegant and unpretentious.

Día de los difuntos a la ecuatoriana

Everytime I walk down Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights I find something new and amazingly delicious. (It’s where I first spotted mamey sapote.)

Today after work I as walking down the street again and I saw a hand-written sign for something called colada morada for $3. I looked it up on my phone really quick and I found a blog about how it’s an Ecuadorian Day of the Dead drink made out of mortiño (the “blueberry of the Andes”), blackberries, naranjilla (click here for a video of me cutting open a naranjilla), babaco (“champagne fruit”), pineapple, and a mysterious spice called ishpingo.

I walked into the bar that was serving it and there were about 20 men watching a bullfight on TV but the sound was on mute. I ordered one colada morada to go and it was served really hot in a to-go soup container.

It kind of tasted like a liquefied blackberry pie with a little mulled wine mixed in. The only thing I didn’t like was the chunks of pineapple bobbing around. I ate it with some pan de muerto that I bought at the bakery next door to the bar.

Temple Canteen: Dosas to Dream About

Thiru Kumar aka Dosa Man, winner of the 2007 Vendy Award, probably recognizes my face. Like many people who work or go to school near Washington Square, I frequent his stand on the south side of the park.

For $6, you get a dosa, a typical South Indian crepe made of lentils and rice and often filled with spiced potatoes,  a tiny cup of soup and a side of coconut chutney.  I’ve filled many a screening room at NYU with the fragrant spices of my hot lunch.

I will remain loyal to Dosa Man for his friendly demeanor, his excellent dosas and convenient location (I can dash through the park in between classes), but yesterday, my world was rocked.

Mark and our friends Deborah and Nandi and I happened to be in Queens to see an exhibit Nandi curated on Andean textiles at Queens College.  Considering that I hardly ever go above 14th Street, I spend a lot of time in Queens, always in search of different kinds of food (usually authentic, most always cheap).

For Indian food, I normally go to Jackson Heights and follow dinner with a Bollywood movie at the Eagle Theater.  Sadly, I learned the theater has been closed since May because of the Bollywood film industry strike.

But luckily, Deborah, a Queens native, suggested we have dinner at the Ganesh Temple, just a short bus ride from the exhibit in Flushing.  After eating there, I told her it was the best decision anyone has ever made.

Because the canteen’s main purpose is to feed their devotees, the food is very reasonably priced as well as delicious.  Housed in the basement of the temple, it’s a simple cafeteria filled with families enjoying their hearty meals on styrofoam plates and red plastic trays.

The best thing we had was the paneer and butter dosa, followed closely by the spicy hyderapadi dosa.  When we ordered the latter, the man warned us it would be very spicy and asked us what our spice tolerance level was.

We said our tolerance was high.  It turned out to be not very spicy at all and we couldn’t help but wonder if they either cut down on the spice because they didn’t think we could handle it or if they just exaggerated the level of spiciness to warn us, should we happen to be the kind of people unaccustomed to anything hotter than black pepper.

In the end, we ordered a feast so large it might have made Henry VIII blush.  Everything looked and smelled so delicious and it was all so cheap, we couldn’t help but go a little crazy.  Deborah said that it always happens the first time.

For more food than we could eat plus drinks, we spent less than $30 between the four of us.  Mango lassis were only a dollar, as was the tasty spiced chai, which I enjoyed at the time but kept me up until 5 AM this morning.

If you make the trek to Flushing for these incredible dosas, be sure to pay a visit to the beautiful and recently renovated temple upstairs.

Temple Canteen
The Hindu Temple Society of North America
45-57 Bowne Street, Flushing, NY 11355-2202
nyganeshtemple.org
(718) 460-8493

Open Daily: 8:30 AM – 9:00 PM