Tomato Kisses

                                                   
Eating a tomato is a bit like kissing.   There's quite a variety.  And this year's crop had no misses.  They were all pretty good.

Some were eager at the start like the Earlirouge.  Ready and willing for snogging season to begin, these guys nearly burst with anticipation.

Then there's the quick brush from a discreet Plum.  No fool for public displays of affection, this tomato maintains a prim and proper peck.  But don't let his sense of decorum mislead you.  Skewered on the grill, he smooches irresistibly!

 
Looking for an unmistakable wild streak?   Try a lip-lock with the Zebra.  Could he ever change his untamed ways?  Maybe.  But I ask, Why?  A mouthful of his salty, tangy, crazy goodness, and you would agree those stripes were well-earned.

Care for something a little more responsible?   One can surely find peace of mind from the Mortgage Lifter.   His kiss is a seal of trust.

Sounds too heavy?  Then blow air kisses with Baby Tomatillos.  They're light, fun, and full of caprice.  Just tiny bubbles of bliss to keep your cares at bay.

But be careful, they just might lead you to the racy, wet ones from Beefsteak Country.  The kind you get early September nights on a prairie.  Or in the back of Back Forty.

Beefsteak Heirlooms from Back Forty, NYC

So get those lips ready.  Nightshades have never been more alluring. ~e

Super Swami Pizza Love

It was time for Constance to see Super Swami. "Bring your Heart Vibration Scores," said the guru.  Constance faithfully slid them into her briefcase - along with a copy of her financial statement.  This document was not to be reviewed with Swami.  Its presence served like a string around one's pinky.  A post-it reminder for, "Don't forget to be solvent - and soon."

Constance had quit her job to obey her inner voice.  But today, she started to worry more about the state of her financial health than that of her heart.  She saw Swami at the top of the hill and quickly slid the bank statement back into her briefcase.

"Come, we must look for a tree to sit under."  Constance scanned tree after tree in true Goldilocks fashion.  This tree is too skinny.  This tree is too ugly.  This tree is surrounded by filth.  

And this tree with the rest of this seedy little park, is filled with nothing but eyesores.  Constance sighed.  Why Swami chose to live in this neighborhood - when she had a growing clientele of highly paid, utterly dissatisfied urban professionals - was beyond her.

Swami wasn't so picky and settled under a firm oak.  Constance randomly picked a meditation.  It was on Love.  As it would, she mused.  Her heart scored the lowest in the Love Category.  This, on top of her money concerns, could pose much distraction.

"Here, put this over your eyes," Swami pulled out two tattered pairs of eye masks embossed with a Virgin Airways logo.  Cross-legged, eye shades drawn, both meditated for 5 minutes.  It ended with a Buddha bowl's ding or Deepak Chopra's voice.  Constance couldn't remember which one after opening her eyes.  Swami looked at her expectantly, "Well, what image came up for you during this love meditation."

Constance was hesitant.  "Nothing.  Nothing other than I was hungry.  When I closed my eyes, I felt ravenous.  I mean I could devour a horse.  Perhaps, Swami, my new love will arrive on a horse."

"Stop such nonsense," Swami snapped.  "No one is coming on a horse.  Your hunger came up because you have been starving for love."

Constance wasn't impressed.  Swami continued, "People who starve for love are afraid to be seen as they are.  Why do you not show yourself as you are?" she demanded.

"How could I possibly show myself as I am without edit...to...everyone?  Imagine, the very idea!  There are risks, you know."

"And they would be?"

"There are so many unseemly things that we all should take great pains to conceal.  Without this, well, people might not care for the package and walk away."

"So you are merely a package... and what's inside, some disposable product?  The outside with the right claims and clever design like one of those brands you peddle?  And how does your inner self feel about this?"

"Oh, Swami, my inner self is never to be seen."

"Then you will never feel loved.  You do not find it, so you cannot give it.  The greatest thing in this life is to love and be loved.  You have denied yourself this by denying the desires of your heart.  When you must choose, do not think what you should do, do what your heart desires.  What is it that you want?"

Swami gravely pulled out her clarity stones.  "This is a source of great detriment to your happiness and success.  I will give you a key to tune up this energy field in your heart."

She motioned for Constance to place these colored pebbles to her head and heart.  Then she chanted a mantra to operate from a place of love.  That this would ensure the universe to sort things out for her higher good. 

"Alright, you do this exercise on your own, I need to call another client."

"Swami, I'm still famished.  Is there anything to eat around here?"

"There's a pizzeria down the hill.  It'll be a quick call," she pulled out her Blackberry.

Feeling somewhat disoriented, Constance made her descent towards a deserted, seedy looking street.  Why doesn't Swami just move to Manhattan, she wondered.

The pizza sounded delicious, but Constance feared it would ruin her no wheat, no dairy, all raw, just plant food diet.  It was her All-Restrictions-Systems-in-Place for times of great fear and uncertainties in her life.

But her inner voice - the one wanting love - gently reminded, "Swami said choose what your heart desires."

Constance was relieved for this voice and walked right into the pizzeria.  She inhaled the aromas with gusto.  Rows and rows of pie, each one made her mouth water.

A ridiculously cheerful man behind the counter asked what he could bring.  So strangely happy for such plebeian food, location, traffic... She shrugged it off and opened up to his bright presence.  Constance rather enjoyed herself.  She smiled while trying to decide between the lemonade and iced-tea.  It had been another white-hot summer day.

This bizarre ambassador of pizza went out of his way to fill her cup with half lemonade and half iced-tea.  All worries on lack, lack, lack, uncertainty, and the weight of the world on her birdlike shoulders melted away.  Constance laughed at all his silly lovely gestures.

In anticipation of a feast, she ordered not one tiny piece as she would, but two of the largest slices.  The man could not have been more enthusiastic in his service.  Constance mused, who is this person - this pizza giver.  She imagined him announcing he was Michael, the Archangel of Heavenly Pies.

He swiftly took the slices out of the oven and wrapped them up with great care.  Constance smiled in gratitude.  Pizza angel said it was one of the most beautiful smiles he had ever seen as she glided out the door.

"Oh, can I have a piece!" shrieked a hapless woman on the street.  "Yes, yes, here you go."  Constance was without her usual display of repulsion for such occasions.

Back to the top of the hill, Swami was still on her call.  Constance took another bite while watching the sun start to set.  She sat and chewed leisurely, until she made a realization.  The lemonade/iced-tea, the whole communion of garlic, extra cheese, tomato sauce, spinach, mushrooms, and much much oregano - they had not been paid for.

In that short beatific trance at the pizzeria, there was no accounting of any kind.  At a time when she would have been acutely aware of money - bank statement burning in her briefcase - Constance hadn't thought of pulling out her wallet.  And the man hadn't thought of ringing up his register.  She couldn't even recall feeling for a Mastercard.  The whole exchange failed in epic proportions as a mercantile encounter.

Swami, finished with her call, sat by her side.  Constance offered what was left of the last slice.  Then she revealed what took place.  Swami nodded, "The guided meditation on love not only led you to feed your stomach but also your heart."

Be open to the gestures of love and you begin to taste the food of the gods. ~e

The Mermaid Diet

                                  Mermaid from Charm City                                      Ellen Kim, 2014

Mermans and Mermaids gathered for their annual convention in Coney Island.   Many bellied up to Ruby's bar for a Brooklyn Lager to go with their fries.

Speaking of which, this little fry was quite the boardwalk baba:

 

Mermaids are such beautiful creatures, MPP interviewed one to find out about their dietary/beauty secrets.  

Q:  What is it that makes you glow?  Your scales look so shiny.  Is it the french fries, the lager, or Nathan's hotdogs?

A:  "Oh dear God, none of those, puh-leeze!  Because it's a fun day, most of us mermaids have gone crazy and are eating sailors' food."

Q:  So you don't eat like this all the time?

A:  "Heavens no.  We just show up for humans now and then, but we really can't sustain ourselves on this stuff.  This is why we don't live with you folks."

Q:  But I see you eating our waffle fries and franks with relish.  I don't get it.

A:  "Listen, I eat fun foods occasionally.  I'm a mermaid - not a monk.  Alright, I don't know why I said that, I've never eaten in a monastery.  I guess what I'm trying to say is that if I ate like this all the time, I'd be bloated and look like her." 

Q:  Um, I think you mean "him".  That's Sigmund the Sea Monster.

A:  "Hello - my point exactly.  Eating too much crap messes up with the hormones and a 'she' could start looking like a 'him', 'he', whatever and a-vice-a-versa.  You get my driftwood.  Ha-ha."

Her "ha-ha" sounded a bit manly, but she was still stunning.

Q:  Okay, I think I'm catching on.  What do you normally eat?

A:  "Well, besides a whole lot of plankton, we eat sea vegetables.  Arame, dulse, kelp, and laver.  Ooh, I love a good laver.  I'd like to take the buns off this hotdog and wrap it in a laver.  This gluten-free lifestyle is growing on me like sea moss."

As much as I wanted to take this funny mermaid home with me, we just swapped our contact info's and said good-bye.  And in case she's reading, this dish is dedicated to the pageant mermaids for all their shimmer and shine.

Slimy Sea Stems, the Recipe

Ingredients:

  12 ounces of packaged sea plant stems

  2 tablespoonfuls of cold-pressed sesame oil

  1 teaspoonful of toasted sesame oil

  2 tablespoonfuls of toasted or raw sesame seeds to sprinkle

  Himalyan pink salt (a pinch for taste)

 1 clove of garlic

 1 teaspoonful of agave

 1 tablespoonful of nama shoyu

Instructions:

1)  Take your sea stems from the package and rinse under running water.  Rinse and repeat until the salt coating the stems are gone.

2)  Soak stems in a large bowl of water.

3)  Put 6 cups of water in a pot and turn heat to High.

4) When the water gets to a boil, throw in the sea stems.

5)  Blanch for several seconds and strain through a colander. 

6)  Pour the cold-pressed sesame oil into a pan and warm it up at Medium High.

7)  Smash the clove of garlic and place in pan.

8) When the pan sizzles, place in the sea stems.

9)  Pour in the nama shoyu and mix plant stems in the pan for 2 to 3 minutes.

10)  In a glass or ceramic bowl, mix in the agave and the toasted sesame oil.  

11)  Add salt to taste.  Because they have been preserved in salt and seawater before the rinse and soak, add very carefully.  Taste as you add a little at a time.

12)  Toss in the sesame seeds.  Mix it around before plating.  

This dish can be eaten with rice or thrown in a salad.  It's even yummy all on its own.   This nice slimy snack is good for your skin, hair, and nails.  And if you're a mermaid,  it's good for your scales.

  

Make this summer a big splash and eat your sea vegetables. ~e

Of All the Halal Carts

Now that winter is gone (fingers crossed),  I am out of hibernation.  I pass by Rocky the Musical.  Someone has to really love Rocky. The theme song plays in my head while I wonder if a clause is in contract about gulping raw eggs: how many per show, what farm source, etc.  And was there an understudy if the lead developed Salmonella?

I move onto the MOMA.  Featuring Guaguin's girls.  I wish I could wear a large billowy muu-muu with only one worry in life:  what flower should I tuck behind my ear?  I was born in the wrong time. 

And then I spot something quite spectacular.  The lines of people wrapped around the block of the CBS building was endless.  From young to old, from hipsters to bankers,  from natives to tourists, the line was insane.   Was it a bread line?  Holy cow!  It's come to this.  Our food's being rationed.

The last time I waited on any outrageous line was back in the 90's.  That was when I had never been to a night club before.  The wait was one hour in front of a barn that had turned into something Mormons would call Hell on Earth.   Finally, the impossibly gorgeous drag queen deemed my friends and I passable, took our $20's, and ushered us inside.

The noise was deafening.  I shouted to friends, "It's way too noisy.  My inner cochlea's taking a beating and I just can't think.  I'm sorry, we are going to get out of here but don't worry, I'll get our money back."  They all rolled their eyes.  I politely explained to the drag queen who was probably more gorgeous than any supermodel of the day.

"Excuse me.  I'm sorry, but it's a bit too loud in there."  She looked me over, and said in the huskiest voice,  "Honey, it's a club."  Nevertheless, she returned our cover charge and my friends didn't speak to me for weeks.

I was grateful because I was so intimidated by her beauty and her je ne sais quois - the quois being a chameleonesque, uber-survivor skillset that can only come from being bred in places like Nebraska, Wyoming, or Idaho.  They are bred for immunity to la vida loca.  I always said the best New Yorkers were from the Mid-West.

But back to the present longest line I would see today.   The line was for the largest Halal cart operation ever seen.  I changed my mind. Maybe the best New Yorkers come from Halal country.  Because lo and behold, this crazy operation is so efficient and effective, I am blown away.  It's The Halal Guys. 

I was not going to wait on the line, but I was curious enough to ask these lovely girls how they enjoyed their meal.  They liked it just fine.  They were actually traveling from London and made sure to pay a visit.  But how did you know where they were?  "Oh, we found them on Facebook."

I look at The Halal Guys' cart and had to laugh.  The "f" for Facebook is placed in the most inconspicuous place - really not at eye level.  "The Halal" signage is covered by Reynolds wrap.  "Guys" is all that's left.  This is incredible.  There are just as many Halal carts as there are Starbucks, but this is the one that's branded, drawing just about every omnivore / carnivore  on the planet.  From postal clerks to Consulates,  each waited his turn patiently.  They looked more docile than a lamb over rice.

If this was Casablanca and Rick owned the operation, Ingrid Bergman would quietly take her place behind a man wearing too much cologne.  Soon behind, a cell phone chatterbox would queue up behind her. Frayed with nerves, she would doubt if she could wait it out - not even knowing who owned the place.

Rick spots her and sighs, "Of all the Halal joints in the world, she has to stand in line for mine".  The nice sucker that he is, he'd put her into a cab, tell the driver to pass the queue and pull up closer to 53rd and 6th.  The cabbie gives the magic password to "Guys" that spares her the indignities of waiting on a really long line.

Finally, Rick leans toward her open window and says how they'll always have Paris.  She forgot Paris years ago and her eyes glaze over.  But her ears perk up at his last words, "...And Ilsa, you must remember this - don't forget to ask for the red and white sauce."  He then instructs cabbie to take Ilsa straight home after she gets her grub.  And all the way to Stamford Connecticut, Ilsa devours her gyro while Victor re-heats some day-old lasagna.

If you must play it safe like Ilsa, only go to food carts that have really long lines.  Happy Spring! ~e

A Fish Named Sushi: Charlie gets Canned

Sushi had become a sensation.  From the margins of every river, she splashed up silv'ry sprays onto the silver screen.  She became Esther Williams.  Her Hollywood debut, My Slippery Dove was a hit.  And her memoir - Not So Easy to Love was a New York Times bestseller.  She toured constantly. 

She had a brief fling with Charlie and decided he couldn't be her agent any longer.  Forget the ethics, the incestuousness, the sturm und drang of dating another big fish in a scummy glorified pond.  He was a chronic hypochondriac.  She was sick of it, sick from it, and had to announce the split.

He didn't take it too well.  "Do you know I made you?!"  Human League's Don't You Want Me was playing in Charlie's tricked-out audio, strobe lights and all.

"Do you know who you're dealing with?!" He was relentless.

Sushi rolled her dry eyeballs.  "Yes, yes, you're Charlie, the big Tin-Tuna."

Charlie's own eyeballs bugged out of their sockets.  "Are you mocking me because I was from a can?"

Sushi sighed.  "No.  I said Tin as in Tinseltown.  How'd you get can?"

Charlie went into a line of expletives.  "You flippin', flip, flip, flip."

In fish speak, he had dropped the f-bomb.  Sushi was incredulous.  "Did you just use the word f-l-i-p?!"

"Oh grow up Sushi.  You can't even say it."

Sushi lost it.  "That's it!  You just got canned.  I am of-fish-ially firing you and breaking up with you at the same time!  And I can find a better agent.  You're nothing but a common canned piece of tuna.  So long Charlie, the party's over.  SO OVERRR!"

Poor Charlie.  But it's true.  With so many fancy varieties at the fishmongers', who really wants chicken of the seas?  There is, however, one dish I can't resist made with this throw-back.  A friend's mother used to make it for those easy after-school snacks and I marveled at the no-fuss value.  She called it the tuni-rooni as in tuna with macaroni.  I thought it was the most ingenious thing back as a child.  As soon as she was done, she'd open up a can of TaB, settle in the den, and indulge in one of her Harlequin romance novels.  This simpleness of her was quite nice.

The Tuni-rooni

You will need:

2 cans or 2 packs of StarKist tuna

A box of macaroni (brown rice brands if you need gluten-free)

Finely chopped purple onion  (this is the real star of the whole recipe so use by taste - please don't tell Charlie or Sushi)

Hellmann's mayonnaise (sorry, no other brand will do; you could go all out and make your own, but it really defeats the facile factor of this dish)

A little ground pepper to suit your taste

A little salt  (personally love the taste of Himalayan pink salt but be very careful with this one - a little really goes a long way)

Directions:

1)  Prepare the macaroni so it's al dente

2)  Mash up the tuna with enough mayo as if you were making a tunafish sandwich

3)  Add the macaroni - aim for a 1:1 ratio with the tuna/mayo compound

4)  Add the tiny pieces of purple onion and taste as you add slowly.  Too much can make it a spicy, acrimonious mess;  too little makes it boring   (treat it like a third marriage)

5)  Add the pepper and salt

Now,  round up the kiddies and tell them it's a farewell party for Charlie, the StarKist legend.  ~e

Take Me Back to Constantinople

Once upon a time, there was a French naval officer who fell in love with a country that wasn't his own.  The natives weren't sure what to make of him.  But in the end, he won their hearts, inspiring other giants along the way:  Proust, Delibes, British Airways... 

This interesting man has a Turkish wine bar named after him.  Maybe it's that inanely amusing song about Istanbul no longer being Constantinople.  Or that the ghosts of Hemingway and Mata Hari lurk there.  Whatever it is, this part of the world plays to the imagination.

On an idyll walk, I rolled into a Turkish wine bar with a curiously French name and tried a zucchini pancake for the first time.  Like a parent to her own child, I try to sneak in my vegetables every which way.  It was incredibly good.  If you prefer savory pancakes, this dish will inspire you to buy a small cast iron skillet to make it for an occasional brunch.

And for something that tasted this yummy, it is surprisingly full of healthy ingredients:  walnuts, herbs, and a ton of zucchini.  I know - how could it taste that good with all that squash and walnuts!  But if you haven't tried a Turkish zucchini pancake, you just haven't lived. 

Oh, and it comes with a dollop of sour cream butter as if it couldn't taste any better

I noticed the menu had a French flair.  Manager Oktay Atakan explained that the wine bar was named after a French novelist and naval officer, Pierre Loti, who wrote about his time in Istanbul.

So I was compelled to find out more about this obscure writer.  His musings on Turkish life was published in 1879 - Aziyadé (Constantinople).   Women adored him and Marcel Proust admired him.  He beat Emile Zola for a seat in the ever exclusive Académie Française.   He wrote a book based on his experience with Tahitians, which later became the inspiration behind Delibes' opera, Lakmé.  And thanks to some brilliant advertisers, the famous Flower Duet in Lakmé is forever linked with British Airways.  So how Loti fell into obscurity beats me.

As eclipsed as the writer, the namesake wine bar is off the beaten track.  Tucked away in a quieter part of Chelsea,  it has a non-assuming exterior on 15th St.  There are other locations, Park Slope being the new addition.  But I really do like the one in Chelsea.   The vibe is intimate and the service is great. 

With this exceptionally brutal winter, I am certain there are more cold days ahead.  Warm up at Pierre Loti with some hot tapas (the zucchini pancake's a must) and a glass of Efes. ~e

Waitress Marina Cernavka and Bartender Natalia Andronic

Pierre Loti West

258 West 15th St

New York, NY 10011

Ph: 212.645.5684

Barboncino's Dome

There is a pizzeria/bar/restaurant in Brooklyn worth checking out.  It's called Barboncino and I think it means "poodle".  I suppose the place is named after a fancy dog because it's sophisticated and a cut above the rest - just like the breed.

And rightly so.   I walked in and the first thing I saw was this beautiful brick oven.  It made me think of Brunelleschi's dome.  Max, the amiable host, explained how each brick was laid in by hand and brought to the States from Italy by boat. 

This sort of attention, detail, and raise-the-bar attitude is just the thing I love.  And it was reflected in the staff.  In my opinion, they were hand-picked.   I chatted with the sous-chefs and they were wonderful.  They were all so nice, unaffected, and efficient, I was certain my food was in good hands.

Sous-chefs Matt and Mike

Confidence was not misplaced.  The Bibb lettuce salad was amazing.  This is a must.  It had just the right amount of sharpness from the Gorgonzola crumbles, just the right amount of woodsiness from the walnut bits, and just the right amount of sweetness from something I couldn't quite figure out.  It wasn't agave, it wasn't corn syrup, so I had to ask.  It was an infusion of dried cherries!  Simply exquisite.

The pizza came and I credit the exceptionally light, airy blistered crust to the domed hearth.  It had to be something about the oven's roof.  (I can only imagine as my study of architecture is limited to Ayn Rand).   

And Max raised high its roof beam when he rimmed a very cold glass of Allagash with lemon.  I had never had Allagash with a twist of lemon and it made the pizza taste all the better.  Again, the attention to detail made all the difference.

The only other thing that took the pie to the moon was the olive oil.  Instead of dispensing the usual shaker of dried pepper flakes,  Barboncino soaks them in olive oil (another infusion) with which you drizzle over the pizza.  Or in my case, douse.  The olive oil was that good.  Frantoia - from Sicily.  In fact, many of the core ingredients come from Italy.

There's a time and place for local, but there's something to be said for bringing the tomato sauce, the olive oil, the flour, the meat, and a gorgeous brick oven from the Old World.  And that is what Barboncino does. 

So go pay homage to its fiery pagoda.  Not quite the Duomo, but it's still impressive and the pizza's divine. ~e

Barboncino, 781 Franklin Avenue, Brooklyn NY 11238.

Ph: 718.483.8834