A Boston Classic: Making Boston Cream Pie at Flour Bakery

Fact: The official Massachusetts State dessert is the Boston Cream Pie.

That can’t be a surprise, really. I mean, look at the name of the pie.

Boston can’t make too many claims to original desserts. New York Style Cheesecake is out. So is Mississippi Mud Pie.

But the Boston Cream Pie, invented at the Parker House Hotel (now the Omni Parker House Hotel) in the 19th century, is all ours.

Another fun fact: You can learn to make Boston Cream Pie at Flour Bakery.

After the B.A.A 10K and blueberry pancakes yesterday, I showered, chugged a liter of water, and made the walk from South Station to Fort Point. This is completely normal, right? To set a personal best in a 10K and then take a baking class?

I don’t do anything half-hearted when it comes to running or food. Or note-taking. Because, as Executive Pastry Chef Nicole Rhode and Pastry Chef Sarah Powers walk us through the steps in a demo-only class, I’m taking notes like there’s going to be a quiz.

In my 6th grade European history class, we had our first test about two weeks into the school year. I panicked and asked my teacher if we were really going to be tested on all the material. I showed him my twenty (double-sided) pages of notes. Here’s another fun fact: most 6th graders don’t take forty pages of notes. At the end of the school year, my teacher asked if he could keep my notebook.

Yesterday was no different. My copy of the recipes is covered with exclamation marks, notes, underlining, and arrows. I was highly motivated. I really love Boston Cream Pie: I bake it, I eat it, and I want to master it. And Flour set out some of its excellent coffee for the class and I plowed through two cups scary-fast. So I was excited and buzzing and all ready to tackle some pie.

There are four components to Flour’s Boston Cream Pie – sponge cake, cream filling, coffee syrup, and chocolate ganache, all made with simple, high quality ingredients. I’m delighted to see no cornstarch and Sarah actually makes a point of saying that Flour uses cornstarch very infrequently.

Sarah and Nicole are pastry professionals, so, of course, the recipe looks easy. But I really think that it is straightforward. The pastry cream (milk, egg yolks, sugar, salt, cake flour, and vanilla extract) takes less than fifteen minutes to make. I’m used to Maida Heatter’s recipe, which calls for lots of stirring and watchful waiting, and Flour’s version seems much faster, but, hey, that’s never a bad thing.

Our instructors mention that the pastry cream is the same one used in Flour’s tiramisu and they brainstorm – maybe we’d want to stuff brioche or doughnuts with the leftover cream? And, as it happens, Sarah actually offers us doughnuts between recipe steps. Mine is gorgeous, dipped in granulated sugar, and bursting with raspberry jelly. I’m totally distracted.

They pull out a golden brown sponge cake baked earlier in the day and show us how to assemble the three layer cake: brushing coffee syrup and pastry cream over each layer of cake, and then finally pouring dark, shiny chocolate ganache over the whole thing.

It’s so good. Really. It’s really, really good. But I’m conflicted. So conflicted. Why?

Because it most reminds me of tiramisu. Between the multiple layers, the coffee syrup, and a filling that tastes more like whipped cream than a standard pastry cream, we’re definitely headed into tiramisu territory. (This is not to detract from the fact that it’s sweet and creamy and I would happily take another piece.)

So what’s the line between a Boston Cream Pie and tiramisu? When I ask Nicole, she says that a tiramisu usually relies on ladyfingers and a mascarpone cream laced with rum. True. But the Boston Cream Pie (traditionally a sponge cake cut in half, stuffed with vanilla pastry cream so thick that it’s practically pudding, and doused with a chocolate glaze) has been re-interpreted many times. And tiramisu has been re-interpreted too. And now we’ve got some overlap in taste.

I’m thinking that I need to go to the Omni Parker House Hotel to have the classic. I need to establish a baseline for my research. (This is a high class problem to have.)

Moving on, Sarah and Nicole also teach us the recipe for Strawberry Cream Cake, another spongecake dessert. The filling – sweet strawberries, a tart lemon syrup, and cream cheese whipped with vanilla and heavy cream – is tightly rolled up in a single layer of sponge cake. I’m sold. I think it’d absolutely be a terrific dessert to make for a party: It’s simple and it tastes like summer. And the cream is practically turning pink from the strawberry juice. I love it.

The instructors send us home with little white boxes of cake. Mine has a big, blue Flour Bakery sticker and attracts some attention (“I see you went to Flour!”) as I make my way home.

So what’s on tap for tonight? I’m eating the rest of my strawberry cream cake, obviously. And looking for an excuse to make a sponge cake. 

Sunday Funday

It’s race day, the inaugural running of the B.A.A. 10K.  I only slept three hours but I’m feeling spunky -- I decide to get wild and crazy and I pass on my usual race-day black shorts. Blue shorts instead. And then I swap out my white Nike shirt. I'm living dangerously and wearing a tangerine shirt.

I get on the T and the train is full of runners -- some with their numbers proudly displayed, others in hoodies to protect against any early morning chill still lingering.

The train empties at the Arlington station, as we all walk up to the Public Garden and cut down Charles Street. The sidewalks are wet and plastered with leaves -- I’m not so thrilled at the prospect of rolling an ankle on the slime -- but the roads are fairly dry.

I move quickly, finding the Port-A-Potties, picking up my race T shirt, and checking my bag. Volunteers are handing out sturdy plastic bags at the luggage drop -- red ones leftover from the last Boston Marathon and yellow ones designed for today. One volunteer holds up a yellow bag and asks, “Who wants some sunshine?” I do. I absolutely do.

I jog for ten minutes down the paths crisscrossing the Common. I’m already writing this recap in my mind, but I don’t know how the story ends yet. I’m hopeful though, as I line up in the race start corral. I've just realized that I unintentionally ran almost the exact race course last weekend... I know the measure of each Back Bay block and I'm anticipating the long stretch of Commonwealth Avenue. 

In the race corral, I’m not losing my cool. I’m losing my warm. So I’m bouncing and jumping and running in place and trying to stay warm, because I need to move right into a fast pace once the gun goes off.

At the start, the first song that comes on my iPod Shuffle is the Thin White Duke remix of Seal’s Amazing. I’m a little superstitious. I love this song -- just downloaded it yesterday -- and I paired it with a bagel at 6am for my pre-race prep. I decide it means that this will be a good race.

Mile 1, as I’m always wont to do, is too fast at 6:48. I slow up a bit and I spend the next few miles tweaking my pace, head down and legs churning. We work our way down Comm Ave, past the Algonquin Club, through Kenmore Square, and out to BU. My baseball cap keeps slipping down over my eyes and it’s so damn frustrating, but I don’t want to carry the cap. I turn it around backwards. Totally stylin’.

The 5K mark comes at Babcock Street and we make the U-Turn around tall orange cones. I spend the next mile scanning the crowd of runners headed the opposite direction, looking for familiar faces. But I don’t find the faces I’m looking for, so I focus and run. Counting off the blocks of Back Bay: Dartmouth, Clarendon, Berkeley. Fast. A right on Arlington. Faster. A left on Boylston, a left on Charles. Fastest. Finish line. A slow walk…  very slow.

My finish time is a full minute faster than my New York time two weeks ago and 48 seconds faster than my personal best. Excuse me, I meant my old personal best. Because I just set a new one. A backwards baseball cap definitely works for me.

It takes a little time, but I find those familiar faces I was looking for -- L, E, J, and D, plus a few new friends. And we're on to part two of the morning’s events: Brunch. There’s no chance of getting a table in a tiny Beacon Hill brunch place with such a large group, so we head for Panificio with the intent of ordering takeout.

Armed with plastic boxes of eggs, bacon, and pancakes, we sprawl out on the grass of the Common. The sun comes out and the post-race entertainment continues in the distance -- a live band with no audience, except for us and our breakfast.

I’m almost catatonic after a fast race, blueberry pancakes, and sunshine. But, after a shower and a nap, I’m ready. Ready for my Boston Cream Pie class at Flour Bakery in Fort Point.

It's Cupcake Time

I woke up excited today. Could anything be better than a new hand mixer? Nope.

Even before I bought the hand mixer, I knew what I would make first: Cupcakes.

But I didn’t have a chance to use the mixer right away. There were a lot of reasons why: a few evenings working late, a totally alarming amount of laundry, and a pint of cookies n’ cream ice cream.    

Plus you know, I've been busy: three hours learning how to use knives, a showdown with Comcast, and a five-mile training run for the B.A.A. 10K race on Sunday. 

Waiting to open the hand mixer box was like putting off Christmas morning.

Friday afternoon rolled around (finally!). Time to cupcake! As far as the outside world was concerned, I was gone. Gone cupcake-ing.

Parties need cupcakes, and H’s farewell party tomorrow is no different.

The recipe I adapted from 101 Cookbooks was originally for coconut cupcakes. I usually don’t make changes when I make a recipe for the first time. But I did this time.

I wanted something sweet, but not too sweet. And rich, but not too rich.

Tasting the batter and the frosting often, I poured in more vanilla extract, decreased the amount of confectioners’ sugar, increased the sour cream and the cream cheese, and piled on the coconut.  The sour cream cupcakes taste like vanilla cake but are much denser; the sweet cream cheese frosting is a little tangy and flecked with coconut.

Once the baking was all done, I realized I hadn’t thought out the logistics. How am I going to transport twenty cupcakes to Cambridge tomorrow?  

In an aluminum Thanksgiving-turkey-sized roasting pan, of course. 

Sour Cream Cupcakes with Coconut-Cream Cheese Frosting

(Adapted from 101 Cookbooks)

For the cupcakes:

2½ cups plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

½ teaspoon baking soda

¾ teaspoon salt

12 tablespoons butter, softened

1 ½ cup sugar

3 eggs

3½ teaspoons vanilla extract

1 cup sour cream

1½ cup tightly packed flaked coconut (I use unsweetened)

Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees. Line two 12-cup cupcake pans with liners.

Sift the flour, baking soda, and salt into a medium bowl.

Cream the butter in a large bowl with a hand mixer on moderate speed for 3 minutes. Add ½ of the sugar and beat for 1 minute. Add the remainder of the sugar and beat for 2 minutes. Beat in the eggs one at a time, beating for 45 seconds after each addition. Blend in the vanilla extract.

On low speed, alternately add the sifted flour mixture in three additions with the sour cream in two additions (beginning and ending with the flour).

Fill the cups with batter, not filling them all the way to the top. Bake for 25 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the middle of a cupcake comes out clean.

Cool for 15 minutes in the pans, then remove the cupcakes and let them cool completely before frosting.

For the frosting:

5 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

13 ounces cream cheese, softened

4½ teaspoons vanilla extract

3 tablespoons heavy cream

4¼ cups confectioners’ sugar

1¼ cup tightly packed flaked coconut (I use unsweetened)

Plus an additional 1½ cup packed flaked coconut to top

Beat the cream cheese and the butter in a large bowl with a hand mixer on moderate speed for 1 minute. Blend in the vanilla extract and the heavy cream.

On low speed, blend in sugar in three additions.  Blend in the 1¼ cup of coconut.

Frost the cupcakes (I use a dinner knife). Sprinkle the 1½ cup of coconut over the cupcakes. Keep cupcakes refrigerated.

Makes approximately 20 regular-sized cupcakes.

This recipe makes a lot of frosting. You can go wild and really load on the frosting. But, if you’re transporting cupcakes in a roasting pan by subway, you might want to frost a little more lightly.

Knives, Raspberries, and Cooking in the Dark

It's been the most interesting week so far.

Monday, I was back and forth across the city and then across the river too. Over in Cambridge, I almost did a victory dance in Shaw's when I found cupcake liners. Because I haven't been able to find cupcake liners in any Boston grocery store. Do Bostonians not make cupcakes? And then I spent three hours learning to cut in a Knife Skills class at the Cambridge School of Culinary Arts. Some of the class participants had truly gruesome stories about kitchen accidents -- one girl had almost sliced off a grape-sized portion of her palm with a mandoline -- and were motivated to avoid further injuries. Me? I just want to be comfortable with large, sharp knives. I want to chop vegetables quickly, efficiently, and uniformly. And I now know the absolute best way to cut a red pepper -- and  it's so cool. It's so cool that it's practically a party trick.

Tuesday, I was up to my elbows in raspberry puree. It's a long story why and where, so I'll save the details for another time. But as I blended an ice cream base and the raspberry puree, I accidentally (and thoroughly) soaked myself in puree. The reaction from those around me? "You look like you killed somebody!" Awesome. Later, as I headed to meet A for a cocktail, I looked down at my forearms, saw red splotches, and thought I'd broken out in hives. Nope. Just raspberry. Everywhere.

That brings us to today. The kitchen light blew out and the Internet and cable went down. Picture this: I'm quickly dicing celery (using my newfound appreciation for knives!) and cooking chicken on the stove I hate, in the dark, with Comcast on the phone. A dangerous combination.

But, a lightbulb was located, I went up on a kitchen chair, the kitchen light (covered by one of those huge glass bulbs with nails holding the whole thing together... you know the type) was replaced, and there was light. A few tense discussions with Comcast later, the Internet and TV reappeared.

And then I made chicken salad.

All-American Chicken Salad

2 whole chicken breasts (approx. 1.75 lb.), cooked and shredded
6 medium stalks of celery, diced
1/2 cup light mayonnaise
1 cup raisins
Salt and fresh lemon juice to taste

Combine all ingredients (except for the salt and lemon juice) and mix well. Season to taste.

Serves 2-3 people.

Brunch There and Here

Last Sunday, M and I were brunching.

It took three tries to get a table at Balthazar. I called the day before – no reservations available. I walked into Balthazar and the hostess suggested using the house phone to ring the main reservation desk – no availability. I called the morning of – we were rewarded with a 12pm table.

New York is a city that brunches.  

Coffee was a no-brainer. M lived large with oysters. I stuck to breakfast food: sour cream and hazelnut waffles with warm berries and crème fraiche. Kudos to Balthazar for pairing crème fraiche, rather than whipped cream, with the sweet, syrupy berries. 

And I’ve been thinking about brunch ever since. E and I texted back and forth all week and pooled the resources of our two kitchens. What can we make?

Baked eggs. And pancakes too. 

This morning, E arrived with four eggs and two ramekins in her purse. I educated myself on pancake recipes and, inspired by the pancakes at the Friendly Toast, stirred coconut flakes and chocolate chips into the batter. And, don't worry, I didn't forget the bananas. Standing guard over the stove, we pressed banana slices into the batter and watched as the pancakes developed the golden-brown color that means they're ready. 

Time to brunch... in my kitchen. 

Boston in Heels

At Cafe Vittoria, H and I have split the tiramisu and paid the bill. I stand up and wait in line for the restroom -- A woman opens the door and looks absolutely stricken. I can't figure out what she's asking me, and she repeats herself. She wants me to fasten the hook on her teeny, tiny sequined miniskirt. It takes a few tries and we're in an incredibly awkward position -- she's standing with her back to me and I'm bent over, with my fingers on the waistline of her skirt. I finally fit the hook to the eye and she is grateful ("Thanks so much sweetie!"). H sees this scene unfold and is trying to hide a smile.

We walk out of the cafe, past the accordion players and firefighters sitting out on the sidewalk in lawn chairs. H leads the way and takes me on a walk through the North End and down Commercial Street, threading the way along the wharves, across gravel paths, wooden docks, and grass, past the crowds spilling out of waterfront bars, and below the vine-lined arches on the Greenway. I'm wearing heels -- tall heels, three inch heels, black patent leather heels -- but I don't mind. 

Best of Boston... or Not

Looking over the results of the 2011 Zagat survey for best restaurants in Boston, I feel a little conflicted.

Because it's so many of the usual suspects. O Ya? Sorellina? Really? Again?

And maybe it was an off-night or the entree I ordered, but Craigie on Main and Oleana were both, well, unmemorable -- A radical statement, I know. I'm now a heretic in the eyes of all Cambridge foodies.

Granted, I do really want to go to Menton. As far as I'm concerned, Barbara Lynch can do no wrong. And Neptune Oyster deserves to be on the Zagat list without a doubt -- the North End Cioppino is one of the best things I've ever eaten in Boston and that's why I keep going back for more.

But, you know what, overall there's nothing really fun about the Zagat list.

On the other hand, when Anthony Bourdain visits Boston for a recent episode of his show No Reservations, he says right upfront, "This is not the best of Boston, or what you need to know about Boston." Instead, he and his friend Mike dig into massive lobster rolls and go drinking in Southie (At one point he sort of slurs, "Drinking in Boston is fun!" Yes, it is.).

I'm tired of the "best." So here's the question -- where do you go that has good food and is just fun?

Just Your Average Night in Boston

It's a beautiful day in Beantown, and I know it will be a beautiful evening. I text L: "Maybe we should go somewhere on the harbor?"

We agree on Temazcal and, after work, we take the Red Line to South Station. Looking back at the shiny glass of the Financial District, we walk along Fort Point Channel and then Fan Pier. We guessed all sports bars would be incredibly packed as tonight is Game Seven, but we didn't figure on the two hour wait for a table at Temazcal. We vote for the bar instead.

The bar at Temazcal is crowded, the doors are flung open to the harbor and the warm air, and the sky is so blue. I turn to L: "It doesn't feel like we're in Boston. It feels like we're in...." She says, "On vacation!" I was going to say California, but, yeah, she's got it right. Two chivalrous gentleman have given us their seats and we've got two potent cocktails. This is as close to vacation as we're getting on a weeknight.

We eat our flautas, guacamole, and tacos de pescado and, at right at 8pm, management turns the Bruins game on. I like hockey. I do. But it's incredibly loud. It's so loud that the bartenders are wincing.

We get the check. We think over our options: Drink. Or Rumba at the Intercontinental. We could waltz into O Ya and have a drink at the bar.

We settle on Les Zygomates. It's all jazz music and atmospheric votive candles. The last time we were here, we ordered a 1/2 bottle of champagne. Don't fix it if it ain't broke. The champagne arrives and we clink our glasses. There's  a TV screen behind the bar, but the volume's off. It's pretty quiet until a cheer goes up: The Bruins score their third goal of the night, then their fourth.

With only a few minutes to go in the game, we settle up our bill and walk to South Station. I arrive at Park Station without incident, but the Green Line is dysfunctional -- the seats are dripping with beer and there's a vague announcement about delays due to crowds at North Station. I hedge my bets on a cab and head up the steps to the Common.

It's nuts -- crowds yelling ("Stanley Cup right here, baby!"), car horns beeping, cops standing guard on every corner. I'm lucky to get a cab. And, you know what, it's fun to roll through town with the windows down. I think of an October, not too many years ago, when the Red Sox were down three games to the Yankees and came back from the dead to win the ALCS. That was my first October in Boston -- a hell of an introduction.

Boston loves when the underdog wins. And that's when you realize when Boston is not so big of a city.

Tonight, the city is united.

A Downtown Kind of Day, Part II

The rain has let up and cool, fresh evening air is here. Trying to avoid puddles, I walk down Spring Street and hang a right on Lafayette.

M arrives in a cab to find me seated near the host stand at Osteria Morini. The host won’t seat me until my party is complete, so I’m flipping through my new book.

After a false start (the hostess tries to pawn a lousy table off on us; we ask to be moved), we're seated. M is drawn to the fried zucchini blossoms; I order two antipasti. The first is the Ventresca, tuna belly poached in olive oil and layered with pickled onions, barely cooked asparagus, zucchini, fava beans, and borlotti beans. It’s light and summery and my first thought is – Can I recreate this at home? Because I want to. 

And then – the Polpettine. They’re gorgeous, if you can call meatballs gorgeous. The septuagenarian sitting next to me on the banquette leans over and, eyes wide, asks, “What are those?"

The meatballs are luscious – prosciutto, mortadella, and egg – and served in a tomato sauce. Our waiter tells me that the buttery bread on the side is brioche. Nope. Sorry. There’s nothing remotely brioche-like on my plate. But I mop up the tomato sauce with the bread and I don’t mind too much.

I’m taking notes and photos and the septuagenarian leans over again: “Are you involved with food?”

Am I involved with food? Yes. It’s a passionate love affair. I eat, I read about food, I write about food, I cook, I plan shopping lists and absolutely epic menus for meals that might never happen. 

But, to make it easy, I smile and say yes. I say, “I like to write about food.” My new friend is delighted – one of her dinner companions is a writer as well – and she asks for my business card. I hand over two.

M’s Brodetto (seafood soup) and my Stracci – pasta rags with braised mushrooms and rosemary oil – arrive. The kitchen has also included chopped tomatoes and a little Parmesan.  I don’t taste rosemary. And are the mushrooms braised? Or just sautéed? Don't get me wrong, it’s good. But I think I’ve had this dish before, though I can’t remember where.

That’s the concept here: familiar tastes. It’s Italian. It’s not re-interpreted. It’s hearty, tasty, and best accompanied by red wine (the cocktails are a little off and M’s second drink smells like cough syrup). The ceilings are low and the walls are hung with copper pans.

It could be clichéd, but we’re in SoHo, so it has to be cool. The soundtrack is U2, the Police, and Florence and the Machine and our scruffy waiter tells us a story about going to the Strand with his dad when he was little. And the restaurant is really, really popular. The next available seating for two is at 10pm. It's a little noisy and everyone's enjoying themselves. After all, it's New York, it's SoHo, and it's time to dig into a platter of meatballs. 

We’re not so tempted by dessert, so we skip it. Cocktails at Salon de Ning are next. 

A Downtown Kind of Day, Part I

Between the rain and a street parade, my cab gets caught in traffic and I rush into Ceci Cela fifteen minutes late. Past the glass cases of pastries, J is waiting at a table in the café.

The small café is precious – brick walls, a few Art Nouveau metal signs, and chairs and tables carefully chosen, I’m sure, for their rustic finish – and I’m so glad to be here, with a good friend, as the rain falls heavily outside.

We take a minute to look over the menu. J decides on a chai. What do I want? A fruit tart? A madeleine? Tiramisu?

I want a sugar hit. An éclair. I order a chocolate one, but the café is all out – so vanilla it is. It’s not very vanilla-y (is that a word? It’s totally a word now). But I do love a good pastry cream. And the glaze is sweet and smooth on the tip of my tongue.

And I'm satisfied.

We catch up on work, and apartment-hunting, and future-planning. At 5pm, J, with her Blackberry and briefcase in hand, has to rush off to a meeting. I am confident that she is going to run the world one day. She is Superwoman.

The rain has stopped. I look to my left and my right. And then I choose neither. I go down the subway steps and take the 6 to Union Square. I know exactly where I'm going. 

A few blocks away is The Strand. Screw Disney World. This is the happiest place on Earth.

I head for Mystery and then double back to Food. This is where I always get into trouble. I keep picking up books and I quickly have a pile in the crook of my arm.

There’s a couple looking at cookbooks. The boyfriend is rhapsodizing about the photos in Hot Sour Salty Sweet. The girlfriend is not impressed.

On the second floor, two teenage girls are shopping for diaries. One asks, “Moleskines… Do they have to kill animals for these?” I wince.

It's almost dinnertime. I pick one book, pay, and swap my flats for heels. Back to the subway. 

Brushstroke: A Dinner of Delicate Touches

It's M's pick for dinner tonight. I know nothing about Brushstroke, but, as always, I'm happy to go along for the ride.

When given the choice between a table or the counter at Brushstroke, we pick the counter so we can have a clear view of the open kitchen -- the sushi chefs directly behind the counter and, in the background, the line chefs. There are flashes of black and white as the waiters and cooks move efficiently and quickly through the stainless steel kitchen.

The dining room is minimalist too -- The walls are rough-hewn planks, the tables and chairs are a more refined light wood, and the accent is granite.

We both opt for the eight-course tasting menu (It's that, or the twelve-course). Dinner begins with four small plates of lightly cooked fish. I enjoy the delicacy of the dishes and the careful presentation, but I find myself wondering what's next. I haven't been won over yet.

Then the duck arrives.

Here's the irony of Brushstroke. It's widely considered to be a sushi restaurant. But it's the meat that's spectacular. Oh my god, the meat.

The grilled slices of duck are paired with Japanese eggplant, a miso-mustard sauce, and micro-greens. And, for the first time during the dinner, I want an entree-sized portion.

Next up is the stewed pork cheek, with green apple puree and apple cider sauce. You've heard of fork tender, right? Well the pork is chopstick tender. It's rich and it falls apart when I take a bite. The sweetness of the apples makes the dish balanced.

We're a little giddy after two delicious courses, but then we're disappointed by the rice dishes. M's steamed lobster is unappealing and my lightly seasoned raw tuna is good but unmemorable.

Dessert is a high note -- soymilk pannacotta with matcha green tea sauce. It is so creamy and sweet. Either the chef added heavy cream or he's making magic with soymilk. And at the bottom of my bowl are sweetened red beans. I immediately think of "fruit at the bottom" yogurt.

Would I go back and order the tasting menu again? Probably not. But the aesthetic is refined, the presentation is flawless, and the technique is creative. And, when I peek at the bar after dinner, I want to come back soon. The walls of the bar are made up of thousands of paperbacks. Incredible.

I'd like to have an evening in the bar -- I'd order sushi a la carte and talk cocktails with the friendly bartenders.

And I'd really like more of that pannacotta.

Afternoon Treats at Bouchon Bakery

It's a sunny day in New York and the reflected heat off the pavements is unbelievable.

I walk into Bouchon Bakery at Rockefeller Center. There's air-conditioning. I like it already.

The bakery is airy, with tall ceilings, cream and yellow walls, and marble countertops. And, despite its proximity to one of the most over-touristed sites in New York, the staff could not be nicer.

M meets me, and we scan the glass cases of pastries and viennoiserie. We have a hard time choosing, but she orders gazpacho, a chocolate bouchon, and two macarons (one raspberry, one caramel). Picking a chocolate macaron is easy for me, but then I spot something gorgeous -- a craquelin. One of the girls behind the counter explains that it's brioche with candied orange zest and tiny sugar pearls on top. She had me at brioche. 

Because I woke up too early and I need more caffeine, I ask for an iced latte. When the barista misunderstands and pours me an iced coffee, he apologizes and quickly makes the latte. 

We sit at a tall counter near the front windows and look out on Rockefeller Plaza. M swears by the bouchon, but I don't steal a bite in time and it's all gone. The craquelin is lovely -- buttery as brioche should be, but lightened by the citrus taste.

We're confused by the raspberry and caramel macarons -- What is buttercream doing in a macaron? It's too heavy and buttery and it doesn't work. And, to be blunt, the raspberry doesn't taste like real fruit. But the filling in the chocolate macaron is dark chocolate and has the texture of ganache. It's good. Very good.

And, when it's time to go and to make our way through Midtown, I'm loathe to leave the bakery. This is a place where the afternoon is calm and wonderful things happen with flour, sugar, and butter.

Salt and Sweat

When I pick up my race packet at the NYRR headquarters on the Upper East Side, a registration staffer hands me a sheet with tips for running in hot weather. One tip suggests eating salty food during the week prior to the race. The idea is to keep your electrolytes in balance and to prevent hyponatremia.

I walk out of the NYRR and see a vendor selling hot dogs and pretzels. Bingo. $2 for a pretzel is completely justified. I mean, come on. It's balancing my electrolytes.

This morning, I ran the 10K race in Central Park. I set a fast pace for myself -- my lungs cooperate (I'd like to thank speedwork), but my legs are still tired from the past week and I lose time on Miles 3 and 4. I push it on the last two miles, because there's absolutely no reason not to. This is it. I'm telling myself to take quality breaths, but I'm not. I'm just running. I see M at Mile 6 and she shouts one word: "Go!" So I go. Fast. And then a woman yells out my bib number -- I look down to check; yes it's my bib number. She's cheering me on.

It's only 70 degrees and thankfully there's a cloud cover, but I'm dripping sweat as I cross under the pink race finish banner. My official time is 12 seconds slower than my personal best. And that's okay. Breathing hard, I snag paper cups of Gatorade and water and a volunteer drapes a medal around my neck. The medal hangs from a polka-dot ribbon. I dig it.

M and I leave the race finish and cut through crowds of race participants still running to get to Central Park South. A cyclist has pulled over and is cheering the women on: "One last mile! One last mile! You look hot! Red hot!" Yeah, we're red hot. Literally. We're all flushed and sweaty.

And I start to think about a 10K race in two weeks. Plenty of time to recuperate.

There should be a warning posted: Do not make important decisions while under the influence of a runner's high. So let's see how I feel tomorrow. And then I'll decide.

Boston to New York

On the train to New York:
"Does anyone have a broom? Does anyone have a broom? I understand the Red Sox swept the Yankees again!"
 -- Amtrak conductor

Yesterday morning, I was in Boston, boarding a train with the biggest cup of coffee ever (it was like the Big Gulp of coffee).

Since arriving in New York, I've eaten one pretzel, one chocolate macaron from Bouchon Bakery, and $80 worth of sushi. I made a frantic visit to the Apple store when I realized I forgot my iPhone charger. I ran the NYRR Mini 10K race.

New York never disappoints. Weekend recap coming soon.

On the Rocks

I'm achy and my knees feel wonky and the bones of my feet hurt. So I'm officially in "hurry up and get better" mode before Saturday's race.

My piriformis muscles are tight too, so I ate breakfast today while sitting on a baggie of ice. It was sort of like sitting in a booster seat. A really cold booster seat.

And, after work, I walked in a liquor store, saw big bags of ice, and thought, "Ooh! I should ice my knees!" A normal reaction would have been "Ooh! Frozen margaritas tonight!"

Running is never too far from my mind.

I've actually sat in airports and iced sports injuries. One time, faced with a two hour delay, I convinced a Starbucks barista to fill up a massive shopping bag with ice. I waited out the delay by icing my ankle (a painful spinning class injury), eating M&M's, and reading Dennis Lehane. An excellent use of two hours.

I spend a lot of time on foam rolling, icing, and physical therapy. You've heard of high maintenance women. Well, I'm a high maintenance runner.

So, I now have a $1.75 plastic bag of ice from the liquor store in my freezer. Everyone will be disappointed when I tell them what it's for. Hint: there's no tequila involved.

The only one enjoying the cocktail ice will be my knees.

I've Got My Reasons

It's a little too early and it's a little too sunny. I'm already sweating off my sunscreen. But I'm running. I ran to the track and now I'm pushing myself: 2 x 800 meters in 3:16 each, with 400 meter jogs to recover. As a group of surly girls run up and down the stadium steps, I run my first 800 meter repeat in 3:06 and my second in 3:11.

What am I running for?

I'm running for iced coffee. I've got $5 tucked in my shoe and a mental map of the nearest Dunkin' Donuts.

I'm running for breakfast. There's homemade muesli in the refrigerator at home.

I'm running for Saturday. Because today is the last training run. Because, in a few days, I'm getting on a train and heading to New York. And then I'm going to wake up and go for a run in Central Park. This run will be timed. And there will be, oh I don't know, about seven thousand other women running.

And you know what -- it's been about four years since I ran in a 10K race. I got distracted by half marathons and by just how good it felt to train for distance. And then I got distracted by Buenos Aires, and London, and Lisbon.

The last few years have been revealing: I'm strong. I've got endurance. I like discipline... and adventure too.

But my personal best is four years old. So that's what I'm running for: to prove I'm still just as fast. Who am I proving it to? Nobody but myself.

And I'm running for that iced coffee I was talking about. I really want iced coffee.

Bananas Mean It's Healthy... Right?

The stove and I have reached détente. Things are tense. But we’re working on our issues.

The oven, on the other hand, is winning me over. And I’m not easy to win over. I’m testing our relationship. First up, banana-oat-walnut bars. (And, for dinner this evening, homemade pizza.)

The bars are kind of like cake. Healthy cake. They’re moist and nutty, sweetened with coconut flakes and just a little brown sugar.  

You could go wild. You could add raisins or chocolate chips. Or both. That’d be pretty fun. I didn’t add chocolate though, because then I couldn’t call it healthy cake.

I’d like to claim that these bars are for breakfast. But then I’d be lying. Because I just ate two.

So really, they’re anytime bars.

Banana-Oat-Walnut Bars

2 cups old-fashioned oats

2 teaspoons cinnamon

¼ cup brown sugar

½ teaspoon baking powder

1 egg

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

¼ cup milk (I use 2%)

2 ripe medium bananas, mashed

¾ cup coconut flakes

¾ cup chopped walnuts

1 tablespoon melted butter

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix the oats, cinnamon, brown sugar, baking powder, coconut, and walnuts in a bowl.

Mix the egg, vanilla, milk, bananas, and melted butter in a separate bowl. Add the oat mixture and mix well. 

Press the mixture into a greased square baking pan. Bake for 30 minutes until firm to the touch. The coconut flakes should be golden to light brown around the edges. Let the bars cool briefly (5-10 minutes) before cutting them into squares. Be sure to eat (at least) one when they're still warm. 

Enjoy the bars with a glass of cold milk or crumbled over yogurt.

Boston is Made of Glass, Brick, and Pie

A rule to live by: Saturday afternoon walks should end with dessert.

Boston Cream Pie petit four at Cafe Vanille, Beacon Hill. The pastry cream is flavored with rum -- a Boston Cream Pie all grown up. And I love the perfect dots, though I think I prefer a super chocolate-y Boston Cream Pie....

My Stove Has Done Me Wrong

I’m in a fight. With my stove.

With a new apartment comes a new kitchen. And, last night, I set off the smoke detector. The last time I set off a smoke detector was… actually I’ve never set off a smoke detector. You see what this stove makes me do?

What I need when I go apartment-hunting is a test run. I need, say, fifteen minutes. Enough time to mince some garlic, heat oil in a skillet, and sear a chicken breast. I want to see how that stove is going to treat me. If all goes well, then I can commit. You think I could get that written into a lease?

But, I haven't found a realtor who will let me try out the kitchen. So here I am, with some very hostile feelings. The stove and I are not speaking. We’ve had a fight and we haven’t made up yet. I’m hoping the relationship can still be saved.

But what about the oven? Will the oven do me wrong too? See, now I’m developing trust issues.

There’s only one thing to do: Throw caution to the wind and take the plunge (cue all of those other clichés)… all in the name of love food.

The Last Three Hours Have Been Mayhem

The Red Sox are playing, the streets are jammed, there's a tornado watch all over the Northeast, and I'm moving into a new apartment.

Oh yes. True story. 

There was also a 45 minute wait for a U-Haul. And then trying all the keys to my storage unit and forking over $10 to have the lock cut off when none of the keys worked. 

And now I can't find the screws to bolt the headboard to the bed frame. On the other hand, I've successfully located a lifetime supply of Swiffer cloths and a lot of pennies. 

Oh yes. Also a true story. 

Did I ever tell you I'm psychic? I see.... dark chocolate in my future. Specifically, that $12 bar of Mast Brothers chocolate. Oh yes.