Seconds and Minutes and Seasons

About a month ago, we went to the Cape for a long weekend. We watched the waves and tried to spot sharks at Nauset Beach, and then we ate shrimp or fish tacos or lobster rolls and drank wine.

Mornings were for the "breakfast" part of "bed and breakfast," and for coffee and stories. Dennis, the husband part of the husband-wife B & B owners, liked the phrase "a New York second." As in, a seal will kill a fish in a New York second. Or, a shark will get a seal in a New York second. Generally, the New York second came up in the context of the food chain. I always thought the phrase was a New York minute, like the Eagles song, but a New York second sounds even better. It sounds even faster.

Now I'm typing this on the Northeast Regional train as it pulls away from Penn Station and our not even thirty-six hour New York weekend seems just as fast. The days, and the weeks, and the months seem fast, the seasons too. I love every season, equally -- Christmas presents and wool socks in the winter, picnics (but also allergies) in the spring, the beach in the summer, and then apple picking and leaves and plaid and all cliched and all wonderful things New England in the fall. So I am a little sad but not too sad to see the summer go, because here comes another season that I love. The 23rd is the fall equinox. So today is the last Sunday of summer. So this weekend is the last weekend of summer. And so on.

Last Monday was the last Monday of summer. So we went to Hampton Beach. It was that deceptive kind of beautiful, sunny cold. We drove up with hoodies and hot coffee and put our rash guards on to get in the water. We body boarded, rolling to shore on the right wave at the right time and sometimes getting rolled underwater by the right wave at the wrong time, and talked about taking surf lessons next summer.

When we got out of the water for a break, all salty fresh and tired, I looked at my watch. It had only been twenty minutes. It had seemed like longer. But twenty minutes is still a whole lot of of New York seconds.

And there went the last seconds of this summer on the last Monday of this summer; and here go the minutes of this train ride back to Boston, this train ride to fall; and here goes the overlap of the seasons, the fade out of summer and the fade in of fall.

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

Summer Streets, New York, NY

Diner En Blanc, Boston, MA

WaterFire, Providence, RI

It's been a fun few weeks.

That's What I Call Breakfast

11:30 am at Balthazar: Brioche French Toast, served up with bacon and the New York Times.

New York Again

A year ago, I was in New York.

Six months ago, I was in New York.

I woke up this morning in Boston, packed my bag, took a cab, and boarded the Acela. Before I knew it, I was in New York again.

And when I got off at Penn Station, I couldn't find a cab. I started walking uptown and, when A called, I knew I'd much rather talk and walk than hail a cab. So I went uptown, then crosstown, and talked to A, with cold hands and the excitement that always comes when I arrive here.

Hi New York. It's been a while.

All the Roads are Winding

The day is clear, the sky is the palest blue in patches and vivid in others, and there's just enough cool in the air to let us know that autumn might be coming soon. The streets are full, with runners, dogs, tourists, baby strollers, shoppers... I'm running along the side of the Common, heading towards the North End, but I know that its tiny streets will be too busy. I take the next right onto School Street. I randomly pick streets and head deeper into the Financial District, for a little space to run.

I run in a trance. I'm barely aware of the mechanics of running,  though a little twinge from my left hamstring is a reminder.  I ignore the cones blocking off what looks to be a construction site. But, just outside Winthrop Square, I'm stopped. It's a movie set. I'm told that it's the new Jeff Bridges and Ryan Reynolds movie. I jog in place and, eventually, filming stops and I'm let through. The square is quiet, with traffic diverted elsewhere, but, a few blocks away, business proceeds as usual.

When I was last in New York, I found a movie set near Grand Central. Vanderbilt Avenue was blocked off and transformed into New York of long ago.

Extras waiting in line for the craft service table

But back to Boston. I arbitrarily decide that I want to run to the South End. No good reason. I just do. I pass New England Medical Center and I cross the Pike. I have no destination and I unintentionally run in a circle, crossing the Pike again on Arlington Street. The view of Bay Village is not unfamiliar to me but it's still extraordinary -- red brick rowhouses with slate grey mansard roofs against the blue glass of the John Hancock skyscraper. It's as if someone Photoshopped Boston and saturated the color.

I spend a little time in Bay Village, finding my way to Park Plaza. I have no idea how far I've run. I'm not paying much attention to my watch or to stoplights... I run when there's no walk sign and I find myself running in place at a street corner, my mind wandering, when I do have the walk sign.

I run these streets to know them. In a few weeks, when someone mentions Herald Street or Winthrop Lane, I will know it. I run to see one neighborhood fade into the next and to find the connections between them. And I run because Boston is at its best today. There is so much happening, so much being played out on our streets and sidewalks. Outside Cheers, there was a bride in a huge, poufy dress, with white plastic sunglasses. Her bridesmaids, dressed in primary colors, carried sunflowers. In Bay Village, a shopper returned home by bike, with a Brooks Brothers shopping bag stashed in his basket.

I intend to trace Arlington Street to the river. But, looking down St. James, I see the corner of the Boston Public Library peeking out and I want to get closer.

And I'm off again.

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. 

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.

"Sugar, sugar.... honey, honey"

Writing about pie got me thinking about desserts generally. Here a few of my favorite bakeries, shops, cookbooks, and desserts:

Flour Bakery, Cambridge, MA and Boston, MA. All locations are great, but you’ve got to time your visit right. Otherwise, you’ll be fending off yuppie parents who use their strollers as weapons and think baby spit-up is adorable. I love babies, but spit-up just isn’t cute. But, back to the bakery – Flour is terrific and I’ve never been disappointed. I always order the roast beef sandwich (hold the onions and horseradish), an iced latte, and a treat, usually a scone.

Madeleines at Café Boulud, New York, NY. At the end of your dinner, warm, buttery madeleines arrive, snugly wrapped up in a white linen napkin. Just unreal.

Truffles from La Maison du Chocolat, New York, NY.  I like buying a tiny coffret of two truffles or stopping in for a hot chocolate at the Rockefeller Plaza location. We’ve been known to detour for hot chocolate en route to LaGuardia. We’re highly committed chocolate lovers.

Maida Heatter’s Book of Great American Desserts. Sometimes, I read the directions and I think “Good lord, that’s complicated” or “She’s asking me to do what?” Just do it. As far as I’m concerned, she’s the undisputed queen of desserts. I’ve made and shipped her chocolate cheesecake brownies to lucky recipients all over the country. But, to fess up, I do make some modifications. After all, every baker’s got to have some secrets….

Alice Medrich’s Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-in-Your-Mouth Cookies. A recent gift. I’m impressed by her thoughtfulness and the number of variations she gives for each cookie. These recipes definitely went through some serious testing. When I decide to get down to business and work on macarons, her recipe will be the first I’ll try.

Katharine Hepburn’s Brownie Recipe. A friend recently asked for my brownie recipe: It’s all Hepburn’s genius. I’ve been making these brownies since I was seven and had a lemonade stand. The lemonade stand was very successful and I had to open a savings account.

Haagen-Dazs. Ice cream solves all problems. But only good ice cream. And I can always justify paying five bucks a pint if it’s this good.  My favorite? Chocolate. I’m a purist. 

In a New York Minute

Monday, 6:50pm: The Plaza Foodhall by Todd English

The Foodhall is not so much foodhall, rather an intimate grouping of bars – pull up a chair to your bar of choice. The point here is not the shopping but the pleasing visual display and the eating. Among the offerings are candy and Bonne Maman jams – nothing special really but, grouped together, they create a lushness of rose and plum colors against the creamy marble and brown wood of the restaurant.

My dinner companion is late. I wander over to the Shops and weave through the MAC and C.O. Bigelow counters. Before I know it, the Plaza staff is vacuuming and the heavy wrought iron grills are slammed shut and locked. My only escape routes are undignified: Through the Foodhall or up the escalator and out the side entrance.

This definitely never happened to Eloise.

Thursday, 11:28am: Caffe Lavazza at Eataly

I sit near the windows with a latte, opposite a lawyer type also with a latte. For the window display, Eataly has arranged cans of tomatoes in a perfect pyramid – Each can label features a celebrity (Giada, Gaga, and so on). And beyond the windows is Madison Square Park. Flashes of yellow cabs and black limousines fill in the gaps between the cans: a veritable kaleidoscope.

Friday, 3:59pm: La Maison du Chocolat at Rockefeller Plaza

I need hot chocolate. As I pick out a round table and pull off my gloves, a family of three is leaving. The tweenage daughter, with braided pigtails and a puffy, down parka, exclaims into her cell phone, “I saw Gwyneth Paltrow! I saw Gwyneth Paltrow and a bunch of other famous guys perform. I’m on the NBC tour!” Reporting home?