Blackened Out's Christmas Vacation: Lost in New York

Rockefeller Center.

What The Folk Singer wants, The Folk Singer gets (within reason). As such, with a simple request to visit New York to see all of the Christmas lights, we were off to the Big Apple on the weekend after Thanksgiving, smack dab in the middle of perhaps the busiest time of the year. What follows is a brief synopsis of our 56 hour trip.

We touched down at Laguardia just before noon on Friday afternoon, dropped our bags off in the East Village, and walked over to Ippudo for lunch. Ramen is the name of the game at this sleek "Japanese brasserie," a dish which has not yet gained traction in our fare city. The standard lunch set starts with a simple salad of field greens tossed in soy dressing and a mini bowl of rice topped with morsels of fried chicken. I had the weekly special ramen of Szechuan style spicy pork in an intense broth spiced up with black sesame sauce, ground pork, and shrimp paste. I think that TFS found the winner though with the classic ramen, a less adulterated version with broth that was a drinkable elixir.

Fortified against the cold, we made our way to Rockefeller Center to witness a marriage proposal on the skating rink (complete with Bon Jovi anthem) and snapped the above picture of the iconic Christmas tree, a replica of which TFS felt compelled to recreate in our living room. Yada yada yada, The New York Public Library, something about Carrie Bradshaw, and then it was time for happy hour.

We navigated the subway system toward the Ace Hotel, where we ducked into the John Dory Oyster Bar. The hostess sat us at two stools along the window looking out onto Broadway and West 29th. At 4:45 only a handful of other tables were occupied, By 5:15 there was not an open seat in the dining room and people were lined up three deep at the bar. The happy hour special is a half dozen oysters and a glass of cava or pint of stout for $15. I ordered a full dozen of the salty, plump downright beautiful bivalves from Mermaid Cove, and TFS downed the cava. It's why our marriage works. We made a pass through the hotel lobby and The Breslin (April Bloomfield's other restaurant in the Ace) and marveled at the number of hipsters playing on their Macs and investment bankers debating the size of their Christmas bonuses while imbibing $30 glasses of scotch. It was a great scene that's definitely worth experiencing.

Later that night on our stroll back to home base, we passed a crowd of at least 30 people gathered on the sidewalk outside Caracas Arepa Bar. We decided that it must be worth waiting for, so we put our name on the list and walked around the corner for a few beers and glasses of wine to help pass the 45 minute wait. We returned just in time to hear our name called and were shoehorned into the table immediately next to the front window in the dining room, which is more tightly quartered than a submarine. We each ordered an arepa - mine stuffed with thick disks of spicy chorizo and her's filled with roasted pork shoulder. What stood out the most was the sublime texture of the Venezuelan corn cakes - somewhere between a pupusa and a corn muffin. Excellent.

Following dinner we stumbled in to the Big Gay Ice Cream Shop for the most decadent ice cream cone I have ever tasted. Behold the Salty Pimp: vanilla soft serve stuffed and streaked on the sides with dulce de leche, dipped in chocolate, and sprinkled with sea salt. Unreal.

Shrimp and pork buns from Momofuku Noodle Bar.

We slept in on Saturday morning and felt even more guilty for squandering our time after the Parisian Princess sent a text message saying that she had just finished her 8 mile run through Central Park and would be available to meet us for lunch after a quick shower. We headed out on foot through the Village toward Washington Square to see if we could score a walk-in table at Babbo. Dining at Mario Batali and Joe Bastianich's flagship restaurant had become a mission for us ever since our attempts at a reservation were thwarted by Hurricane Sandy beating down on Manhattan exactly one month before our trip, which happened to be the precise time when Babbo opens its reservation book. By the time that they started answering the phones again after the storm, our only option was an 11:15 p.m. reservation. We decided to gamble on a lunch walk-in instead.

As we strolled down 5th Avenue, TFS reminisced about the Carnival du Vin Patron Party a few years back when she and Rene's better half caught Mario's eye and then spent a significant portion of the evening trying to force feed him red wine (which he defended against by proclaiming that that he only drinks white wine). As we chuckled at the stroll down memory lane, all of a sudden a familiar looking rotund gentlemen with a red pony tail exited an apartment building and crossed our path. Given the 38° temperature, it seemed odd that he chose shorts and crocs as the proper wardrobe for riding his vespa, which he promptly cranked up and then drove off on with his son clinging to his waist. Very strange.

A few minutes later we arrived at Babbo and were told that it would be no problem to seat our party of 3 for lunch. We waited for the Parisian Princess over pre-lunch cocktails and admired the handsome first floor dining room while a Coltrane track played in the background. Armed with the knowledge that neither TFS nor PP would be interested in a tasting menu, my order had already been pre-determined. To start a towering pile of arugula dressed with shaved parm and balsamic and served with a half dozen sweet morsels of roasted butternut squash. I ask myself, "How can something so simple be so good?" TFS had the same questions after she polished off her plate of thinly sliced prosciutto and fresh figs.

She followed with gnocchi al telefono, which I have to say was the best combination of pasta, tomato, and cheese that I had ever tasted. PP's grilled octopus transported me back to a tiny tapas bar in San Sebastian where I first learned to appreciate how tender this sea creature could be if cooked properly. As appealing as those few bites were, my attention remained tightly focused on the beef cheek ravioli, a dish which defies science when you consider how its possible to pack such a rich flavor inside a tiny pasta pouch.

Over the olive oil cake for dessert, we discussed the best plan of attack to score a dinner reservation for our return trip in the spring.

After lunch we decided that the best way to revive our hunger was a long walk to the Meatpacking District. We checked out the High Line, but Terroir was closed and no one could be seen having sex in front of the windows at the Standard, so it was kind of a bust. Then we headed over to Eataly to make sure that we maximized our quota of Mario for the trip. The scene can only be described as pandemonium. Picture the concourses at the Superdome during halftime, except that everyone is gorging themselves on pizza, pasta and wine instead of nachos, hot dogs, and beer. Things were a little more relaxed at Corkbuzz, where we met a few friends for a drink. Then pre-theatre fondue and half-priced bottles of Burgundy at the Bourgeois Pig.

According to TFS, an evening at the theatre is an absolute requirement for any visit to NYC. For this trip, she convinced me that spending 5x more on tickets to The Book of Mormon would be worth it. She was right. The show was hilarious. Unless, of course, any of you readers is a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, in which case the show is extremely offensive and irreverent. Actually, those adjectives apply no matter what your religion or lack thereof.

I had pizza on the brain after the show, so we hailed a cab and headed to Motorino for an excellent Neopolitan pie topped with spicy soppresatta, chili flakes, and slivers of garlic. PP met up with us for the walk home, which happened to take us right in front of Momofuku Noodle Bar. This was obviously a sign sent down from above by Joseph Smith and/or Brigham Young, so how could we resist?

I'll be honest, both the ramen and the nugget potatoes were underwhelming, which was a surprise. But the steamed flour buns were out of this world good, and that goes for both the pork belly and the fried shrimp cake. It took every ounce of will power in my body to stop myself from attempting to pilfer a thigh from the fried chicken dinner delivered to the table next to us. Unfortunately, that dish must be ordered in advance. I may or may not have told TFS that I would pay for that table's entire meal if they gave me a southern style leg and a Korean style thigh, which prompted her to immediately ask for the check. Next time.

Sunday was a blur. A satisfactory brunch at Burger & Barrel. A trip to Bloomingdale's a/k/a the ninth circle of hell. More walking. Dinner at Hasaki because TFS wanted sushi and it was one of the few places that was open. A cab ride to the airport and a flight home.

I am tired just writing about it. But I am also now very hungry....

New York City: The Welterweights

A lifetime could be spent exploring the holes in the wall of New York. Whether it is a bakery, beer garden, or a modern Italian-American barroom, the city reveals more hidden gems than the safe at DeBeers. Granted, most of these places have basement prep kitchens, but still the quality of food coming out of these tiny spots is impressive.

A Sunday morning jaunt to the Natural History Museum turned up to of the best snacks we had on our trip. Levain Bakery has been heralded from sea to shining sea, and for good reason. This closet sized basement bakery doles out chunky, gooey cookies in a variety of flavors. The chocolate chocolate chip had the heft of good book but once the crusty exterior of the cookie was breached it transformed into a soft explosion of chocolate finesse. And finally, here is a chocolate peanut butter sweet that actually beats into submission the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup in its proportion of the two main ingredients.

The Natural History museum was filled with screaming children and stairs. Both of which eventually wore on our patience, so we hailed a cab and headed to Earl's Beer and Cheese. This locker room of lagers and ales has but a few beers, a few snacks, and a wall decorated in a faux forest scene. It felt like college again, homely, warm, and welcoming.

The menu sticks to food you want to eat while drinking a beer. But each item has a certain twist to it, to make it stand out. For instance, the taco comes not on a tortilla but on a scallion pancake. The result is a crispy wrapped, meat filled odyssey. Topped with radishes and a squirt of lemon, this is fusion done right. Or the tomato soup, which comes spiked with just enough ginger and spice to make you crave Indian food.

We also made time one day to stop in at Parm. Parm is the second offering from a group that has reinvented Italian-American food at the next door, Torrisi Italian Specialties. It was in between lunch and dinner service when we went to Parm and only the bar was open. The staff seemed out of sorts, but that is what happens when a restaurant is open when a shift change is underfoot. Service woes notwithstanding, the plate of pickled vegetables, jalapeno poppers, and a beet infused Negroni more than helped ease us into the evening.

Finally, what trip to New York City would be complete without grabbing one of its most iconic foods: the bagel. For that, we headed to Ess-a-Bagel. Inside the brick building, a counterman yells out, "No toasting." Then slides gobs of cream cheese on a sliced round of bagel, crusty on the outside, chewy on the inside. If this isn't bagel perfection, what is?

New York City: The Middleweights

The silvered pig at Batali & Bastianich's Eataly. About the only thing you can't buy there. 

The flight into New York's LaGuardia airport on a clear night is one of the prettiest airborne sights imaginable, After the initial approach, the plane banks northwest and scurries past the East side of Manhattan Island. Immediately a diorama of buildings comes into focus, all aglow with shimmering lights. This view of Manhattan is an intoxicating aperitif.

After tossing our bags into the hotel room, we hailed a cab to make the trip from Midtown to what has become an institution: David Chang's Momofuku Ssam Bar. At about 10:30 at night, Ssam was just hitting its second gear with a growing ambiance fueled by loud music, pork, and beer. The dark paneled room and low lights create the sensation of eating in a humidor. Two seats at the bar opened quickly and the feast commenced.

The famed steamed buns of course - pillow soft and filled with succulent slabs of pork belly. A quick glaze with a fiery red sauce helped finish the last of the first round of beers. While those steamed were delicious, they paled in comparison to the kimchi rubbed apples with face bacon. Let's break this dish down John Madden style shall we? First you have the apple, which has just a touch of sweetness and a heavy dose of tart while adding a base layer of crunchy to the dish. Then this guy takes those apple slices and smears kimchi all over them to give it something spicy. Then over here, you got the face bacon lead blocking and bringing that salty, crispiness that makes bacon America's favorite food group.

Perhaps even more impressive was the way Chang and Co. turned chewy tripe into a sublime Asian noodle dish. Tender, shreds of tripe were tossed into a ginger scallion sauce and served at room temperature. Out chop sticks engaged as sword play as we fought for the last morsels. Finally, a clunky dish of rice cakes and Chinese pork sausage. While advertised as spicy, the dish needed acid to round everything out, and on the whole the dish was dry. But then again anything would have paled in comparison to the tripe and apples.

Dessert at the Momofuku Milk Bar. A Crack Pie, peanut butter cookie, and soft serve ceral milk ice cream rounded out the meal. That soft serve ice cream quickly became Lindsay's white whale. Wherever we were in New York for the next few days, she would say, "Look on your Twitter thing and find out if there is a Milk Bar nearby."

Meatballs with potato puree, Fontina cheese, and red wine demi glace at Gramercy Tavern

If there is a Mohammad of Dining in the 21st Century, his name would have to be Danny Meyer. The list of dining "things" he helped pioneer are too long to list, but include such things as quality hamburgers and unpretentious, intelligent service. The room at Gramercy Tavern is warm decorated with arrangements to evoke the season. In late winter, think large birch branches and  jars of preserves. Everyone has a friend whose home they love to visit - it is comfortable but not stuffy, there are fantastic things to drink but nothing fussy, and the food is delicious without being obsessive. That is eating at Gramercy Tavern in a nutshell.

Meatballs, more like meatpucks, have a crisp crust gilded in melted Fontina cheese. Both the cheese and crust struggle to contain the soft textured interior of the meatball. Red wine demi glace and potatoes as smooth as glass round out a well-composed plate. But then you look across at the chicken soup, which is loaded with juicy chicken, vibrant kale, and tender dumplings and wish just for once you had not been such a fat kid when ordering.

Dessert was a symphony of composure. Chocolate pudding, salted caramel, and brioche croutons worked harmoniously to produce the greatest pudding possible. The rhythmic clacking of spoons looking for pudding but finding only ceramic became the crescendo of this movement.

There was of course a stop at Eataly with its miles of Italian food products. It is overwhelming and enrapturing. Aisles of pasta, counters full of meats and seafood, barrels of olive oils and vinegars, jugs of wines and beers,  a vegetable butcher, marble carving classes,prosciutto carved fresh, mozzarella pulled while you wait, and Vespa rentals (only made up two of those). We sat in the pizza and pasta kitchen and devoured a plate of pork and chicken liver agnolotti and a Neapolitan pizza laced with anchovies.

We got out of there in a hurry before the bank called and closed our account.

New York City: The Welterweights

One of the most striking dichotomies about New York is that for being such a big city, most of the space is tiny in comparison. Tucked into basements or squeezed into a building's alleyway, restaurants operate on a highly limited spatial budget. Inside these shoebox saloons we found some of the best places to snack. Because there are so many of these spots, this will be a two part sub-series. 

The single best cup of coffee in the world may be served by Stumptown Coffee Roasters. This outpost of a Portland institution serves rich and creamy lattes and forceful cappuccinos in an anteroom off the lobby of the Ace Hotel. The service staff is friendly and cheerful, despite being staffed mainly with hipsters. Just look at all those hats! And suspenders! But these hipsters are the cherubs of the caffeine heaven.

The most impressive aspect of the coffee at Stumptown was its temperature. The coffee is served hotter than warm but not scalding. Boiling hot coffee is a mistake too often made. When that mistake is made you end up spending ten minutes waiting for coffee to come to an acceptable temperature. There would place to do so as at Stumptown there are no tables, just a rail-cum-table on which to lean. If you look up through the large plate glass window, there is a  peek at the top of the Empire State Building. A fantastic cup of coffee with a wonderful view is not a bad way to start the day. 

Cafe 'ino came highly recommended from Bloggle and PNC Peter. It was the beginnings of a bustling brunch when we climbed into a two top right inside the door. Out from the kitchen came two bruschettas which delivered salty and bitter via its green and ricotta salata topped right hook and a knockout blow via Malliard sweetened onions and pungent cacio. With a fontina encrusted carriage of bread filled with a runny egg yolk, a few glasses of Aglianico, and a calm thumb through the paper, Cafe 'ino is the kind of place one could get used to.

A wandering tour of New York has to include a stop or three at dens of sin. Places where one can shed their inhibitions and do something really decadent and pleasureful. For us that was a stop at Dominique Ansel's narrow den of pastry in Soho. Marble and glass contain pastel colored jewels of delight. His macaroons were outstanding, the best being the pink raspberry filled with balsamic vinegar jelly. Or maybe we liked the miniature meringues which came in a plastic tube for both security and eye catching allure. In the back of the shop is a window onto the magic of this bakery. We sat enraptured as a cook formed macaroons, whipped egg whites, and prepared desserts. Free entertainment is always a plus. 

New York City: The Heavyweights

Over Mardi Gras weekend, Lindsay and I boarded a jet plane to New York City to spend four days eating, drinking, and eating and drinking. We hit up 15 establishments in an 86 hour marathon, all of which were examined with a pigeon's eye. Over the next few weeks, the restaurant and bar visits will be reviewed in the following boxing related groupings: Heavyweights, Welterweights, and Lightweights. We start this series with the Heavyweights and a look at two of the big boys of the New York dining scene, Marea and Daniel. 

 

Marea

Marea is Michael White's Italian answer to Eric Ripert and Maguy Le Coze's Le Bernardin. Marea focuses on the seafood culinary traditions of the Italian peninsula. The restaurant's walls are wrapped in woods and the thin veneer of yellowed shell covered stone giving off the ambiance of dining in a sunken chest. A quick wait in the bar produced a classic martini, which was delivered to our waiting table.

An amuse of cured sea trout with fried trout skin and caviar was only marred by the streak of reduced beet juice streaked across the plate which resembled the bloodied skid marks of a fish dragged across the white deck of a fishing skiff. But it jumped in the mouth with the clean taste of the cold ocean and the pop of salty caviar. Exquisitely rustic bread followed, along with a spicy olive oil.

Next up, a delicious blend of marine and land in the pig trotters with sardines. The two elements united by a bright and fresh salsa verde, proving yet again the pig is a uniter, not a divider. Then a rambling, but delicious plate of calamari, sea beans, white beans and fatty pancetta. The wine, a citrusy mineral driven Sicilian white began to open up and complement food and conversation.

Now onto the pasta courses, where this meal begins to hit some rough seas. The fusili with octopus and bone marrow was drowned in a wine heavy tomato sauce obscuring both the octopus and the bone marrow. In fact, I could find scant evidence of the latter, and no evidence of the former in the dish. Corkscrew pasta and red sauce is great, but it wasn't a Tuesday night home cooked meal. The gnochetti however was simply outstanding. The shellfish stock fortified sauce draped over the pasta like a bespoke suit with the chilis and rock shrimp serving as well-chosen accessories.

Inconsistencies showed up again in the main courses. Red snapper with brussel sprouts, hazelnuts, pomegranate and sunchokes would have been great had the fish not been horribly overcooked. Overcooked fish is one thing, this fish was dryer than Britain's attempt at humor. However, cuttlefish with capers, tomatoes, escarole, and olives all enveloped in a livornese sauce was delicious and hearty enough to make me want to order a lusty Italian red. Unfortunately, the waiters, captain, and sommelier were nowhere to be found.

Desserts were a shipwreck. The bombolini, little puffy doughnuts, were poorly executed, their interiors dry and tough. The sauces which accompanied them were too sweet by half. Rounding out this failure was a coffee crumble that seemingly was on the plate solely to show off the pastry chef's technique. I get what they were trying to do, coffee and doughnuts re-imagined, but it missed by a nautical mile. At least that dessert had some flavor, the other one on the table, a hazelnut praline with ice cream managed to be a dessert which inspired a round of twenty questions. Is that chocolate? Maybe the hazelnut is over there, nope. What is that lemon? Maybe? Could it be mint? Do I taste freezer burn? Subtlety is one thing, mystery another. Both are a woefully inadequate way to end a meal.

But really the most shocking thing about Marea was the state of the restroom. The bathroom at Marea would have been a sign of a great party in college. Paper towels tumbled out of the trash bin and the floor was dotted with other trash. Maybe it was an off night, but for the hottest new high end restaurant in New York, more than a little was left desired.

"I remember as a kid watching the fireworks on Fourth of July. There was always one firework that made a loud noise as it took off, traveled high, and then failed to explode," Lindsay said as we left. There was no need to finish the second part of her statement.

Daniel

There is a theory of celebrity that you should never meet celebrities in real life. In real life, celebrities stop being celebrities and nearly always let you down. They are shorter, less interesting, and more human - the faults hidden by their celebrity in full display. Case in point: our meal at Daniel. By all accounts Daniel Boulud is a chef's chef. Although he has multiple restaurants, he spends a good amount of this time at his flagship Daniel, which has three Michelin stars and four from the New York Times. As a mentor, he has helped hundreds of chefs reach their potential. He is an effusive and hospitable French chef who has made food better in America. I have wanted to eat at Daniel for years, and we finally got our shot with a 9:15 pm reservation.

Sure enough, Boulud was in the restaurant on the evening we dined, shuttling between the kitchen and the dining room. We could monitor his movements mainly because we were seated in probably the worst table in the restaurant. Next to the kitchen doors and isolated from the activity of the room by acoustic paneling on three sides, we could have been in a dining room in Hoboken. My view of the dining room was blocked by a column. (This would come into play in a bit.) Now, listen every restaurant has a worst table, but it just sucks when you draw the short straw.

Canapes were a bit boring with two featuring salsify. Once in a remoulade and as a puree. Next to them was a smoked salmon with a pickled jalapeno. A nice round of cocktails and then the real eating began. A brilliantly smooth and rich terrine of foie gras crusted in marcona almonds with glazed dates and apples came with buttery, crisp triangles of toasted brioche was the highlight of the first course. It has been said, that Boulud's greatest strength is as a master of the charcuterie arts. While I doubt Boulud made this specific terrine, his garde manger has been well-trained. This terrine was beyond delicious. By now a bottle of champagne had arrived. The Indian spiced lobster tail with yogurt was under seasoned and the crispy wonton which accompanied it soggy.

A suckling pig dish featuring the belly, a tender chop, and crispy, airy cracklings was tied together with purple potatoes and pork jus. The saddle of rabbit with rabbit sausage was forgettable. The desserts became the highlight, especially a grapefruit one that highlighted acidity rather than sweetness. Touched off with a scoop of mascarpone ice cream and an almond biscuit, it had us fighting over the last bite.

At the midway point in the meal, Lindsay turns to me and says, "Is that Thomas Keller sitting over there? It looks like him and he is wearing that scarf thing he always has on."

I tried peering around the column to no avail. But sure enough a later trip to the men's room revealed, that yes Thomas Keller was in attendance. Being in the same room as two of the nation's greatest chefs should have been enough to make this one of the most memorable meals of our lives. And maybe it could have been but while the food was all good to excellent, service was atrocious.

When you dine with the big boys, the starred spots with reservation wait lists and secret numbers, you are paying for service, setting, and ambiance as much as food. We have already been placed in the worst seat in the house with a wonderful view of a column, so two of the four criteria are already negative. Service commensurate with the pricing could have evened things out. Or even service commensurate with a dinner half this price. As it was the service we experienced at Daniel had more in common with the dismissive, aloof service style of a simple French bistro (where it is appropriate) than a focused high end restaurant. The errors, while minor in comparison to life's major problems, were glaring.

After our appetizers were finished the plates sat empty on our tables for what seemed like hours. When it happened again after the entrees, I looked at my watch. Thirteen minutes later our empty entree plates were cleared. While we waited for a dessert menu, paint dried. The captain checked in once, but before I had a chance to respond to his query he had moved on to another table. Water and wine glasses sat empty, tempting me to get up and walk across the room to grab the Champagne. I regret not doing so. One would imagine that being so close to the flight path of every front of the house employee would insure efficient service, but you would be wrong. At best the service was off, at worst it was purposefully disdainful and insulting.

Here is the thing, Daniel is not a restaurant which has to care about my experience. They are the Liuzza's for Upper East Side regulars. Men and women with bank accounts larger than their apartments dine here nightly for no other reason then they don't feel like cooking. The prime reservation times are reserved for them, the best tables and waiters as well. There are restaurants like that in every city of note, including New Orleans. I don't fault them for being what they are. And perhaps they are too insulated, too surrounded by immense wealth to realize that not everyone who drops $200 a head on a meal is a hedge fund manager or an heiress to a timber fortune.

But Daniel is also a destination restaurant, owing to the celebrity of its chef. One that should be cognizant that people may travel to Daniel to eat from far away. Daniel should set a shining example of just how enjoyable a night of eating should be. You should leave Daniel wishing to go again the next night. You should wake up the next morning and pillow talk with your spouse about the meal, the dishes that you will remember for a lifetime. Forget the sting of the check, the whole experience from service to food to setting was totally worth it.

The number one sign of a great meal at any price is how long you talk about the meal after it has ended. It has been a week and we have almost forgotten all about it. The check, however, still stings with the force of a thousand bees.

Daniel, I wish we had never met.

Empire State of Mind

Places I Have Been - Paris, London, Lyon, Munich, Geneva, Interlaken, Brussels, Nice, Cinque Terre, Barcelona, Prague, Madrid, Porto, Lisbon, Lagos, Restaurant Bocuse, Napa, The French Laundry, Saints NFC Championship Victory

Place I Had Not Been Before This Month - New York

After 3 years in Charleston and 1 in Paris, the Parisian Princess decided to undertake a Masters Degree in Art Business from Sotheby's in New York. (Didn't know that Sotheby's had a school? Me neither.) Anyway, after looking at a bunch of paintings, writing a few papers, and traveling to Munich and Miami on field trips,* it was time for PP to graduate and that was reason enough for me to take my first bite of the Big Apple. While I was only there for 3 days, I managed to squeeze in a good bit of eating.

Balthazar - I knew that I would be starving when my flight landed at 10:00pm on Thursday night, so I had already made a 11:00pm reservation at Balthazar. Yes, a reservation was necessary as there was a 10 minute wait for a table when we walked in. Steak frites was average, with the beef a bit tougher than I expected. Cool place; OK food.

John's Pizzeria of Bleecker Street - New York style pizza was a must try for me, and we chose John's upon suggestion of Bloggle. He did not steer us wrong. Thin, crackly, smoky crust; a bit greasy but not too much; and a restrained hand with both cheese and sauce.

Ino Cafe & Wine Bar - Another recommendation from Bloggle - he later regretted not charging us as a consultant - in the Village. Nothing but a 15' x 25' dining room with a bar and seating for 16 people, all Italian wine list, and a tiny kitchen serving paninis and bruschetta. We loved this place, and the food made us realize just how good simple-but-done-well can be. Our selections were pesto, summer squash, caponata with goat cheese, and diced artichoke with pecorino.

Casa Mono - Mario Batali's Spanish restaurant had been chosen our "big meal" of the trip, and we went all out. The restaurant is dark (hence, no pictures), tables are squeezed in wherever there is room, and the open kitchen has only a 4 man line turning out some amazing food. The seared foie gras was the best I have ever eaten. Pork croquetas were stacked in alternating layers with slices of green tomato, whose acidity were welcome to the dish. Pan fried sweetbreads had a rich and creamy texture. Patatas bravas were roasted fingerling potatoes covered in a spicy tomato confit with loads of caramelized onions; non-traditional, but delicious.

Golden Unicorn - This 4-story castle of dim sum was our last supper of the trip. The place was insane. You wait on the ground floor for your number to be called over the loud speaker and then take the elevator to one of the three dining room levels. Once the doors open you are immediately hit with a cacophony of clinking tea cups and jovial chatter. You sit at communal tables of 10 as rolling carts full of different foods are wheeled by.

Dumplings of every size, shape, and filling. Steamed buns filled with pork, sauteed chicken feet (nothing but skin, bones, and hype in my opinion), clams, and a bunch of things I ate but could never deduce what they were.

Not a bad first trip.

*In all seriousness, the Sotheby's graduate program is no joke, and PP worked very hard. She graduated with distinction, and I am very proud of her.