Zero Otto Nove

Ahhhh, my first foray back home in the Bronx. My brother has an apartment on Hughes Street, and we agreed to meet for dinner on one of my favorite streets in all of NYC, Arthur Ave. This, THIS, ladies and gentlemen, is the real Little Italy. The one with the crazy grandmothers and their evil eye. The place where bread disappears before it can even be placed on a shelf. A place where English speaking minorities gather with consternation, gazing in shop windows with dead, skinned animals hanging by their hooves. Yes, this is the Bronx, my Bronx, and this is where, according to renowned food critics, the best pizza in New York City currently finds a home. So of course, as a foodie myself, I had to try it, right? Right.

When I think of pizza, I think of simplicity. Good sauce, quality mozzarella, fresh basil, and soft but sturdy dough, made with NYC water. I think of Grimaldi's in Brooklyn and coal ovens. I think of Friday nights as a child, coming home from basketball practice to a warm, thin, white cardboard box that held pizza. A great word for a child, two z's put back to back. Fun to write, fun to eat.

I was NOT disappointed. Ok, well, I was slightly disappointed, but then everything was redeemed. We decided to order mussels as an appetizer. The sauce was watery and overly fishy, and a lot of of mussels were invisible. Shell upon shell turned up empty. My brother and I were pretty darn hungry, so we dipped our Tuscan (no salt) bread into the fishy-runny substance anyway, soaking up the garlic and tomatoes and "help-I'm-drowning-in-this-ocean-puddle-that's-been-in-the-sun-for-too-long" taste. The $8 glass of Chianti helped wash it down and was actually spectacular. One of the best restaurant wine-by-the-glass experiences I have ever had, actually. But then, THEN, the pizza came.

Pizza. Say it with me. It's fun :-D

My brother ordered Caprese. Simplicity, like I said, was valued in our household. Fresh mozzarella circles, perfect cherry tomatoes that transport you back to rolling Italian hills, spicy arugula, and soft, chewy, oven-roasted-to-perfection dough with just enough of that burned oven taste.

Now, I have to be different. So as I scoured the menu, I came across something so unheard of in my food repertoire, that of course I had to give it a whirl. It's the very last pizza on the menu, and a specialty of the house. It's called La Cirilo and, at first glance, does not sound like pizza at all. Knowing that I could have a slice of my brother's more traditional order, I decided to go for it. Ok, it's true, my arm didn't need much twisting...

The dough of the gods stays the same. The tomato sauce is substituted a butternut squash puree with cream of truffle. Mushrooms are added for good measure, and dollops of fresh mozzarella top it all off. The pizza is sweet and wonderful. The mozzarella is just salty enough to combat the almost dessert-like aspect of the butternut squash puree. And the mushrooms? Well, I don't really like mushrooms to be honest (not that it stops me from ordering something that otherwise sounds other-earthly...). Rich, sweet, salty, and a little kick from the black pepper. I was quite full, so I had to take it to go, and let's just say I haven't looked forward to leftovers this much in a long time. And, I was disappointed I couldn't finish it right then and there, because, while every physical instinct was telling me to stop, that I was full, that if I have another bite I might explode like Oprah did when she created that balloon effigy filled with potato chips and pretzels and made it explode on television after she had lost all that weight, every mental instinct, every ounce of dopamine in my body, every thought in my mind was telling me to continue. It was that good. (To be honest, I'm munching on it right now... still glowing!)

So why zero otto nove? That translates to 089, which is the area code for Salerno, a seaside town in Italy (and home to my grandfather's family!). This is where the chef, Roberto Paciullo, emigrated from. And thank goodness he did!

**(He also owns Roberto, one of my favorite restaurants in Little Italy, and a crowd favorite as well, which makes getting a seat rather difficult. More traditional Italian is found here, and it's scrumptious if you're willing to deal with the usually long wait. But you can easily have a glass of delectable wine (or a trendy cocktail, whichever you prefer) while you're conversing with good friends, so in my book, it's all good, and definitely worthwhile.)

Brother Jimmy's. A New York Institution

Southern Barbeque. Memories of Bessingers in Charleston, South Carolina. Sweet and tangy, succulent, fall-off-the-bone pork. Soft buns, crisp coleslaw, and a jug of sweet tea. Family dinners, wooden tables, no-nonsense. Happy times: warm weather, sunshine, that happy-full feeling.

Brother Jimmy's? Crowded, tasteless, fatty, overpriced. Football decorations for Southern teams, football on TV, various locations across the city including one outside of MSG=perks. But if you want BBQ... real, slow-cooked Southern style BBQ, then this is not the place for you. Simple.

Erawan Thai

I used to live in Bayside, NY. Probably as close to the suburbs as I'll ever get. Houses, lawns, quiet... And not all the streets had sidewalks! I only lasted 9 months, but one of the perks was Bell Blvd. and Erawan. So I decided to revisit my Bayside days with two of my colleagues.

There are actually two Erawans on Bell Blvd. so you have to specify. One is upscale and one is thai. We ventured to the one closer to Northern Blvd. The goal was to order three different entrees and split them. We went with the shrimp pad thai, the pineapple fried rice, and one of the "exotic dishes" that involved chicken and curry and basil. Two glasses of mediocre wine (a Malbec and a Pinot Grigio) and a thai iced tea to top it all off. While everything tasted good, nothing stood out to me as incredible. Serving the pineapple fried rice in a hollowed out pineapple was a nice touch, but greasy is the first word that comes to mind when I think of how to describe the taste. Same goes with the pad thai. And I can't even really remember the "exotic" dish. For dessert we had fried ice cream, which was set on fire at our table. I wasn't quick enough with the camera, but after you get over the spectacle, there was a lot left to be desired. The fried part was a bad zeppole and the ice cream was a poor excuse for ice cream. Reminded me of those kindergarten ice cream days where they'd serve you a small container of 25 cent no-brand ice cream in the cafeteria. Grainy and sort of cardboard box-esque. The raspberry sauce drizzled (or spooned, rather) on the side was too sweet. We also ordered a coffee and a thai iced coffee. The thai iced coffee tasted like your mouth the day after smoking a cigarette (or so I'm told). Even our waitress seemed lackluster about the food--when asked about Oriental sausage, she scrunched up her face and told us, honestly, that it wasn't her favorite. Disappointment abounds.

I'll admit, I was starving at this point. So I ate my face off. But... the next day, when I was discussing the meal with my friend, we both reached the same conclusion. Not as good as it used to be. This is a very intriguing discovery considering the fact that my once-favorite sushi place met the same fate. Is it the recession? Are the quality of the ingredients going downhill? Are less people going out to eat and the restaurants are making cutbacks? Who's really in the kitchen? I'm left with many questions, no answers, and an unsatisfied palate.

Pat's Vs. Geno's. Simple Choice.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Home of Jimmy Rollins, a cracked bell, the neighborhood surrounding Temple. Doesn't seem to have a lot going for it... Until you travel down 9th street and see Vegas lights erupting into the sky. A beacon of freedom? No. Dueling cheesesteaks with a sad, empty BBQ joint in between. And after you delve into the world of cheesesteaks, you quickly remember Rocky, South Street, and the fictional character "Master William," otherwise known as the Fresh Prince.

Geno's has a giant picture of a cheesesteak lit up against the night sky. It also has neon signs everywhere. Think Old Vegas--dirty, excessively tacky, and has the unique ability to cause your superego to go NOOOOO! Stay away!!!! Plus, I've eaten here. The bread is good, but a cheesesteak requires more than just bread.

Pat's is simple, white, and not glowing mutant cheese whiz yellow. 'Nough said.

The procedure is simple enough. You stand on-line for a long time. You get closer. You see there's a menu. You ignore the menu. (Think about those credit card commercials where everyone is using their card and then someone wants to pay in cash and everything squeaks to a halt. It's like that.) You step up to the first window. You say "Wiz wit" Which translates to cheesewhiz and onions (trust me, I'm the first person to state that cheese from a giant can is wrong, but for some reason, on a cheesesteak in Philly, it transcends morality.) Then you step to the next window and order a Mountain Dew. This is important. The Mountain Dew on tap might just be the best Mountain Dew on tap in all of America. Add fries (with whiz, obviously), if you're feeling risky... if you think your left arm won't go numb anytime soon, basically. Then sit at one of the picnic benches (regardless of the temperature outside), pick up some cherry peppers and ketchup, and take that first incredibly bite of diced onion, seasoned beef, and creamy cheese on Italian bread. Don't be afraid to get the cheese all over your mouth--they also supply napkins.

Haiku, A Low Point

I ended up in Bronxville, again. I'm not really sure how this keeps happening to me, but it's definitely not the norm. Anyway, on Wednesday, I went for sushi. Now, Haiku used to be my go-to sushi joint. Cheap, delicious, smooth, melt in your mouth good. I recall many nights heading up here to pick up a take-out order, and then heading over the Shea stadium with my upper deck season tickets and a plastic tray of raw goodness. Nothing like gorging myself with two of my favorite things in life: sushi and baseball.

No more. The seaweed was tough, the rice wasn't fresh, and the sushi was underwhelming. The restaurant seemed even more crowded, as if they had added a few more tables and chairs in the already teeny location. I remember one summer when a punk threw a water balloon through Haiku's open windows, splashing customers who were more concerned with their sushi getting wet than their Armani suits. This time, I was wishing for a water balloon to break up the mediocre mundane.

Moonstruck, in all the glory Cher intended.

Saturday night I had a culinary experience. The first since I began writing this blog. My aunt and I headed to Moonstruck in Asbury Park, NJ. It was restaurant week down the shore, so we knew we'd be in for a delectable meal at an even more delicious price. I don't usually talk about prices, but I feel obliged to mention it in this case. The meal, appetizer, entree, and dessert, was $30.00. Not bad, not bad at all.

It was packed. With Cher's biggest fans. (Have you been to Asbury Park? If yes, you'll understand.) The hostess told us it would be 45 minutes to an hour, and without hesitation, I told my aunt that was fine. We sat at one of the cocktail tables and had a nice glass of wine and some conversation. We mostly talked about the downfall of education and academics in New York City, and how frustrating it is sometimes to be a teacher. (My aunt works for IBM and her customer is the NYC Board of Education.) After I was fully riled up, the waitress told us that our table is ready. I needed to be calmed down, and was so immediately when my aunt decided to "splurge" on a discounted-special bottle of Opus One 2005. If you have not had Opus One, you should get around to it one day. It's everything that's good and holy about church in a succinct glass bottle (and I'm convinced it is not a sacrilege to utter this, or even scream it from the hilltops). At my old place of employment in the Bronx, my dean had a slight obsession with this saintly beverage. I never miss an opportunity to rub it in his face, so pardon while I pause for picture-messaging purposes.

Anyway, I ordered the black bean soup. Not typical for me, and my first bite made me regret it. However, once I began swirling the tomatoes and cilantro and creme fraiche around, I began to pat myself on the back for making such a sagacious choice. The flavor explosion was unexpected. I began to look forward to each bite, to the point where the wine sat there, staring at me, wondering how I could pass up sipping Opus One for some black bean soup. After I slurped the last spoonful, I began wondering that of myself as well... It was as if I were in a trance! In the immortal words of Neil Diamond followers, So good, So good, So good!

Next came the most delectable part of the meal. Ed, our waiter, promised it would be good, and I'm beginning to believe Ed was a saintly man delivering holy water and heavenly food. We both had the rigatoni with pumpkin, ricotta, and walnuts, and conversation ceased. The wine was untouched. Our forks couldn't move fast enough, and we couldn't savor it slow enough. Delicious and creamy, a combination of textures and flavors. The pasta was al dente, the walnuts were soft and crunchy at the same time, the pumpkin was not overpowering, and the ricotta added a nice cream element. Try as I might, I could not finish it. Leftovers were equally exquisite, I might add.

I was not ready to marry the chef quite yet, but then came dessert. A close second to the best key lime pie I've ever had the privilege of tasting. (The best goes to my friend Katherine. I've been to Key West. I've been to Joe's Stone Crab in South Beach. I have yet to find an equal. Anywhere. Ever.) This key lime pie was creamy and limey and had a thin graham cracker crust. Cool and refreshing, and the perfect end to the meal. I decided I was ready to marry the chef. When the stars make you drool, just like pasta fagiolo, that's amore. Well, Dean, I couldn't have said it better myself. That's amore.

Nor'easter and a Shipwreck in Brielle, NJ

It all started with a storm. Howling winds, pelting rain, sand everywhere. Piles and piles and piles of sand on Ocean Avenue right now. They're plowing the streets. With snow plowers. If my ankle weren't injured, I'd consider lugging my snowboard up the street and boarding these sand giants. There are orange cones everywhere to prevent cars from churning up more sand as they drive, and last I checked, they were trying to get the situation under control with a leaf blower... Good luck with that.

It was a cold and rainy night. The kind of rain that inevitably lands directly in your eye, as my friend Ursula put it. Sideways rain. Speaking of sideways, it was a perfect night for wine. So after my aunt schlepped herself down here with my two grandparents in tow, we decided to go out for dinner (more like go out for a glass of wine and order dinner so we seemed presentable). We landed ourselves at the Mahogany Grill in Manasquan, sat at the bar, ordered a glass of wine, and only then were we told that the kitchen decided to close early for the night! Oh the travesty. Some burnt homemade potato chips with sea salt were placed in front of us, but we opted for the wine and conversation aspect. The bartender is a very talented artist, and was showing us photographs of her paintings. They were pretty amazing--I wish her the best of luck in her pursuit of an art career. Now, the wine was decent and the conversation was stimulating, but the women next to us had the most succulent looking dumplings and vanilla bean cheesecake, and I had one thing on my mind... FOOD! So the bartender was kind enough to call over to Shipwreck, who said that if we came immediately, they would seat us. We lollygagged. We're New Yorkers, it was a Friday night, and even though it was almost eleven... well any restaurant worth its salt would serve dinner at 11 on a Friday night. That's just how we do what we do.

We got to Shipwreck around 10:50 and ordered three appetizers and two fantastic glasses of Antinori Toscana from 2005. Italian wine just sends me. Love it.

The appetizers came quickly, thank goodness. The best of the three was the veal shortribs. Usually, shortribs are beef, but I must say, the veal was perfect for the weather. Good, thick, melt in your mouth chunks of meat to savor. I wasn't crazy about the chopped olives on the side, but that's because I don't like olives. Olive oil I could probably pour into a class and drink. Olives, I gag. I tried really hard to overcome this preference, and ate as many olives as I could when I lived in Italy, and then again when I visited Spain, but alas, I have not conquered my abhorrence of this little green or red or black ovals.

The second appetizer on my list was the crabcake. Nothing spectacular, I've had way better, but decent and mostly crab meat as opposed to mostly fried breadcrumbs. Sauce was ok, again, not spectacular, but edible and re-orderable mostly because it was hunks of crab and I really enjoy hunks of crab. The major pitfall was that it came with caper berries. Now, I despise capers. Unlike olives, I have never tried to overcome my completely reasonable abhorrence of capers. Tiny, salty bug eggs. Disgusting. Magnify that by things that look like baby figs, and I trust you, my face is a kodak moment of shriveled up disgust. After biting into one (all food critics must deal with their fears if their fears are edible), I promptly had to dispose of it in my napkin. I felt as though I had been crushed by a giant ocean wave, the kind that hits you so hard you find yourself tumbling around underwater, unable to decipher which way is up, swallowing gallons of salt water and not being able to breathe. Oh... caper berries, trying to be all clever and disguise yourselves as something wonderful and sweet like a fresh fig... How dare you! Ugh, I shake my fist at you, green caper berries!

The last appetizer was a doozy. Scallops with foie gras. I adore foie gras, and the best I've ever had was down the Shore at a restaurant called Whispers in Spring Lake. Scallops are slimy, foie gras is slimy... So there was no excitement from a combination of textures. The scallops were, well, scallops. I'm not a huge fan of these strange white masses, and Shipwreck didn't do anything to make me care more for them. The best scallops I ever had were cooked by my friend's fiance while I was visiting in Montauk. He made me LIKE scallops. Actually, he made me ask for more, a feat yet to be duplicated. Something about adding Grand Marnier... Anyway, these scallops were left at the end of the night. The foie gras was way too oily. I felt like I was eating straight lard, and I, as you have probably noticed, really like lard-esque products. But this was too much. So overall, Shipwreck wasn't the total disaster it portrayed itself to be, but it also isn't a place I'll dream about in my sleep. And those caper berries? Well, they might just give me nightmares.

Freedman's Jersey Shore Pork Roll Egg and Cheese

When I'm down the shore and it's raining, I like to head over to Freedman's bakery in Belmar. The old-school awning captures the pitter patter of raindrops, the 70s vintage booths bring you back to a simpler time, and the coffee can't be beat. Today I indulged in chocolate-raspberry brew with half and half. Yes, another fine institution allowing me to consume fat in the liquid form. This already allows me to give one thumb up.

The real reason though, that I head to Freedman's, is because when you're in Jersey, you have to get down and dirty with your food. For me, this normally means sitting at the Parker House dissecting a lobster with my bare hands (one of my all-time favorite pastimes), but in the late fall, it means splattering ketchup all over some greasy pork roll, fried egg, and melted American cheese squares.

Let's start with the roll. The roll is the ideal sandwich foundation. It doesn't get soggy, it's easy to grip, and it's large enough to house all your sandwich condiments. Freedman's is a bakery, so the rolls are always fresh and soft. Next, add some grease-laden pork roll. For those of you outside of Jersey, this is taylor ham. Still don't know what I'm talking about? Ask anyone from Jersey... it's one of the food groups. Usually round, kind of looks like a cross between spam and bologna. Salty and satisfying. Next, add a fried egg right off the grill. Edges all crispy from excessive amounts of butter... Mmm. Then, top it off with some good old-fashioned American cheese. If any state does it all-American, it's Jersey. Add some ketchup for good measure, and consume your heart attack on a roll, using the excuse that it's cold and rainy and there's a Nor'easter outside, so you might as well pack on a few pounds to stay warm. Clog those arteries, grab a newspaper, and know that you won't need an umbrella when you head back outside, because the rain will slide right off your greasy skin.

Sumo King?

I was in the mood for sushi. But, I was also down the Jersey Shore. Why the conjunction "but" you may ask? Doesn't sushi involve fish? Doesn't shore involve ocean? Aren't those complementary? The answer is no. It is impossible to find a superb sushi restaurant down the shore. Decent, yes. Sell your first born? No.

Sumo has a couple of strikes against it right of the bat. 1) It's in a strip mall. 2) It's in a strip mall. However, once you get passed this, and step through the doors, you'll find a lovely restaurant tucked away between the abandoned Pathmark and the soon-to-be-out-of-business (at least in my opinion) Blockbusters. The decor is nice, with changing lights on the ceiling, a giant, peaceful fountain, and simplistic tables and chairs. The clientele was interesting to say the least. It's a BYOB (one of the few perks of a Jersey restaurant), and the man next to me had brought a 40 oz of Budweiser for him and his wife to share. If you're going to go with a 40, for crying out loud please, PLEASE, go with Old E or Colt 45. At least earn yourself some street cred with the malt! On the opposite end of the spectrum, the women behind me had an overpowering scent of mothballs. I think I can still taste the mothballs now. The female staff are all in kimonos (Except for the bus girl, who was the only non-Japanese member of the staff as far as I could tell), with giant bows on their backs. There were 4 sushi chefs, and Sumo also offers the option of Hibachi. On this occasion, my friend Jon and I were in it strictly for the sushi.

I had been here a few years ago, and remembered it as being one of the better (but still mediocre) sushi restaurants in the area. In late 2009, it still receives this ranking. Good, and will do the trick, but overpriced for what it is and not exceptional by any means. Jon ordered the green tea, and I'll say one thing, try as he might, he couldn't get the cup half empty. Perhaps it was another message from God to Jon: Dear Jon, Have a positive outlook on life. The cup is half full. Love God. It seemed as though every time he took a sip, a kettle magically appeared and the tea was topped off. Imagine if they paid this much attention in a bar? Jon probably had about 5 cups of tea trying to see what the bottom of the cup looked like. He never found out. But later he got his revenge, as he did find out what the bottom of the sweet tea and lemonade concoction's glass looked like. Twice.

I had a philadelphia roll (heavy on the cream cheese), a yellowtail scallion roll (the seaweed was tough and overpowering), and an eel avocado roll (heavy on the avocado). Basically, I didn't really get to taste any fish. Perhaps I would have been better off ordering sushi pieces. I love the smooth, cool feeling of sushi on the tongue. There's something primitive about eating raw food. For a city girl, eating sushi might be as close to being countrified as she can get. Uncooked, the way nature intended it. Slick and delicious. This experience was covered up and hidden at Sumo. Too many layers. Perhaps this is one sumo wrestler that ought to lose some weight.

Slave to the Grind

Ahh alas, my final Bronxville post for a while. Today, I had my last doctor's visit regarding the softball/Basketcase Part II that grew out of my ankle. I decided to celebrate by heading over to Slave to the Grind, my favorite non-commercial coffee house, located in Bronxville, NY. Yes, I, too, am a slave to the grind, and I love the selection that this small hole-in-the-wall has to offer. Coffee abounds in various flavors, and you can choose any to take home with you. Every day they change the brews available "on tap" and today's most interesting flavor was coffee cake. I'm not a huge fan of the coffee cake (again, stems back to a breakfastless childhood and my mother's intention that I would adore something quick and easy and typical of a morning meal... coffee cake was another failure to add to the plentiful list), so I went with the Irish creme (Erin Go Bragh!) and whole milk.

Before I continue, let me take a minute to discuss whole milk. It's delicious. I had a major issue in college, because my particular institution of education (Boston College), did not serve whole milk. The best I could muster was 2%. 2%? 2% of what? Travesty! The yogurt didn't have full fat. The ice cream didn't have full fat. The Starbucks on campus didn't offer full fat milk. I wanted FULL FAT!!!! It irritated me to no end. Who are they to decide what I can and cannot ingest? People have been drinking whole milk for centuries, and suddenly some doctor has decided it should be banned on college campuses? Phooey! Thank you, Slave to the Grind, for offering not only whole milk, but even half and half! Thank you!

The Irish Creme coffee was as delicious as I remembered. Piping hot, smooth, and luscious without being overly bitter. Even the addition of milk did not bring it to a lukewarm temperature. It was lovely on a rainy day to sit at one of the small tables in the back and sip my coffee and grade some students' papers. Maybe write a love letter or two. Listen to the soft radio... Neil Young "Southern Man" (You ROCK Lynyrd Skynyrd!) and some Boston "More Than A Feeling.' I adore the punk/rebellious clientele (Sarah Lawrence is right down the street). These are the type of customers that would be given the malocchio at a local Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts. Mohawks, dyed hair, leather everywhere, black sweatshirts of various punk bands, multiple piercings, loud, rowdy, and in need of a good cup o' Joe so they can continue their 48 hour 2-nighter. The staff is friendly and jovial (but opposed to Red Sox fans, which made me rather sad). They have a variety of mixed coffee drinks, some warm apple cider, plenty of varieties of tea, and pastries, but most people come for the caffeine jolt in its truest form, without the grande-skinny-mocha-half-caf-no-whip tongue twister. So if you want some good old-fashioned coffee, some friendly service, and perhaps an existential conversation with a guy in skinny jeans and three lip piercings, then this, by God, is the coffee house for you!

Sammie's Downtown: Rosie's Sidekick. Hold the Margarine

For anyone who has been to Bronxville, NY, you know that Rosie's is an old-Italian standby. Good food, naked-lady art, old people abound... but pleasant, predictable, and quite yummy. Not too long ago, Rosie's decided to open a sister restaurant named Sammie's. Also located in Bronxville, NY. Now, the only Sammie I know is Sammie the elephant at the Bronx Zoo. I used to visit Sammie with my grandfather every Wednesday after he was born. Why Wednesdays? Two reasons. 1) I went to Catholic school, so we got to leave at 1:00 every Wednesday so the "heathens" could come and get their CCD education. Ahh, alas, heathen doesn't mean what it used to, thanks to the new councilman in Bayside, Queens. Thank you Dan Halloran, for giving America yet another well-deserved vocabulary lesson!

But moving along... the second reason we went on Wednesdays is because the Bronx Zoo is free on Wednesdays, and my grandfather can't pass up anything that's free. Whether it be toothpaste, toilet paper, ice cream (we all walked around with our own pint this summer just to try and clear up some freezer space), or shampoo bottles from the Taj in Atlantic City... He basically runs a grocery store out of his basement. Which was very convenient when I was in college; I can't lie.

Anyway, so back to the restaurant Sammie's... So, I'm guessing in the daylight it looks like a Parisian coffee shop, but at nighttime it just looks like a haunted house gone bad. Red lights in the corners scream REDRUM REDRUM! and the rest of the lighting is non-existent. My seventh grade teacher taught me that people eat less when the lighting is dim, and this was no exception. Yet, I must explain that it wasn't because of the quality of the food. I ordered the Octopus Portuguese which was absolutely lovely. It was served with a salad and fried onions, more for display than anything else. The octopus was fresh, soft, and scrumptious. A simple dish. For an entree I ordered the salmon with steamed asparagus and both were delicious. Now, I'm not running off to marry this chef, but it was quite good. The French Bordeaux (red) got better as it opened up, but wasn't spectacular. The chocolate ganache truffle cake with Tahitian ice cream sounded better in description than in actuality. The cappuccino was typical restaurant cappuccino quality. I wasn't transported back to my days living in Italy, sipping cappuccino watching the world stroll by, but it did the trick.

So since it was nothing spectacular, why did I choose to write about it? Because of the beurre! Yes. I wrote this whole thing so I could end with a description of the butter they provide when they bring their bread offering to your table. Again, like the band KISS proclaims: Keep it simple, stupid! This whipped butter arrives looking like a melon ball. "Oh, I don't want to ruin my dinner!" you protest. But then you're waiting, and you're chatting, and you're waiting, and they bring you your wine. And what goes better with wine than bread? Every good Catholic knows that! So you sigh and resign yourself to choosing a slice of bread. So of course, since there's no olive oil on the table, you choose the butter. Now, my aunt, with whom I was dining, had to spread the butter on my bread for me since I still am having trouble moving my left arm... Damn you iv! and she spread a generous helping. So I take a bite and now I'm slightly transported to a happier time. What is this? Why does it taste so different? Do I like it? I need another bite. And another, and another, and another... So what is this miraculous butter? Rosie's, the original restaurant doesn't serve butter, they serve ricotta. But this, this is not ricotta. It's not unsalted... It's not like anything I've had in a restaurant before. Turns out, it's honey! Butter and honey whipped together, scooped up like a melon ball, and placed on your table, probably to sit there untouched by the ignorant until it finds its home in the trash later that night. Ladies and gentlemen, do not, I repeat, do not let this butter meet its usual fate! Cherish this butter, spread it generously over the soft, warm bread, and smile. Butter makes everything better!

Egidio and the Breakfast of Champions

Most people believe that breakfast should involve cereal, oatmeal, eggs, french toast, pancakes... things easily available at IHOP (Vanilla Ice's establishment of choice--long story), Perkins, Sunday morning at Mom's, or Lawrence hospital. Most of us working stiffs settle for a granola bar, a pop tart, or a yogurt... something fast, portable, and usually unsatisfying. I for one, am the type to consume cold cake, cold pizza, or cold pasta in the morning. Leftovers from dinner entice me more than any item produced from a cardboard box. Tony the Tiger, Snap, Crackle, and Pop, Lucky and his charms... they never inspired me. Oh, my parents tried. Believe me. they bought every variety pack, forced every type of cereal ever created down my throat. They put it in bowls with milk, in plastic bags dry, and, when it was cool, they even made the little bowl out of the variety pack box. I always felt that eating a soggy mess of mushy wheat out of a cardboard box was a little, well, disgusting. So alas, I troubled my parents with my breakfast conundrum, for every parent knows that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And I always refused it.

I had an issue with fainting as a child. My parents always blamed it on my inability to eat breakfast. I passed out in first grade while sitting at my desk during math class. I passed out in second grade standing in line waiting for an announcement. I had put my hand up, but the teacher shushed me because at the time, whatever our principal was blubbering about was more important. I think she felt pretty guilty when I collapsed on poor Sheila standing behind me. I skipped third and fourth grade, and passed out again when I was ten during church. I lost my Mickey Mouse ked in the process and demanded that my uber embarrassed father go back inside and retrieve it. Then, I thought I was cured. But alas, I passed out again in high school, on the subway, which resulted in an ambulance and my father later screaming at a nurse, "MY DAUGHTER IS NOT PREGNANT!" Good times. I suppose breakfast is important, but for those of you who enjoy food, and not just packaged, sodium-laced "treats," I have a real treat for you. I introduce to you Egidio's Pastry Shop, located in the real little Italy in New York City. (The little Italy around Mott Street is a tourist joke. While there may be one or two decent restaurants, real New Yorkers know that if you crave some old-fashioned gravy and little Italian grandmothers who give you the Malocchio on Christmas because there's only one loaf of bread left and you, by God, are not going to be the one walking out with it, then you need to schlep yourself up to the Bronx!) My brother knows, when his sister is in the hospital, he doesn't need to show up with flowers or balloons, he simply needs to bring a cannoli or two, and his sister will be grinning from ear to ear.

Egidio's is a wonderful little corner pastry shop, serving a variety of cookies, pastries, and coffee. They raise money on occasion for disasters in Italy, and they're really friendly, if not insanely busy. You can find a seat on occasion (if you play hooky from work and show up at a strange hour), but it's usually packed with people placing holiday orders and birthday orders and such. Plus, once people find a table, they work it Italian style, meaning they'll sit there with their empty plates for hours, just socializing. There's definitely something to be said for the Italian lifestyle.

Anyway, what I recommend at Egidio's is the cannoli. And above and beyond that, if you have a sweet tooth, then I highly recommend the chocolate covered cannoli. Pure bliss. But there is a rule... If you choose to order the cannoli, and you should, ask them to make you a fresh one. Most people simply eat the ones on display, which are delicious and usually pretty fresh, because like I mentioned, Egidio's is a popping joint, but there's a whole new level of amazingness when you consume a freshly pumped cannoli. The cream hasn't made the shell soggy in any way, so you still get that lovely crunch of the fried-dough shell paired with the luxuriously smooth ricotta cheese filling. The chocolate cannoli is hand-dipped in thick, rich chocolate and contains clandestine chocolate chips within the sweet cream filling. Powdered sugar is then graciously sprinkled on top, and voila! the perfect cannoli. Pair it with a nice latte, and you have a real breakfast of champions!

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Less than 24 hours ago, I was lying in a hospital bed attached to a broken machine via a small, translucent tube that was devastatingly painful. The tube, in turn, was attached to a larger tube, which was attached to a thick plastic bag. In this bag held the medicine that was supposed to cure the severe bacterial infection that I had somehow introduced to my right foot. Drip. Wait five seconds. Drip. Wait five seconds. Drip... and so on for hours at a time. My arm was red, the IV refused to stay put, Dracula had woken me up at 5AM, which left me with a rather intriguing blueberry stain on my right elbow joint, as well as some splendid yellow sunshine bruising on the back of my left hand and my left wrist. I had developed a strawberry seed rash on my left arm... perhaps an allergy to the antibiotic, perhaps an allergy to the detergent, perhaps a remnant of the ridiculous itching at two o'clock in the morning... or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that it was about 90 degrees in the hospital room and I couldn't move my arm due to the lovely pink object injected into my left arm. Regardless, the most interesting hospital experience was the food. So, here I am, a native New Yorker, who has decided to create a blog to discuss the nuances of the 5 boroughs' cultural palate, and I start with hospital food in Westchester.

Perhaps it's because I've done the fancy, overpriced restaurant. I've done the expensive, I-want-to-marry-the-chef-right-here-right-now restaurant. I've done the hole in the wall, I've done the trendy and the touristy and the soon-to-go-out-of-business, but I have never, ever done the hospital bed. And so, since it is new to me, I feel obliged to start something new with something new.

First, there are waiters and waitresses. They walk around with a palm pilot and give you a list of options. They quickly jot down your order, plastic pen to plastic handheld device, and then move on to the next patient. While this is cool, it is not shocking. What's shocking is what arrives on your black, dishwasher approved black tray.

Sample Day:

Breakfast: Cheese omelet. 2 slices of bacon. oatmeal. fruit parfait. blueberry muffin. orange juice. coffee. milk. Really?

Lunch: 3 long, thin slices of roast beef in gravy. Fettuccine noodles. I turned down the broccoli and carrot combination as I had learned the difference between outside vegetables and inside water-disguised-as-vegetables. Angel food cake. Juice. Tea.

Dinner: New England Clam Chowder, Beef in sauce, vegetables, salad, roll, apple pie, coffee, milk, juice.

Snacks: Pudding, jell-o, and applesauce available upon request.

Am I here to get better, or am I here because I just happen to be below average pant size for the average American woman? That's a ton of food for someone who's training for a marathon. I was training for marathon television watching. Bed rest, foot up, tiny $7 a day television... and more food than I, a person who is known for excessive eating and has been told on numerous occasions that I should join Eater X and Joey Chestnut front stage, I, could not even come close to finishing the monstrosity that arrived on the giant black tray. I was amazed! Intrigued! Astounded! Especially considering I was visited by a dietitian on numerous occasions. Is this food here to help me get better? Or is it really a ploy to poison my, increase my cholesterol, and keep me strapped to a broken IV machine forever? I don't have an answer, but I do know that I'm not intending on returning to Lawrence hospital in Bronxville anytime soon. Wonderful, friendly staff. Tons of food (albeit not necessarily tasty). But me? I prefer my freedom to choose a restaurant.

So the journey continues. My goal? Travel around the 5 boroughs and surrounding area. Sample as many restaurants as possible--every ethnicity, every ranking, every type. Describe in luscious details the victories. Be blunt about the failures. Follow my passion. Demonstrate the beauty of my native city. And above all, live a little!