Rosie's. Sammie's Counterpart: Bronxville Orig!

For my mom's birthday, I decided to take her out to her favorite restaurant. Rosie's. Rosie's is a quaint restaurant on the corner in Bronxville, across from the hospital. Sammie's Downtown, a delicious restaurant on the main drag, is Rosie's spawn. Therefore, Rosie's is the original, and equally delicious.

We started with a bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc (171 on the wine list). Crisp, cold, and smooth. We broke bread, which was fluffy on the inside and crunchy on the outside, served warm with ricotta cheese instead of butter, or olive oil. We ordered the melanzane rustica appetizer, which was eggplant, cheese, and spinach in a tomato-marscapone sauce. Delectable.

Moving to the entree, my mom ordered the ravioli quattro formaggi, which is 4 cheese ravioli. Served with green and yellow zerbra stripes and a dash of Parmesan, it was rich without being oily. My spaghetti umberto, which consists of meatballs, in-season zucchini, and thick spaghetti served in a tomato-marscapone sauce. Heaven on earth, and by far my favorite dish on the menu.

For dessert, my mom ordered key lime pie as her birthday cake. So different, but so melt-in-your-mouth yummy. Fluffy rather than smooth, it was a little slice of whipped heaven on a graham cracker crust. Fantastic!

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.

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!

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!