Better Than DisneyWorld

Ok, I hope you're reading this during lunch, or maybe over your morning coffee, because this may take a while.

I know, you're thinking that my posts are already pretty long as it is.  I'm just trying to give you all your money's worth.  Besides, I spent so many years reducing every thought, argument and idea to a bullet point on a powerpoint presentation, that I'm relishing the freedom of actually writing in complete sentences and paragraphs.  I know we are living in the age of the Tweet, but what I have to say is longer than 140 characters.  Deal with it.  If you want your food comedy pithy, read a Bazooka Joe comic.

We've got two major events to cover today.  One is our weekend in the Hamptons (ooh, I know, the fancy place; don't worry, we'll get there.)  But first (I feel like Julie Chen on Big Brother.  "Up next, we'll show you what happened when we drop a live Cobra in the house; BUT FIRST, twenty minutes of footage showing the houseguests making a sandwich.")

But first: my visit to the Food Network.

This was a dream come true - a behind-the-scenes tour of TV's Food Network - it was like going to Disney World and being shown how the rides work.  I felt like one of those Make-A-Wish kids.  Without, you know, the terminal illness.

Anyway...about three years ago I took an acting class (this is the one where I met my friend Suzette) and two of the girls in the class worked in production for the Food Network.  One of them, Olivia, has been great at keeping in touch.  We'd been exchanging emails lately, and were planning to get together and grab lunch or coffee.  Instead, she offered me a tour of the Food Network offices and studios, an opportunity I leaped at with roughly the same energy as someone being offered, say, a pile of cash.

I arrived in Chelsea Market and took the elevator up to where the office suites are located.  Tess, the receptionist, greeted me warmly and let Olivia know I had arrived (and was being entertained by the TV in the lobby, which was airing Rachael Ray.  Yes, she was making a hamburger.  I know.  But this is a nice story, so shut it.  We're letting it slide.)

Olivia met me and walked me through a small cube farm, and over to the recording and editing rooms.  I got to meet the voiceover guy (you've heard his voice.  He's the guy you hear on the commercials booming in a deep, dramatic - yet playful - baritone, "On the season finale of Chopped, the chefs grapple with a slimy surprise ... and one will be crowned the winner."  I also got to see upcoming commercials being edited.  I can't tell you what I saw, but let's just say that - with Halloween approaching - there's a whole lotta candy coming to your television set.  My teeth hurt just watching.

From there we headed up to the studios.  First she showed me one of the kitchen studios (Studio B - don't you LOVE the jargon?  Me too!), a simple set where a lot of test screenings and rehearsals are done.  This is the room they used to choose the finalists for The Next Food Network Star.  Beyond
that lay the test kitchens, where they try out recipes.  They also use this set on shows like Throwdown! with Bobby Flay.  The kitchen was abuzz with activity for the New York Food and Wine Festival, which was kicking off that evening with a reception in Studio A (Don't worry, we'll get there.)

This is where I debate telling you that, despite a huge kitchen full of food, I witnessed the arrival of ten takeout pizzas.  No shame.  I've been known to spend an hour and half grocery shopping, spending over $100, only to get home and be too tired to turn anything I've purchased into dinner.  This is when I order take out chinese.  No shame. (OK, maybe a little.  I mean, if I went to visit the Cartoon Network - which would be totally fun! Does anyone out there work for the Cartoon Network?  Can you get me in? Sorry - tangent.  If you went to the cartoon Network and they were all watching Live from Lincoln Center or Wall Street Week, it would be kind of disorienting, right?  Or if you went to Fox News and they were all watching gay porn.  Yeah, that one would be awesome.)

The kitchen was largely populated by chefs you don't see on air, and I immediately began to understand that it took a lot more staff then just the on-air talent to turn out the food.  After all, many of those dishes get shot in several stages of completion (not everything goes from start to finish over the duration of a show.)  I was hoping for a glimpse of one of the stars ... maybe Guy Fieri (doesn't he look like he'd be a LOT of fun) or Giada ... but I had to settle for Anne Burrell.  I've never seen her show, but I was impressed to find her actually in the kitchen cooking with the rest of the crew.  I didn't say hello, because I didn't want to interrupt her work, but she seemed really nice.  (She also seemed to have unusually large, strong man-hands.  No shame.  I throw like a girl.  No shame.)

Then I got to see Studio A - the main studio.  This is where they film shows like Iron Chef (don't you LOVE Iron Chef?  And did you realize The Chairman had such a great body before he started wearing spandex on Dancing With the Stars?  He can slip me a secret ingredient whenever he wants, if you know what I mean.  And I know you do.)  It's a large set which can be modified in several different ways, and on my visit it had been turned into a large, art deco-style room to host the reception.

After the studios we headed back through the offices and Olivia walked me past the executive suites.  This was AWESOME.  I met the Executive Producer of Chopped.  This show has totally grown on me. Have you seen it?  It's a very simple concept: four professional chefs have to make an appetizer, an entree, and dessert.  At the end of each time-limited course they serve three judges (usually notable NYC restaurateurs like Chris Santos or Alex Guarnaschelli, who I totally want to go drinking with) and chef who cooked the dish the judges like the least is eliminated (get it? They're chopped.  Hee.)  The best part is that, for each course, the chefs get a basket of ingredients they must feature in their dish, and it's always random stuff that doesn't seem to go together, like sea urchin, grape jelly, and corn tortillas.

I also got to meet the Senior VP of Promotions and Special Programming, the Senior VP of Programming (Bob Tuschman - you've seen him on The Next Food Network Star) who may be the nicest, most accessible person in cable television, and Susie Fogelson - also from The Next Food Network Star - who is as smart and kind in person as she comes across on television.  We totally bonded over the recipe this season's winner, Melissa D'Arabian, made in the finale.  It's called four-step chicken and you can find it here.  It's a versatile go-to recipe I've easily made three times since seeing it - each time changing the sauce or the protein to suit my taste.

Oh - I forgot.  We also had cake.  I know - isn't this the BEST day?  Apparently, chefs and food manufacturers send their stuff to the Food Network all the time, I guess the hope being that the folks at the Network will find it so irresistible, they'll show up with a camera crew and transform that little pizza place, taco stand, or pudding shop into a sensation.  A woman with a bakery in Tyler, Tx has been sending cakes on a regular rotation, and Olivia and I had a slice. Something with a cinnamon cream.  Now my teeth really do hurt.  Lady, I don't know who you are, but when your cake makes a Cinnabon look restrained by comparison, you need to seriously cut back on the sugar.  I'm just saying.

Still - is that not an awesome day - a tour, face time with execs, and cake at the end?  And - can I tell you - everybody was in a good mood.  You know how, in your office, people might hibernate all day?  Or everyone's so busy that they're constantly running from a meeting to a conference call and always seem too hectic to have a conversation?  Not at the Food Network.  I met four executives and not one of them made me feel like they were rushing off to something more important - and these folks were hosting the biggest Food and Wine Festival in NYC in less than eight hours.

After such a blissful experience, you'd think I could just savor it and let it go.  But no.  Afterwards I thanked Olivia with flowers, but also sent my treatments to two of the executives I met, not realizing that they can't read submissions from anything other than national production companies.  So I managed to take a high-class experience and stomp my middle-class suburban clumsiness all over it in my endless quest to become a television food personality.  No risk, no reward, I guess.

Before I move on to our weekend in East Hampton, can I please pause to comment on Levi Johnston, the former almost-son-in-law of the former Governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin.  After a sterling contribution to Vanity Fair, written one his own and showing off that stunning fourth-grade vocabulary, Mr. Johnston will be showing off a few other things.  He's been offered a national ad campaign for Wonderful Pistachios, as well as a spread in Playgirl.  Guess we'll all have ample opportunity to see Levi's nuts.

(I generally resist the cheap one-liners, but this was WAY too easy.)

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

On Saturday, Neil and I took the train out to visit our friends Mark and Todd (from the cruise?  and our dinner party?) at their home in East Hampton.  We were greeted with a delicious lunch of roasted corn and tomatoes, herbed potatoes, and salmon-avocado tea sandwiches, served with a delicious cocktail of fruit juices, fresh cranberries and gin.  (If you're hoping for a recipe, here's where I tell you that I don't give away my friend's recipes.  Instead, I'll offer you one for a gin drink I love: equal parts elderflower and gin, pour over ice, add club soda (6 oz) and lemon slices.  If you're fancy, rim the glass with sugar.  If you're me, that just slows you down.

After lunch and a swim in the pool (yes - in October! - heated to a womb-like 90 degrees) we curled up with the Blu-Ray version of The Wizard of Oz.  I know, measuring gayness on a scale of 1-10, this is a 45.  Whatever.  It's so crystal clear you can almost smell the drugs and alcohol on her breath.  And did you know the witch's guards were green?  I always thought they were blue.

Saturday evening saw us all invited out for drinks, then to a dinner party.  Drinks were out near the golf course, in one of the estate areas.  Mark drove us around a bit beforehand, and we got to see Martha's house, as well as the complex where Ina Garten, the Barefoot Contessa, has a home and a studio (where they film her show.)  It was like my Food Network Tour, Part II!

Apparently both ladies have opened their homes to Open House, the tour of homes held every year as a fundraiser, which Mark and Todd have brought their parents to in past years.  I'd love to be able to do that, but if I took my mother to Martha's house she'd probably steal soaps from the guest bath as a souvenir. ("What?!" she'd say, as if I were the one acting mildly insane, "they expect you to steal them!" This is the rationale I've heard several friend use when eating out of the bulk bins at Whole Foods.)

Seriously - this is what I come from - so it's a bit of an uphill climb to wish for an lifestyle empire like Martha's, complete with a home on something called Lily Pond Lane.  Yes, it is seriously called Lily Pond Lane.  I may have acquired a certain amount of class and breeding, but I'm afraid - no matter how much I ever earn - any home I ever manage to buy in the Hamptons is much more likely to be located on Gum Wrapper Drive or Pizza Crust Place.

Anyway, you'd think that, after Martha and Ina, we'd wind up at a home a little more modest.  But, no.  Mark turns the car into a driveway blocked off by a gate (yes, a fucking iron gate) and already every insecurity in my body is firing on all cylinders.  When we round two bends and the multiple-building complex comes into view, I become quite nervous.  I haven't eaten anything since lunch, and liquor + empty stomach + feeling of gross inadequacy have a tendency to equal embarrassing conversation. I will need to exercise great self-control to get through the hour or so we'll be here without babbling like a fool,  using foul language, or passing out in the bathroom.

The only point of reference I can give you for this house is to tell you to imagine Tara with contemporary interiors selected by a middle-aged gay couple.  Oh, and the backyard - from what I could tell - made the same impression as the manicured gardens of the Wynn Las Vegas.

Our hosts, however, were lovely.  I made it through cocktail hour without spitting, sputtering or spilling anything on a sofa that probably cost more than our home.  And though my ego were bruised, it was largely intact, and I sloughed off for later an examination of all the places I went wrong in my life.

Besides, it was party time.  After cocktails we headed over to a dinner party at another couple's home.  And - since the food was catered - I can whole-heartedly recommend Luigi's of East Hampton.  Farfalle with Shrimp (which is hard to pull off in a chafing dish for 30 guests) which was absolutely delicious, the shrimp firm and garlicky, the farfalle well-seasoned; Orrechiette with sausage and broccoli which would have benefited from a little more seasoning, some fresh herbs, and a better temperature on the sausage; and Chicken Florentine - spinach, mushrooms and mozzarella - which was outrageously good.  Throw in a big green salad, and some antipasto that our host, Patrick prepared, and 30 gays were well fed.

You know, for all the talk of gay men not eating anything, those queens plowed through the cheese and sausage (no jokes) and all three entrees.  And left nary a crumb behind.  And still ate dessert.

Dessert...oh, how to tell you about dessert.  So, the deal was that every party that showed up was responsible for a dessert.  There were brownies (Neil liked them, but I thought they were too wet; neither cakey nor fudgy, just wet like clay.)  There was a red velvet cake (made with way too much food coloring, but very tasty.)  There were come cream puffs (brought, no doubt, by some with a sense of irony, or at least a fondness for bad puns.)  And then there was the sand castle cake.

This was our contribution.

While we were watching The Wizard of Oz, Mark began to prepare a bundt cake.  Just as he was nearly done with the batter, he cracked a rotten egg right into the bowl.  While I, personally, would have loved to bake it, serve it and seen what happened - I realize I'm a bitch and kept that idea to myself.  Instead, he began again, from scratch.

More successfully this time, the cake made it through preparation, into the oven, and was cooling on the counter long before she clicked those heels together.  After the movie, Todd went to prep the cake for transport, flipping the cake pan over.

And releasing half a cake.

Now,  this is where I admire kitchen resourcefulness, so grab a pen, home cooks, and take notes.  Continuing on undaunted, he removed the remainder of the cake from the pan, assembled the two pieces together, and decorated the cake with turbinado sugar (Sugar in the Raw) and seashells.

Now, you can argue that the cake looked like a castle under attack, but it just as easily looked convincingly like a child's sand castle and had a charming, unrefined quality to it.  (Neil certainly thought so, offering compliments.  Of course, two weeks ago when I over-toasted the leftover garlic bread and melted cheese to cover any charring, he cut his eyes at me and fixed his lips in a purse of disapproval.  I pointed out that this was a similar fix, but he wasn't having any of it.)

And - most importantly - that cake was delicious.  Easily the best dessert of the bunch.

Sunday brought a lazy morning with the NY Times, an asparagus and gruyere frittata on wilted arugula, and lots of fresh hot coffee.  Later, the four of us went to visit our friend Mike and the couple that was hosting him - Rob and Robert.  Another gorgeous home (ego: deflating) and another fabulous meal: the Barefoot Contessa's recipe for Chicken and Biscuits.  You can find it here, but do as our hosts did and replace the homemade biscuits with one of those Pillsbury tubes where the gooey, gluey dough pops out when you press on it.  Much easier and a similar enough effect.

Well that's the weekend folks, but before I go I should probably close the loop on something.  I realize I'm making a lot of jokes about my ego taking a hit.  It's true, and the jokes are a defense mechanism.  I walked away from a life that could have given me that because it made me unhappy.  It took me until 36 to realize that it wasn't my responsibility to work that made me miserable simply because I was good at it, or because other people wanted me to.  I chose to pursue my dream, and I'm lucky just to have the opportunity to do that much.

But I'll make it happen, too.  By hook or by crook you'll read more by me someday, and you'll see me on your television.  And when I can afford one of those homes, you can find Neil and I in a village cottage like Mark and Todd's.  Filled with their passions like great food and good cookery, old movies and interesting art, warm memories of a life spent together and a lot of love.  More than an estate or a modern new house, Neil and I were both really touched by a beautiful home shared by two beautiful people.

And when we have one, you're all invited.

Just keep your eyes open for Gum Wrapper Drive.

Peace.

THE LAST WORD:


DO THIS, New York:


Watch the Food Network.  I love the competition stuff like Chopped and the Next Iron Chef, but you can get some damn good recipes, especially from Giada and Tyler Florence.

Send someone flowers.  They'll feel great; you'll feel great.  It's a huge win-win.

Make four-step chicken, chicken with biscuits, and a nice gin cocktail.  There aren't many warm autumn days left before it's brandy and fireplaces folks.

Eat at Luigi's.

Bake a cake.

DON'T DO THIS, New York:

Don't be afraid to make a mistake in the kitchen - many are fixable.

Don't judge yourself my someone else's achievements (an old saw, but worth remembering.)

Don't pose nude for Playgirl.  As long as you're going Full Monty, might as well do hardcore porn.

What?  I'm just saying.

Autumn Mix

October.  Could there be anything better?  The air turns crisper, sweaters and coats come out of hibernation, and the most exciting season of the year begins.

Candy season.

Some people mark the passage of time through the change in seasons or the activities of the school year.  I can tell you what month it is by the candy aisle at CVS. 

Right after the Labor Day promotions burn off the last of the marshmallows, the Halloween Candy comes out.  There’s nothing like Halloween Candy to make you feel fat by delivering increments of chocolate and nougat so small that you are forced to feel embarrassed when you realize you ate 9 mini Snickers (if it makes you feel better, it’s like eating only 3-4 “fun size,” though if you ask me a fun size for a Snickers would be roughly equivalent to the square footage of Delaware.) 

As soon as those Reese’s pumpkins hit 50% off (they’ll go to 75% by Nov 3^rd), it’s Christmas candy – birthplace of the Holidays M&Ms. Much like the marshmallow Peeps which originally arose from Easter, only to be remolded, resugared and recolored to adorn every holiday and festival from Valentine’s Day to July 4^th, Christmas is the birthplace of the Holiday M&M.  Still the first; still the best.  Before your tree is even down, those crunchy chalky conversation hearts appear, now modernized with phrases like “Fax Me” and “Text Me.”  Beware.  I don’t know how seriously I’d consider the advances of someone whose love letter was a reconstitututed Necco Wafer.  And when those heart-shaped Whitman’s samplers wane, it’s pastel jelly beans and Cadbury mini-eggs until spring.

I can walk into a CVS anytime the daytime highs fail to reach 70 degrees, enter a fugue state, and walk out $20 lighter.  Really, it’s a gift.

However, recent Halloweens have given rise to a shocking development in the extremely disturbed world of OCD candy-eating.  The corn is gone.

Remember those yellow mellowcreme ears of corn that once joined candy corn, Indian corn and the mellowcreme pumpkins in bags of “Autumn Mix” (also know as “Harvest Mix?”  I know.  You’re staring at your screen in minor shock, thinking that it takes a special kind of demented to know the names of this stuff.  And we got there long before “Harvest Mix,” didn’t we?  We got there at “mellowcreme.”)

Anyway, the corn is gone.  I have no explanation.  If anyone from the Brach’s corporation is out there reading this – or one of our intrepid readers knows the answer – please use that comments feature at the bottom, or the little envelope which sends me an email.

(There also used to be maple leaves, but those disappeared a while ago.  Last I saw them was in 1997 when my friend Elizabeth used to swipe two or three from the bulk bins at the Star Market on Comm Ave.  Star Market, if you’re reading, I’ll send you a check for the $1.27 or so she got away with.  Anyway, I like to believe that the disappearance of the candy maple leaf is political statement about climate change, taking a stand on behalf of our friends in Vermont and New Hampshire whose season will soon last from November 3-6.  Some folks say New Hampshire may soon have the climate of North Carolina, which I guess means tobacco.   Which is lousy on pancakes.)

Speaking of Autumn Mix, in law school, my friend Stephanie (oh, crap, I’m not supposed to use real names.  I mean, ummm, Stuffanie) ate an entire bag of it (I hope I’m remembering this story correctly.  I know there’s one where I eat a whole box of Snackwells, but that didn’t turn out very well.)  Anyway, Steph --- I mean, Stuff (this is a horrible nickname – let’s just skip this story.  Really, it’s a wonder any of my friends talk to me at all anymore.)

Before we move on, you may wonder why I’m spending time talking about candy, when I’m supposed to be the guy who talks about better eating, offers great recipes and restaurant reviews, and tells fitness stories, all weaved around having lost 80 pounds and maintained it for almost two decades.

I think the place that most messaging about eating well – eating “healthy” if you will – goes wrong is in its delivery.  The messages should not be about denial, or what you “can’t” or “shouldn’t” eat.  I believe you can eat – and live – great, with lots of fun and lots of flavor, and without saying no.  What I call Sustainable Eating – choices you can make every day – is an empowering way to say Yes without feeling guilty and without gaining weight.  And that even means you can have some candy.

Just don’t eat the whole bag – you’ll feel (bad pun coming) Stuffed.

Now, since we all know my other “thing” is TV – particularly TV hosting – there’s no way we’re getting through this entry without talking about Kate Gosselin.  Who has now gotten her own talk show.  Apparently no one received my proposal for a show with Octomom where the two of them and their 22 kids all move into a shoe.  Instead, it appears she’s joining Paula Deen (do we not LOVE her on the Food Network?  Again: butter’s not a sin; it’s a choice.) Rene Syler, and Bob Woodruff’s wife (who, if the show takes off, will become famous enough that people will stop referring to her as Bob Woodruff’s wife.  It’s the Nicole Kidman Rule.)

We will set aside, temporarily, my jealousy that someone else has gotten a show before I did (I really need to set up a counter somewhere on this blog.)  Instead we will focus on whatever is going on with her and her ex-husband in the news.  And I’m not going to spend a lot of time on it.

Because it’s not news.

It’s not.

But the thing that is newsworthy is how they’re using the news media to communicate with each other.  Look – I’m a child of divorce.  And my parents spent so many years hating each other like poison that they once went an entire decade only appearing in public together twice (and the second time was my law school graduation where we nearly got thrown out of a restaurant.)  They communicated through us kids, the few remaining mutual friends they had (most of the friend took sides.  Classy.) and through an elaborate array of bad language and hand gestures that briefly made me popular in Junior High School.  But they never would have dreamed of using a public medium to communicate private issues.

I know our relentless infotainment culture and thousand-channel cable universe has created an industry of celebrity and pseudo-celebrity that robs ordinary people of their privacy.  I have a lot of sympathy for the fact that they have to live this painful episode of their lives out in public – and a great deal more sympathy for those kids.  But they chose this.  They put themselves and their family on television; they invited the celebrity.  But just because the spotlight is on them doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to leverage it as a way to communicate with each other.  And it’s certainly not news.

The same goes for David Letterman.  I don’t know that your show is the place for paeans to your wife (though, who else is with me when I say that, of all the famous men who’ve been caught sticking their chocolate in someone else peanut butter in recent years, Letterman is the only one who actually seems sorry?)

So here’s my plea to the fourth estate, particularly network television: it’s only news because you’re covering it.  These were one news-cycle stories.  We still have 45 million Americans without health insurance, ethnic cleansing in Darfur, horrific human rights abuses of gays in Iraq and women in China, and a pretty nasty employment and economic picture.  You get half an hour, five days a week, in the evening and a couple of hours in the morning (that also need to include how to make a school lunch, how to survive an avalanche and what to wear for both activities).  You have better stories to pick from.

Moving on.  Did you see the New York Times Dining Section this week?  All about Fried Chicken.  The latest hot comfort food to break through. Does this mean mac and cheese is finally over?  Thank God.  Remember when everyone put it on their menu?  My arteries were closing. 

I love comfort food as much as the next guy but – seriously – gourmet burgers, hot dogs.  Who decides what gets to be next?  Someone reading an old hot lunch menu from my grammar school?  If fish sticks and tater tots start showing up, I’m done.

Oh – and Mark Bittman had a recipe for a flourless tart.  Pulverized almonds, egg yolks, sugar, cream and butter.  Boy, good thing he got that heavy flour out of there.

Seriously, no one – NO ONE – needs this dessert. I know I’m the food is balance; food is choices guy.  But no one needs this dessert.  I feel weighted down just thinking about it.

For something really great to eat.  Try this: it’s a four-step Chicken Fettucine, and I reference it at the end of my hosting reel.  It was inspired by Melissa D’Arabian, who won this year’s season of The Next Food Network Star (more on that in a second) and, in her pilot episode, made a four-step chicken recipe that’s easy to change up, fun to cook, and always satisfying. 

For four-step chicken fettucine, all you need to remember is:

1. Pasta
2. Protein
3. Vegetables
4. Fat, Flavor and Flair

Like this:

1. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil.  Add some olive oil and a box of fettucine.  We use the spinach fettucine.  (You can replace the fettucine with pretty much any pasta you like: penne, rigatoni, linguine).  Cook to al dente and drain.  Don’t rinse.
2. In a large skillet or, preferably, a wok, heat 1 Tbsp Olive Oil over high heat.  Add 1 chopped shallot and 3 cloves garlic, minced.  Add one package boneless skinless chicken breasts, halved and sliced into strips about ¼ inch wide.  Saute about 5 minutes, until not quite done. (You can use sausage, shrimp – pretty much any protein works.)
3. Add 3 different things that grow in dirt.  Sometimes I’ll use yellow squash, Chinese broccoli and orange bell pepper.  Sometimes its kale, onions and mushrooms.  Aim for three different colors.
4. Add in the pasta. Then add something wet, something with flavor and something with fat. (The fat and the wet can be the same thing.)  Often I’ll add a little more olive oil, salt, hot red pepper flakes and grate Parmigiano-Reggiano.  Or a little chicken stock, some butter, and fresh herbs.  Or a can of tomato paste, shredded mozzarella and fresh oregano.  Heat 2-3 minutes and serve immediately.

Well, that’s it for now, folks.  I know you’re awaiting my review of the Standard Grill, and the story about buying Neil a reamer (ok – really quick – our friend Robert has one and uses it to juice lemons for Gimlets.  I introduced Neil to the drink when we started dating and now it’s his favorite.  I bought him a fantastic Oxo Great Grips Reamer from Amazon.com.  For the gimlet: in a shaker, place 2 shots of vodka, the juice of ½ lime, and 1-2 tsp of powdered sugar with ice.  Shake.  Strain over ice. Repeat as necessary.)

Anyway, the review of The Standard will have to wait.  Today my friend Olivia gave me the ultimate gift: a tour of the Food Network.  That’s right, from the test kitchen to Studio A, a trip to my own personal Jerusalem, Mecca, Disneyworld.  I felt like one of those Make-A-Wish kids.

Without the terminal illness.

And that’s my next entry folks.  Stay tuned.

THE LAST WORD:

DO THIS, New York:

1. Rock some Autumn Mix.  Even without those weird corn, it’s a tasty October treat. 
2. Go ahead, watch the Kate Gosselin talk show when it comes out.  I may be jealous it happened so quickly for her, but I love me some Paula Deen.
3. Make that Chicken Fettucine. 

DON’T DO THIS, New York:

1. I’d keep your personal life out of the news cycle.  If it accidentally gets there, don’t take part in its perpetuation.
2. I’m not feeling that egg and nut tart.

Eric P. Stine, Hosting Reel from reels4artists on Vimeo.

Why I Write About Food

I've been asked why I write about food, and this seems as good a time as any to answer that question.

The truth is that so many of my memories are, in some way, about food.  From the dinners my mother made as a child and the restaurants my grandparents took us to in Florida, to the places we celebrated birthdays and occasions.  I remember the old pot my mother used to make meatballs and gravy, and a Chinese restaurant in Miami that my grandmother called the best she ever ate at - and it was.

Through college and law school I remember my early experiments in the kitchen, often having friends to dinner or throwing dinner parties as a way to socialize while improving my skills in the kitchen.  I used to throw an annual Valentine's Day party for anyone who was single, and served big trays of homemade lasagna.  Once I threw one of those murder mystery parties, where you buy that box and it has invitations and instructions for all the guests to play a specific part.  The only mystery I recall from that day was wondering how my turkey managed to cook in only two hours.  And my friend Stephanie and I still laugh about how I didn't have a decent carving knife - which wouldn't have mattered since no one knew how to carve a turkey - so we distracted the guests while ripping the flesh off that bird with our bare hands.

When I moved back to New York in 2004, my ability to re-connect with New York - a place I had left 15 years previously - was experienced through restaurants.  I worked my way through virtually everything that was covered in the back of New York magazine in the spring of 2004.

And so much of my relationship with Neil is a story told through food.  I remember the first restaurant we went to (Bar 89 in SoHo).  Shortly after we began dating, I threw a dinner party and realized I didn't have enough china.  I had always used my grandmother's everyday stoneware but each plate weighed, like, 50 pounds, and I had moved so many times that I got tired of carting it from state to state.  Since New York City kitchens were small, and - really - how often did I need a service for twelve, I gave half of it away.  I ordered a whole new set on CrateandBarrel.com two days before the dinner party. (Be careful ordering plates online.  These are pretty, but the color looked different on the website and it was impossible to discern that the plates were slightly concave - resulting in all sauces or other liquids pooling toward the center of the dish.  They can really only be used for relatively dry entrees.)

Food doesn't only track the celebratory occasions of my life, but the darker ones as well.  The trays of bagels and "appetizing" that marked the funerals of my grandparents.  The secret eating of my youth - all those hidden candy wrappers and pints of ice cream that helped me balloon to 265 pounds.  The secret resistance of food in my twenties - a plagued and dysfunctional relationship of desire and denial - caught between my love of food and hatred of my body.  And all the hard work involved in re-examining that relationship and establishing a much more positive approach that enabled me to embrace eating and myself, much more positively.

It's an inseparable story of my life, and I tell my stories through food, because I see eating - at it's core - as a social activity.  Eating alone is associated with so many of the painful memories of my life - but eating in the company of others is a story about making new friends or becoming closer to existing ones or falling in love or celebrating happy milestones.  It's the way I experience my life that enables me to share it.  I believe food should be accessible, and when I dine in a restaurant my fundamental evaluation criteria is accessibility; the food you order should be joyful and pleasurable and your response should be primal and come from the soul.  In the kitchen (and the recipes I offer) I aim for simplicity - allowing you to derive pleasure from the process of cooking and the act of sharing it with others.

That said, I want to tell you about a cute new cafe I had lunch at on Friday: Petit Cafe on Greenwich Ave between Seventh Ave South and W10th St.  It's funny: we often look for a place to eat lunch in that neighborhood.  Something inexpensive, something with variety, (something really fresh (hee).)  Petit Cafe has sandwiches and salads and soups, but decor, the experience and the quality of the food rises above the delis and bodegas that dot the landscape of Manhattan.  Further, they specialize in offering gluten free choices, making a great choice for anyone with Celiac's disease.

The owner was working in the cafe late on Friday afternoon when I stopped by, and was friendly and accommodating.  I ordered turkey, avocado and turkey bacon which he recommended serving on a whole grain roll (he was right).  Since I don't really love mayonnaise on sandwiches, he recommended a chipotle sauce that was perfect, and the sandwich was out of this world.  For less than $8 I had a terrific meal.

Friday night Neil and I went down to the Lower East Side and had dinner with Brette and her sister, who was visiting from Boston.  We ate at a Mexican restaurant called Mole, and the food was just fair.  Brette and Meredith really enjoyed their burritos, but Neil and I were disappointed in our entrees.  His cochinita pibil was covered in a very thick sauce that resembled ketchup.  The flavors were too pungent and aggressive, and the technique showed no subtelty or nuance.  My bistec a la Mexicana was kind of a train wreck: a huge plate of onions and tomatoes and meat that was totally wet.  The flavors were really muddles and the effect was one of fat and spiciness. Even the guacamole was disappointing, the tomatoes were a little mealy and the chips tasted like they came from a bag bought at the convenience store next door.

Adios, Mole, we won't be back.  For better Mexican food, check out Dos Caminos (the Soho location is better than the Park Avenue one, and has fewer annoying 27 year old drunk girls from Long Island) or Centrico in TriBeCa.  If you're uptown, check out Maya on the UES and Cafe Frida on the UWS.

Nevertheless, we had a great time.  Meredith is really cool - she writes the relationship advice column for the Boston Globe - and together, she and Brette are a riot.  One of the high points of the evening was a discussion about Shiitake mushrooms, during which I realized that the reason I don't care for them is the resemblance their texture bears to the female sex organ.  I haven't eaten either since I was 19.

Afterwards we went to Mercury Lounge on Houston St to see a band.  A band!!!  So excited!!!  We never do this - it was like being transported to a scene from Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist (cute movie - check it out.)  We were in the back of a small bar in a young neighborhood, and still have enough elasticity in our skin that - in the dark - we didn't look too old to be there.  Actually, there were several people over 50 in the room, whom we can only assume were related to band members.

People were drinking beer out of large plastic cups, and there was a little kiosk selling CDs and glow-in-the-dark frisbees with the band's logo.  I would have felt 25 again, if I still had hair and weighed 20 pounds more.

The band - the Adam Ezra Group - wasn't bad.  They had one or two original songs that seemed pretty good.  I mean, the music was fine, but you couldn't hear a lot of the lyrics because the lead singer either has terrible diction or was doing some serious drugs (we all voted for the latter.)  They did a cover of Pearl Jam's "Better Man" (told you I felt like it was 1995) and it took us three verses before we could figure out what it was.  By the time they got to an arrangement of (wait for it) "She Shook Me All Night Long" which began as a folk song and then turned into funk, I was ready to go.

You know, when it comes to new music, or stuff that's edgy, I feel the same way as I do about hallucinogenic mushrooms: everybody else seems to be having fun but I just don't get it.  I end up in the corner feeling a little lost and sort of nauseated (which could have been the meal.)

After a long run on Saturday, I stopped by Baoguette on Christopher Street.  I don't know how I feel about Christopher Street.  When I moved here, it was sort of a rundown relic of the Village circa 1983; the old leather bars and porn shops.  Now it has an Energy Kitchen and the gay coffee house is a Rag and Bone showroom.  It's cleaner, but there was something nice about that window into New York's past.  With the gentrification of Hell's Kitchen and the Lower East Side, and SoHo having been relocated to the Paramus Park Mall, there's so little left of what New York used to look like.

Still, I can't deny I love Baoguette.  An abbreviated menu featuring a handful of vietnamese sandwiches and pho (noodle soup), you can get an enormous tasty lunch for $5.  I ordered the barbecue chicken baoguette - chicken, jalapeno, cilantro, daikon, carrots - all served on a crusty roll with spicy sauce.  Mmmm. Slurp! If you are anywhere in New York - GO!  You'll thank me.  Five thousand times better than Subway - at the same price.

On my way home, I passed one of those psychic tarot card readers - you know what I'm talking about; those little storefronts with the card table outside and the woman who charges $10 to read your future.  So I'm walking by and there's a newspaper on the card table.  And I'm like - why would a psychic need the newspaper?  Wouldn't she know everything that happened before it made it to the paper?

Maybe she was doing Sudoku.

For dinner on Saturday night, Neil and I went out to dinner with another couple - David and Jason.  We've known them for a while but this was the first time we've gotten together socially.  We went to Eighty-One on 81st St (duh) on the Upper West Side.  The restaurant is beautiful - one of the nicest spaces I've seen on the UWS - lushly decorated with red banquettes and cream colored walls and espresso colored woods.  The look is spacious and lush and modern.

The menu is largely New American, and provides opportunities for virtually every taste and price point.  In addition to the chef's appetizers and entrees, there's a section of items in a minimalistic preparation (entitled "Simply" and covering chicken, steak, and salmon) and a prix fixe menu offering a selection of appetizers and entrees for $30.81.  There's even a cafe next door serving burgers and sandwiches, hovering around the $10 price point.

Neil ordered the scallop ravioli - a luxurious preparation in lobster broth - that delivered a substantial portion without being heavy.  I selected the Roasted Corn Soup, a creamy chowder with smoky corn flavor that was absolutely delicious.  For dinner, Neil had a hanger steak that was exquisitely prepared and served with creamy cracked wheat, preserved tomato and parmesan.  The flavors were terrifically balanced and avoided being overly salty.  I ordered the slow-roasted chicken with baby basmati rice and tomato confit.  The chicken was excellent, though the rice was a little too watery and the flavors were too subdued.

For dessert, we shared the sugared chocolate ganache donuts and the pastry of bittersweet chocolate, peanut creme and salted caramel.  Slurp, slurp, slurp!!!  Neither was too heavy or too sweet, and both were served with homemade ice cream which, to me, is a requirement at dessert.

It's raining today, which portends a trip to the gym, a trip to the (wretched Fairway) market, and several hours on the couch trying to work on my book and watching old episodes of House.  (He's such a scamp, I love that Hugh Laurie.  I'd totally be into him if he were, like, 70 years younger.  And circumsized.  It's that whole shiitake mushroom texture again.  What?  I'm just saying.)

THE LAST WORD:

DO THIS, New York:

Go to Petit Cafe.  It's really cute, and a perfect[place to grab a sandwich, sit outside, and people-watch.

Have a Baoguette.  If you don't want chicken, try the pork.  Mmm. Slurp!

Eat at Eighty-One: a luxury experience at a value price.

Make up your own mind about the whole shiitake mushroom thing; to each his or her own.

Watch House.  That show is good.  Did you see the season premiere?  Really fantastic work, and Andre Braugher and Franka Potente are always welcome additions.

DON'T DO THIS, New York:

Skip Mole.  Yuck.

Skip the porn shops on Christopher Street.  There are still a few - but they make for nostalgic ambience, not destinations.

The TV Post: Melrose Place, L.A., Rachael Ray, and other Stoup-id topics

It's amazing, but it took less than a week of being back in New York for 11 days of relaxation to evaporate like mist in the Las Vegas desert.  The three-minute walk from our apartment to the subway resulted in my body slowly morphing into that clenched posture common to boxers as I prepared to do battle with the people who step onto the subway car, unaware that any one of the three million people who inhabit Manhattan on a weekday might be behind them, apparently believing that the middle of the subway car arrives at a destination substantially different than the spot right inside the doors.


Additionally, my walk took me past two episodes of street vomit, which isn't exactly a sight that puts a song in your heart at 7am.  Why does morning in Manhattan bestow sidewalk puke like dew on the Elysian Fields?  You never see puke in L.A., though, to be fair, no one walks in L.A.  Ever.


When I visit Los Angeles I generally stay at the London West Hollywood (formerly the Wyndham Bel Age, formerly the Bel Age, notable for being the site of the fictional West Beverly High School Prom, where Mrs. Teasley found Donna Martin inebriated and almost didn't let her graduate. Ahhh, remember the 90s - when protesting the fictional expulsion of a television character seemed fraught with meaning.  Contrast that to the people holding a Tea Party in Washington, D.C. today to protest something as horrible and destructive as lowering health care costs so sickness doesn't trigger bankruptcy, covering the uninsured so we can reverse the damage we've done to our collective conscience over the past 8 and half years, and stop monopolistic corporations from profiting mightily of the misfortunes of our friends and neighbors.  If you have any confusion over which march I'd be more likely to join, I have three words for you:


"Donna Martin Graduates!")


I love the London West Hollywood.  It's almost entirely white and dove gray, the staff wears impeccable gray suits that make all the women look smart and all the guys look hot (except the dork in the fedora.  It's over.  Lose the hat.) and it's got a Gordon Ramsay restaurant in it, and that guys is crazy, and crazy talented.  Seriously, give me a selection of his appetizers and an episode of Kitchen Nightmares, and I'm in heaven.  Plus, last year when I was at the London, John Slattery (of Mad Men, also the episode of Sex and the City where he played a politician who wanted Carrie to pee on him) was there for the Emmys.  Gimme some Slattery at the rooftop pool and I'm a happy blogger.


The best thing about the London - much like my other favorite L.A. haunt, the Sunset Marquis, is that they are steps away from the Equinox in West Hollywood.  It makes it simple to walk to the gym in the morning, except for the fact that no one walks in L.A. and I find myself stared at by all the people driving down the Sunset Strip in their BMWs and Hummers. (Yes, they still drive Hummers in L.A. A lot.  Apparently news of global warming can't make it past the smog.)


Of course it could be because I'm cute.  


Anyway, all this side chatter about L.A. isn't really side chatter - it's quite germane to today's posting, which is about my brush with L.A. this week.  Late Thursday afternoon I received an email from Actors Access, a service which consolidates solicitations from casting directors, production companies, etc, for projects seeking talent.  Though the postings for hosts, sardonic Gay Jews, and neurotic bloggers are few and far between, I've kept my subscription and this week it paid off: a posting seeking Male Hosts, Age 25-45, for the Food Network.


This, for me, is basically like finding the Holy Grail.  All of the concepts I'm developing are related to food (restaurant dining, weight loss, instructional cooking....)  Plus, I'm age 25-45 (and unwilling to be more specific than that, what with my birthday being next week) and male.


So - clearly - I need to find a way to get an audition.

The first thing I notice is that the posting is filed under the Los Angeles section of the website, not New York, which is odd since the Food Network is located less than 60 blocks from our home, in New York's famed Chelsea Market (mmm...Fat Witch Brownies.  Choco-licious.)  I conclude that the show or shows seeking talent are being produced by outside production companies which have pitched, or intend to pitch, the concepts to Food Network.


The posting lists a casting agent, so my first call is to Brette - my co-producer for the tv shows and a casting director here in New York.  I call Brette and she and I do some mutual research on the internet.  We find out that the casting producer is affiliated with a Casting Agency in Los Angeles.  Brette offers to call the agency in her professional capacity - one casting director to another.


After two attempts, Brette calls me sounding a little exasperated.  She's called the agency and been told that Erika, the listed casting producer, isn't there.  She's put on the phone with Robyn (in L.A. it's always Robyn, never Robin, unless it's a British man.)  After explaining why she's calling, Robyn pretends not to hear Brette.  Brette hangs up and tries again, with the same result.


"Relax," I tell her, "I think you've simply encountered L.A. Girl Type #3.


See, I've spent a lot of time in L.A. and there are only 4 types of women in L.A.  L.A. Girl Type #1 is 28 - ALWAYS.  She's an aspiring actress with an apartment in Silverlake, she goes out 7 nights a week, and only consumes pineapple, vodka, and Orbit chewing gum.  If her weight hits 100 pounds, she cuts out the pineapple.  She looks forward to pilot season the way a 7 year old anticipates Christmas, and can't seem to speak in complete sentences without a script in her hands.

L.A. Girl Type II is blonde - ALWAYS - and 34 - ALWAYS.  She doesn't work in show business, has no interest in it, and appears to be annoyed by anything having to do with entertainment.  Her wardrobe costs a fortune, she generally works in sales, and is almost always driving a convertible, wearing a blue suit, or wheeling a black roll-a-board behind her.  She has not had sex since her boyfriend left her for L.A. Girl Type #1.  She is angry.


L.A. Girl Type #3 is what happens to most L.A. Girls Type #1.  She's admitted to being 30, even though she's 36, now works in the industry as an agent or development executive or casting director (ding! ding! ding!) and has, at various points, been a vegan, a Scientologist, and a lesbian.  She is apparently afflicted with a hearing disorder that allows her only to hear male voices.  She wants a labrador and a house on the beach.


L.A. Girl Type #4 is either over 40, overweight, or aggressively unattractive.  She is moving, probably to Montana, or maybe Washington state.

Anyway, I'm thinking that I may have better luck with the Casting Agency, so I call them up.  Before I do, however, I Google the casting agent again, this time finding that she is, or shares a name with, a woman who did two seasons of tv's Big Brother (I LOVE Big Brother.)  Since the casting agency casts reality television shows, Big Brother among them, I take a chance that it's her.


When I call, I ask for "Erika" and, when I learn that there's no Erika there, I ask for Robyn.  Robyn takes my call.  Yes, Erika does some work for her, but more in a freelance capacity; she may be casting this on her own.  "Is she the same Erika who did two seasons of Big Brother?" I ask.  It is.  I convey my sympathy at how badly she was treated by Mike "Boogie" and - a sidebar here.  I really do believe this woman was badly treated and nationally embarrassed by this dork who calls himself "Boogie" and managed to win half a million bucks.  However, when you fall in love on Big Brother, you sort of get what you pay for (though I'm totally rooting for Jeff and Jordan on BB11.)


Robyn takes my contact info and offers to pass it on....


With time to kill while not waiting for the phone to ring, I invite Brette over for dinner and to develop a Plan B.  I love the term Plan B.  It makes me feel like I'm plotting espionage.


I can't decide which recipe to make for dinner, so wind up making both.  What the hell - we'll eat the rest as leftovers.


Recipe #1: Greek Cruise Inspired Chicken:


1 package boneless, skinless chicken breasts, or whatever part of the chicken you like.


Thyme (preferably fresh)


Oregano (preferably dried - yeah a contradiction.  No, I don't know why.  If you want fresh, get fresh.  Leave me alone.)


Extra Virgin Olive Oil (2-3 Tbsp)


1 medium onion, sliced.


2 cloves garlic, pressed.


Put a bunch of thyme and oregano on the chicken.  Use a lot.  Put Olive Oil in pan.  Get pan hot (medium heat).  Put chicken in hot pan.  Cook until until the chicken is not raw enough to kill you, but don't dry it out - that sucks.  Remove cooked chicken from pan and place in warm oven.  Add onions and garlic, saute until brown and delicious.  Serve on top of chicken.  Good with peas.




Sauce My Mother Might Have Made:


Can of crushed tomatoes (28 oz)
2 cans of tomato sauce (15 oz ea)
1 chopped medium onion
7 cloves of garlic.  Or 6, or 4 or 9.  Whatever - I like garlic.  Slice half; crush half.
Italian Parsley
Fresh Basil
Fresh Oregano (or dried. Get off my case.)
1 package ground meat - about a pound.  I like Beef/Pork/Veal.

In a large stockpot, saute onion and garlic in 1 Tbsp Olive Oil.  Add crushed tomatoes.  Add sauce.  Add herbs.  Combine the ground meat with 1 egg and some bread crumbs, and maybe some onion powder or garlic powder.  Make little balls.  Put them in the hot sauce.  Leave everything on a low flame for a while.  Like an hour. or 3.  Whatever, just don't burn anything.


Serve. (Store leftovers in Tupperware.  Buy it from Dixie.)


I realize I have a bit of a laissez-faire approach to cooking, but apparently this works, as I learn after cooking this feast for Neil and Brette, because Rachael Ray has just won another Daytime Emmy.

Now, you can put me in the camp of people who actually like Rachael Ray and think she's cute and approachable and totally understand why she's famous.  However, she apparently is only capable of making burgers, as everything on her show is a burger.  Hamburger, Turkey Burger, Breakfast Burger (not kidding), Salmon Burger, Burger with cheese crammed into the meat.  I'm exhausted by the burgers.  And by the "stoups" - a cross between a stew and a soup, which is basically a hot wet mess that might as well be a bowl of Chunky soup.


My dinner may not have been much more creative, but it's apparently Emmy-worthy.  So, if you know anyone at Food Network, or someone who can get me that audition - let me know.   Meanwhile, I'm gonna get a sandwich from Lansky's on Columbus Ave at 70th St (yeah, we have leftovers, but I want some Matzo ball soup and chopped liver.  Yum.)  Then I'll be on my couch watching the New Melrose Place - it won't be Kimberly blowing up the building or Amanda torturing Allison, but Sydney's back - and she blackmailed someone in the first five minutes.  Love me some Laura Leighton...

THE LAST WORD:  


Do this, New York:

When you're in L.A., stay at the London.  I once saw my friend Susan starring in a Target ad on a billboard from my balcony.  www.thelondonwesthollywood.com

Go to Chelsea

Watch 90210.  The original.  The new one kind of sucks.  Buy it at Amazon.

Watch Big Brother.  It's awesome.  Root for Jordan.  www.cbs.com/primetime/big_brother/

Watch Melrose Place and Mad Men (dude, Peggy's smoking pot; little Zoey Bartlet's come a long way.)

Go ahead, watch Rachael Ray.  Even though I totally could've gotten that Emmy (someone get me that audition!)

Eat at Lansky's - the best Jewish deli on the Upper West Side - great prices, less greasy than Artie's, and delicious chopped liver (I know, most people hate it.  But it's delicious.)

DON'T DO THIS:

Please don't puke on the sidewalk.  So gross.

Don't be L.A. Girl Type #3.

Don't protest meaningful health care reform.