Old Dog

I baked a peach cobbler the other night.

Yes, you read that right!

I (subject)

baked (verb)

a peach cobbler (direct object)

When I brought it out, still piping hot and topped with vanilla ice cream, to the picnic table on the patio, Son #2 said to his friend Mikey, "This is the first time my mom has ever cooked."

I don't care if it was the easiest recipe on the planet. I baked a peach cobbler. Take that Rachel Ray.

Photo Per Day #14: Shufflin' Off

Our first stop yesterday, after hitting the Walden Galleria to return some boots, was Buffalo's Anchor Bar: original home of the chicken wing. In the Treacy and Wiersema value disciplines model, they've embraced a product leadership go-to-market strategy.

Operational efficiency, not so much. The place, pre-Sabres game, was jam jam jam packed. The wait for a table? An hour and a half. We headed to the bar where we found a place by the wall to stand and ordered two beers and 10 medium chicken wings. The wait for our wings? Somewhere between 45 and 60 minutes.

Customer intimacy, not a prayer. Over the loudspeaker, we would hear, "Jumby, party of 15, let us know if you're still here."

But the chicken wings were perfect. Crunchy and delicious. I would definitely go back but next time, I'll go earlier. Or not on a game day.

Mangia Italiano

A few weeks ago, my bible study girlfriends and I went to see the Cooking with the Calamari Sisters: Mangia Italiano at the Downstairs Cabaret Theatre. It's a Wayne's World-esque, public access cable show, featuring two sisters (i.e., men in drag) who cook for the audience and sing everything from Doris Day to Devo. They even bring audience members on stage (including an Italian American dude actually named Carmelo: nice pick) and incorporate them into the act. As such, there's quite a lot of improv which was, at times, even better than some of the scripted materials. Definitely a fun night out. Rated R for racy.

Last night, thanks to a fabulous Christmas gift from my mom to the hubby, he and I went to an Italian Easter Dinner cooking class at Cibi Deliziozi, a converted church, where the food was prepared by a proper chef, Rosita. (Aside:  that name launches my brain into elementary school Spanish class, "Rosita, este es mi amigo Ramon." "Mucho gusto." "El gusto es mio.") Unlike the Calamari Sisters, this event was rated E for everyone; however, akin to Calamari Sisters, there was audience participation -- mainly between the chef and the in-season, locally grown, pesticide free, gluten free, non-stop chattering, free-range, organic foodie in the audience. Initially, I declined a glass of wine but after over an hour of said foodie yapping about what farms were bringing what produce to a location nearest you, or how to ensure your organic greens weren't coming from a gray market like China (and a serious, two-second, vertical nap from which I quickly recovered after being tapped on the shoulder, and shocked back to life, by the hubby), I caved. Yes. Merlot. Please.

Shortly thereafter, the older woman seated next to me turned her entire body toward me and moaned, "Please make her stop." And thus began the banter that turned a seemingly endless night into a lot of fun.

Rosita was a bit flighty but sweet and charming nonetheless and the food, in particular the salad with lemon pesto dressing and prosciutto, was yummy (technical term). I'm not a big fan of lamb (or salads!) but it was well prepared and delicious. Apparently lambkins was also young which presumably made it tender and less gamy. Ignorance is best: I prefer not to know the innocent age of my freshly mauled dinner.

Every time Rosita prepared a new dish, or picked up a new ingredient, she prefaced her comments with what she's doing (e.g., leaving the chunky vegetable droppings in the gravy for flavor) vs. what an top chef would do (e.g., strain it for aesthetics). And, each time, the hubby would quietly interject, "But for you slackers" or "But for you tourists" just to make us laugh.

In short, an interesting night out (thanks mom!) but I don't see a Throwdown with Bobby Flay happening anytime soon.

Good Eats

In the last few weeks, I have had the pleasure of visiting a couple of pseudo-Anthony Bourdain-worthy restaurants. (Wow, do I envy his life.)

When in NYC, I met my girlfriend Beth at Charlie Palmer's Metrazur in Grand Central.



Very elegant and sophisticated for two chicks wearing jeans. I ordered the ahi tuna tartare and, per our waitress' recommendation, the veal pappardelle. In other words, enough to feed a horse. Hearty, filling, interesting, something I would never normally order and, yet, nothing I'm craving now. The dramatic ambiance, overlooking the concourse, is what makes it worthy of a visit. As an added bonus: Beth knows the owner so we were given a free plate of cookies to accompany her warm chocolate chip and banana financiere. Calorie overload. Sensory overload. Taste explosion. Nice touch.

Last weekend, some of the hubby's friends took us to Santasiero's, a Buffalo landmark.



Although the building stands in what felt like a deserted, industrial area of downtown, inside it was warm, friendly, inviting and packed to the gills with families of all ages.

The tablecloths were plastic, colorful and covered with mismatched Christmas motifs. The dinner salad consisted of iceberg lettuce, cherry tomatoes, black olives and something akin to Wish-bone Italian dressing.

I was persuaded to order either the pasta e fagioli or the pasta and peas. Why not? When in Rome, right? I opted for the "pasta fasoola" (as it was written on the wallboard menu alongside something about their "family jewels" -- yum). What arrived was a gigantic, delicious, heaping bowl of pasta and kidney beans that was never-ending. So good, I could eat it again immediately. And the carafe of wine I shared with Cyd came with two, unassuming shot glasses for our wine. Loved it! Nothing pretentious here.

Food-wise, Santasiero's was the clear winner. Ambiance? Impossible to compare apples to oranges but I think Santasiero's was more my style overall. Company? Excellent for both meals. But there's something to be said for leaving the table at Metrazur and wandering through the Grand Central Market and the holiday fair. Yep. Everything can be trumped by a great tree chandelier.

Chez Iron Chef

Why doesn't the Food Network open an Iron Chef restaurant in NYC (or LA, Las Vegas, Rochester, etc.) where the menu changes every week and features the six platings which each of the chefs prepared on the show that most recently aired?

Our family watches Iron Chef on a routine basis and I always want to try everything -- even the vile sounding/looking (but apparently delicious) blood sausage with blueberries.

People that otherwise want to try new restaurants may continually be drawn back to the Iron Chef Cafe because the menu would rarely be the same twice (except between regular seasons when the establishment could revisit some of the old favorites) and different, top-ranked chefs nationwide or worldwide would be the originators, albeit not preparers, of each dish.

What a great way for up-and-coming chefs to learn from the masters and for us, plain folk to have an amazing culinary experience.

Just a thought.

Green Alligators and Long-necked Geese

Last weekend, I met a couple at my mother's house who is about to leave on a trip to Ireland. They were talking about the long, winding roads with hedgerow or cobblestone walls on either side. The vast number of sheep in the road where traffic comes to a halt. The remote areas where English is barely spoken. The street signs pointing in a million directions toward towns you cannot pronounce.

I suddenly wanted to go to Ireland. I want to stay in little inns, drink Guinness in old pubs and eat fresh fish pulled from the sea that morning.

The first time I stepped foot on Ireland was Easter of 1974 when I was nine. I remember the endless green scenery, my dad driving on the wrong side of the road directly into the path of a large tour bus (almost annihilating our entire family), picnics on the side of the road (during which my sister was mortified) and one inn where we put money into the bed and it shook (ah, nothing screams family vacation like a pulsating bed!).

I also remember our American cheeseburger-oriented family entering one B&B that served prix fixe meals where a little boy was running down the hall filled with excitement, "Mummy, mummy, they're serving salmon and lamb. Salmon and lamb!" At the time, we were all thinking "WTF?" and began sulking. My poor parents. At what may have been the same inn, my father swore at the dinner table and the entire restaurant turned to look at him. I think he had difficulty slicing a particularly rough cut of meat and it landed on the floor. The next morning, during breakfast, it was still there. Yum!

And lastly, I remember my brother Mark and I calling out the name of our hotel in Cork for days, The Arbutus Lodge, but we stressed the long vowel: Arbuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutis.

I posted about my second trip to Ireland, actually just to Dublin, last year. That was merely a long weekend when we were living in London that served as an extended drinking binge vs. a cultural visit. Fun, yes. Memorable, perhaps, depending on the brain cells at any given moment.

My last trip was during the fall of 1986 when I was with two Irish girlfriends from Drogheda. We had just spent what little money we had traveling through Europe and ending up in Lagos, Portugal where we ate fresh rolls every night filled with cheese and mustard. It was our only meal of the day. By the time we arrived in Ireland, we were penniless and down to eating just the mustard out of the jar. I stayed for less than a week at their parents' house but it was glorious. We went to Dublin for the day shopping and sightseeing (i.e., they now had money again thanks to their parents) but, for the most part, we stayed in and around Drogheda. We went out for tea, attended a church service with their parents, hung out with their friends, went to the blistering cold beach and had ploughman's lunches at pubs in the countryside.

One friend lived across from the butcher in town where she could hear the little hooves of the animals click-clacking up the stone streets in the pre-dawn hours, hear their bleating as they cried out and saw streams of blood running down the drain outside after they were killed. It was the first time I grasped that there were real animals hiding in my food . . . not that I ate lamb anyway. Not even mint can help that flavor.

I now yearn to go back and revisit that trip from 1974. Right now. Travel all over with my family and see the sights -- most for the first time. I wonder if, in today's age of Playstation 2 and Nintendo DS, my kids would be even more jaded than we were. Would I be driving around Ireland looking for water slides and hotels with X-box? I hope not. But I'd like to find out.

Mini-weekend: Day 6

So much to do and not doing any of it -- thereby defeating the purpose of the mini-weekend?

Thankfully, I did go to my acupuncturist today. It's so relaxing, I could spend a week there. A few sessions ago she basically stated that my body was lacking energy across all vital functions. To quote Aerosmith, my get-up-and-go must have got up and went. Today, I was full of life again. Nothing like a great vacation and a mid-week day off to provide joie de vivre.

For lunch: Juan and Maria's Empanada Stop. I love a good hole-in-the-wall with freshly made comfort food. I ordered the beef and onion empanada with a side of rice, beans and pork. They're not "to die for" delicacies by any stretch of the imagination but rather a fun diversion from the winter doledrums. And their homemade sauces, like the Spicy Spanish Mayonnaise, are delicious. The best part is that Juan and Maria fawn over every customer. Juan was telling us about his expansion and franchising plans (i.e., start local but grow aggressively from the Monroe County core) and I couldn't help but wonder if the experience will be as warm and heartening if some random dude named Bob, who doesn't speak a lick of Espanol, is preparing and serving the dishes in a squeaky clean, satellite, mall location. When all is said and done, it's not wholly about the food. Time will tell.

Next: unpack my suitcase (as it's been four days since we returned) or read a magazine? I feel guilt descending.

Farm Fetid Kitchen

Son #2 wanted Thanksgiving dinner for his birthday and the hubby obliged with a fabulous turkey, homemade stuffing and the most delicious, creamy, summer squash soup ever known to mankind. With meals like that at home, why venture out?

To have fun with your girlfriends, that's why! To celebrate birthdays. To de-stress. To catch up. To try new restaurants. To drink martinis. And to write blog postings . . .

Step aside vomit-inducing meal across the street, welcome Farm Fresh Kitchen! As stated on their website, "We believe meals can taste divine and still be good for you too. Really -- it can be done." Just not at their restaurant -- something they failed to mention.

Oh, where to begin? Maybe a laundry list will suffice: the rolls were stale, the pumpkin martini didn't taste like pumpkin, my quarter-sized tuna credo tasted like it spent the better part of a day rotting on the pier, someone dumped a liter of salt in the couscous, and the gnocchi was pure mush. On a minor note, we got a different bottle of wine than ordered; however, it was fine. Thankfully our waitress took the tuna off the bill and gave us a free dessert (for the birthday girl at the table).

But at $48 per person, not remotely worth the investment.

Oddly enough, the place was empty. I wonder why.

Real Housewives of Atlanta

What's with these Real Housewives shows? I cannot get enough. Seriously, spending $18K on your daughter's 11th birthday party? It is so over the blinkin' top that I'm mesmerized. The little girl also received a Louis Vuitton bag from her mom that cost over $1.5K. Did I mention that this same mom went out on a spur-of-the-moment spree and bought herself a brand spanking new Cadillac Escalade and appeared to pay the sticker price? With a check? Nowadays, with the economy tanking, it's just glorious to delight in the follies of women whose biggest fears reside in how to navigate successfully the tenuous Atlanta social terrain and whose lifestyles are not likely to be radically affected by any market downturn.

Although my blog readership is principally limited to the few close friends and family members who take a moment to view this site on occassion, I would like to extend a downhome dinner invitation to Bob Whitfield as a gentle reminder that all women are not as uptight, self-important and crazy as his ex-wife. May sound frightening to the affluent but I guarantee that the hubby and I can entertain him for less than $100. I also guarantee that man has an epic drama to share about life with Sheree and I want to hear it!

Enquiring minds want to know. I wanna know!

Perlo on Furlough

Okay, so I'm not trying to get into the business of restaurant reviews but my boss and I took some high-profile clients to a much touted Perlo's last night and -- oh, how do you say -- never again?!

When you're across the street from one of the city's best Italian restaurants, your decor is suboptimal and your food only marginally better, shouldn't customer service be your strength? Otherwise, how do you differentiate yourself (in a positive fashion)?

With six people ordering appetizers, soups and full meals, shouldn't one person be "allowed" to order a smaller (i.e., children's) portion of the ravioli, if so desired? Doesn't the customer come first? Our waitress not only said "no" but also checked with the owner who also said "no dice." Our client didn't order a meal at all. Somehow that's better than
a) pleasing the customer and b) generating more revenue?

Did I mention someone in the restaurant was smoking?

What's Italian for "ass backwards": àsino al contrario?

Ciao.

Can't Spell Bruegger's without Rue

I have to moan momentarily about being on a diet. Mainly because I want to eat . . .

Thank God for Weight Watchers which helps me to control my intake. By calculating my points for the day, I can better ensure I don't overeat. However, calculating my points after eating can be downright shocking.

Case in point:
Breakfast today = coffee, bagel and peanut butter
Lunch today = grapes and a La Yogurt probiotic, nonfat yogurt
Dinner today = none because I have no points remaining

Bruegger's sucks. More points in one whole wheat bagel than in a McDonald's Egg McMuffin. More points than two pieces of pepperoni pizza at Chuck E. Cheese. More points than chocolate ice cream at Haagen Dazs. I could have had chocolate raspberry cake at Starbucks instead.

Or almost four glasses of wine. Four.

Sure, wine has no protein but it would help me to forget that I'm STARVING.

My Bologna

Yesterday at noon, Son #2 desperately wanted to play.

Me: You need to eat some lunch.

Son #2: I'm not hungry. Can I go see if the W's can play?

(Lines repeated for a few minutes until I, per usual, caved in. Why force him to eat?)

Ten minutes later, Son #2 appears back home.

Son #2: Can I play Play Station?

Me: You really should eat some lunch.

Son #2: I just ate over at the W's.

Two seconds later, Mrs. W called: I just wanted to let you know that monkey came over for five minutes, ate lunch with us and then said, "I'm going home now."

Are processed bologna Lunchables at the neighbor's house really that enticing? Bizarre.

Good Luck

I went to Good Luck restaurant last night with the girls to celebrate Christine's birthday. One word: must go! Oh, did I say one word? I meant two. It's a large, open, industrial space in the old Fabrics and Findings warehouse at the Village Gate with a bit of a French country community ambiance thrown in.

Their tapas-like menu boasts "food to share" which makes the whole dining experience interactive and fun. The food was fresh, flavorful and light -- and it just kept coming. We shared two bottles of wine; the charcuterie plate; leeks with lump crab; shrimp, bean and goat cheese crostini; warm arugula with bleu cheese and roasted figs; and heaps of funny and/or tear-filled stories about our kids, jobs, lives, sex, faith, parents in nursing homes, etc.

But one of the best parts of our evening was our waiter: Storm. He was the most articulate and knowledgeable waiter I have ever had the pleasure of meeting not to mention likeable and funny. He had no fear of making solid recommendations and sharing with us what foods were locally sourced, how they are prepared and plated, what spices are used, and so on. (As a contrast, I often hear the "I don't know, I've never tried that" response to my inquiry which makes me cringe. Really? Because isn't knowing about the food your job?) I really hope he's compensated well because he's worth his weight in gold.

One more thing. Unlike Label 7 (a.k.a. Mustards) our local tapas-style eatery in the village, which has to-die-for rich, creamy, yummy foods and attractive space, this place was also packed to the gills but otherwise noiseless. At Label 7, you cannot hear your friends seated at your same table; at Good Luck, you cannot hear others at the table next to you. Although, last night, that would have come in handy as the man next to us unwrapped a dress for his birthday gift. Uh, what's with the frock mister?

Next time, I'm ordering one of their original cocktails. For the girl who never knows what drink to order and continually pesters bar staff to create something original, I cannot believe I didn't try the Johnny Walker black cat tea or the Knock on Wood (Appleton Estate Rhum, apricot brandy, lime and brown sugar). As Clarissa sang to Rudolph, "there's always tomorrow."

We All-a-Screama for Ice-a-creama

Son #2 elaborated more on his college plans over the weekend.

Son #2: "Can I study anything I want?"

Me: "Sure. What are you thinking of studying?"

Son #2: "I want to learn how to make ice cream."

Me: "Oh, that sounds great. I think it's called 'food chemistry' or something like that."

Son #2: "I want to make stinkbug flavored ice cream and hide a dead rattlesnake inside."

Me: "Hmm. I really don't think that's going to fly off the shelves at Wegman's."

Son #2: "Yeah it will. I'm going to label it 'grape'."

What a pleasant surprise.

Memorial Day

Finally I can wear my white pumps again . . .

I took Friday off because it was (dare I say) a bit quiet at work and the kids were off from school. I slept in the hammock while soaking up the sunshine and chatted with my next door neighbor as the kids played.

Then my mom, sis and I flew to Greensboro on Saturday to hang with my brother and sister-in-law and meet their gorgeous, sweet, awesome, baby boy who made my heart swell. I have to say, what a great little city: beautiful neighborhoods, nice shops, cool relatives. I could totally live there. Maybe I could score a job at the Center for Creative Leadership? Not sure what I would do exactly but the topic of leadership is certainly one that is of great interest to me not only because I have slaved under some of the worst "leaders" on the planet but also because I have gladly served some of the best. Anyhoo, I digress.

While there -- just for a microsecond -- we somehow got on the topic of how we're all worth more dead than alive. I was thinking about it later that night. Menendez brothers aside, what keeps most families from killing each other? In addition to the fact that it would be horribly disturbing (as Lady Macbeth clearly demonstrated), life isn't about money at all: it's about love and relationships. You could have all of the money in the world but, without love, it's worthless. Conversely, one moment of pure love is worth more than gold.

Last night I had a date with Son #1. Just the two of us; his brother and dad went to the movies. We went to the Red Lobster (!) because he has been asking to go there for ages and we've been putting him off. As I was cracking our crab legs, he was dipping the crab meat in butter and repeatedly exclaiming how it was one of the best meals of his life (next to daddy's cooking). I couldn't help but think how blessed I was for these little moments in life -- just spending time with someone who is still capable of being in awe of the world.

So, yes, today it's back to work. But I'm extremely grateful to have had a four-day weekend filled with the people I love the most: my family.

Burgers & Cupcakes

Is that not a fun and compelling restaurant name? I want to go RIGHT NOW! Anyone? What a perfect combo beaten only by . . . wait. Nothing! If I lived in NYC, I think I would eat there nightly.