Things Not to Say: Berry Cobbler

I'm slowly re-entering the dating world. Slowly for me has traditionally meant exclusive dating after the first good kiss. This go-round is no different; it's as if I'm incapable of learning.

Luckily, my first dance partner appears to have some staying power. This Friday marks the 10-week anniversary of our first smooch (not that I'm counting). Tick, tock goes the biological clock.

But even more luckily, this guy appears to be nice. I've decided that for this round of dating (Dating! Take twenty-three!), nice is on top of the list of desireable features (Eureka! Maybe she can learn!).

I, on the other hand could use some work in the nice department. Working and living alone has me too often saying things aloud that are best left unarticulated.

Like the other night. We were spooned-up, all sweet and cozy-like, and I said: "Do you think it's possible that biologically, humans manufacture the chemical that makes their brain think that they falling in love, simply because they're wrapped in someone's arms, whether or not they are actually falling in love?"

It seemed like a good question. Geeky, but interesting. And painfully unselfaware. He smoothed back my hair and said, "Please let this brain turn off." In five minutes, we were asleep.

It didn't seem like such a good question the next day; I was embarrassed for the gaffe. Now he's taken to asking, "Do you love me yet?" every fifteen minutes, the way children ask "are we there yet?" on a road trip.

But perhaps there's another explanation. You know how men often disassociate from their penises, explaining "It's not me; he has a mind of his own", or worse, referring to his penis by a pet name like 'Little Soldier'? I understand this now; I am starting to feel like I should no longer be held responsible for my heart, as my ovaries have taken over. They are crazy twin she-devils, bonding together and sticking pins in a voo-doo doll version of me, forcing me to fall in love with the nearest appropriately-sized thing, be it a mailbox or a man.

Now that's a bit glib, but my point is a fair one. Take modern living arrangements, where it's too easy to start playing house with someone you've known less than a hundred days, combined with a biological clock that has the subtlety of a sledgehammer, and finally, a big city filled with beautiful women; a human buffet for men.

You tell me what kind of a man doesn't want to return to the steam table and see if there's a little something to tempt him for dessert. All the while, we women fall in love, for reasons as depthful as, "he noticed my highlights; isn't he the sweetest!?"

At least in my parents generation, people got married first and asked stupid questions later.


Berry Cobbler
My new kissing partner and I have been cooking up a storm (I don't talk with my mouth full, thank god). We recently debated the best biscuits for topping a cobbler. He introduced me to Shirley Corriher's biscuits (good, light), which I recommend. Here's a tweak to her recipe, and then some.

3 (10-ounce packages) frozen mixed berries, thawed
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup stone-ground cornmeal
2 tablespoons sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup (or 1/2 stick) cold butter, cut into chunks
3/4 cups buttermilk

1. Preheat the oven to 350ºF and butter an 8" × 8" baking dish.
2. Place the berries (and their juice) in a medium bowl. Sprinkle with cornstarch and toss to combine. Transfer to the baking dish.
3. In a bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Cut in the butter with a pastry blender the pieces are the size of peas. Add the buttermilk and stir to moisten. Drop 9 quarter-cupfulls of batter on top of the fruit.
4. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes, or until the topping is golden and the fruit is bubbling. Let stand for 20-30 minutes before serving to allow the sauce to thicken.

A Visit with the King: Elvis's Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich

I'm in Tennessee right now, South Pittsburg to be exact, to judge The National Cornbread Festival. As too many locals have reminded me, "This ain't no bagel contest, girl, whatchu know 'bout cornbread?" That remains to be seen, and after today's contest, I suppose I'll be judged as well. But we'll save that for the next posting.

Since I was traveling all the way to Tennessee, I just had to augment my journey with a little side trip to Memphis. I've been an Elvis fan since I was 7, when I found my mom's GI Blues record in the back of her closet. I have spent too many hours staring at that man, while mom would tell me how she used to go over to *her* Grandma's house to watch him on TV (his antics were frowned upon in the home my mother grew up in). I read Elvis and Me twice.

I arrived in Memphis Wednesday evening, and uncharacteristically treated myself to the poshest boutique hotel in town. I found men in Memphis aggressive; a US Marine tried to pick me up at Enterprise, and a Chicago businessman brought me a beer while I was playing with my computer in the lobby, "I hate to drink alone." Yeah? Well I hate to be interrupted. A fine looking M&A professional, he regaled me with stories of his drunken Memphis nights. Impressive.


I had been in Memphis one hour. I don't get this much attention in New York in a month. I walked over to Rendezvous for some ribs. I've had better; I've made better. Onto Beale Street. Apparently, Wednesdays are for Harley riders, so this was a barrel-chested, Lucky Strike-thickened Harley parking lot, with all the Foghorn-Leghorn posturing that goes with it.

I retreated home for a good night's sleep: tomorrow was for my King(s). I dressed for Graceland in a cute blue print dress, nude fishnets and fifties peeptoes. I was first in line, but was soon to be surrounded by at least 2000 card-carrying members of the AARP. This is a social group of tourists, used to standing in line and making polite conversation with those around them. "You're not even old enough to even know Elvis." was the opening line of choice. Not so, Daddy-O.

I'm not going to go on and on about Graceland. There are too many others before me who've gone into great detail about the trippy Jungle room (yes, with a waterfall), the TV room (yup, completely mirrored, with three TV rooms), the white shag receiving room in front, the record room (with *all* those gold records, the costumes (especially the jumpsuits), the horses, and the meditation garden. The dozens of fresh bouquets at his grave site, still pouring in from fans around the world.

What I'm going to tell you is that Elvis' generosity and hospitality can be felt in his home, still. There are six cozy rooms (designed by the King, clearly) where you just want to sit, grab a drink (most rooms have corner bars), listen to some good music, and laugh. Graceland is a modest home, purchased by Elvis for $100,000 when he was 22. He didn't upgrade when he made more money, and he didn't leave town. He had a bedroom for his parents, and always had plenty of play toys for his friends.

His kitchen had four electric burners, a single oven, one refrigerator and one sink. I've more well appointed kitchens in the homes of Manhattanites who don't cook; Elvis was a tremendous host (and eater). But sometimes it ain't about your gear; it's what you do with it.

Elvis is my American success story; a polite boy from Tupelo, who could sing, move, and let us all watch. You can have Justin Timberlake and those boys from Maroon 5. When I want to feel music, passion, and raw heat, I'm turning to Elvis: a boy who loved his mama, served in the Army, and still gets me riled up, decades later.

So move over Great Grandma, I'm coming over to watch Elvis tonight. I'll bring PB&B sandwiches and the buttermilk to wash 'em down.


Elvis Presley's Grilled Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich
I've been making PB&B's for years, much like one would make PB&Js. I'd enjoy them with a sense that by eating this sandwich, I was ingesting Elvis (don't make fun: have you ever heard of communion?). But in my haste to commune with the King, I hadn't paid attention to detail: Elvis' sandwiches are fried.

2 slices of white bread
2 tablespoons of smooth peanut butter
1 small ripe banana mashed
2 tablespoons butter (or bacon fat)

Spread the peanut butter on one slice of bread and the mashed banana on the other. Press the slices gently together. Melt the butter, over low heat in a small frying pan. Place the sandwich in the pan and fry until golden brown on both sides.

The Uninvited Dinner Guest: WD-50 Review

I had been yearning-for-yet-procrastinating a meal at Wylie Dufresne’s, WD-50, Manhattan’s top molecular gastronomy venue, since it opened. And now I know why.
For food lovers, going to WD-50 is like a traveler taking in the Taj. You must go, once. But in a world of Eiffel towers and Antarctic expeditions, and in a city with too many fine restaurants, must you return?

My fellow diners were special-occasioners, tourists, and self-proclaimed foodies from New Jersey. These were not regulars. The majority enjoyed the tasting menu (as letting someone else choose your dinner in a place this cerebrally demanding can put you at ease as much as a house-infused yuzu and Meyer lemon saketini). My tourist friends asked for a chef-autogrphed copy of the menu; too many people were snapping pictures of the dishes with their iPhones. The anniversary couple to my right used words like “different” and “unusual” to describe their experience, over and over again. I fought the temptation to hand them a thesaurus.

Though my reservation was not easy to come by, there were at least five empty tables that would remain so all night. This was a place ventured into with purpose and pre-work; if is not mentally prepared for the experience, one does not amble in.

Molecular gastronomy, pioneered by Spain’s Ferdinand Adria, is a modern culinary trend famous for the application of scientific techniques and tools to cooking. Dufresne takes shrimp and turns them into noodles; pizza into pebbles, and bone marrow into thin discs of fat. There are vapors and flavor tabs that dissolve on your tongue; all that’s missing is the lady that gets sawed in half and her friend who disappears.

There were hits and misses; the dishes were evenly divided between the two. A smoky pear and pepper cocktail was over-smoked and hard to choke down; a bourbon tart cherry drink hit was a perfect 10. When our attentive server asked of our meal experience, and we mentioned that the cocktail was too smoked, he enthusiastically agreed and removed the item from our bill, unasked.

For starters, the foie with fennel, malt balls and sherry vinegar jam reintroduced me to a long term love of mine, foie gras. It was presented as pebbles, tumbling down the plate and turning their way around malt balls that evaporated in my mouth. As one who enjoys a slice or a shmear; I learned how vivid even a tiny pebble of foie can be. This has changed my experience of foie moving forward; it had my devotion, now it has my respect.

Dufresne’s touted popcorn soup was another matter entirely. I enjoy a bright, vivid, flavorful corn soup, but this one lost its way. Had they forgotten to pop the corn? I felt as though I was eating a pureed polenta, or fresh corn cut with oatmeal. The flavors were muddied, and the texture was thick. The color was a dull grey-yellow; not the vivid sunshine I was looking for. Similarly, I like my bone marrow hot and soft in the bone; digging is part of the fun. These room temperature fat discs had no bone in sight, and slicing marrow with a knife and fork just seems impolite. Plus, the temperature made the flavor retreat; I was not to experience any of that crusty, melty, salty, fatty marrow umame I craved so.

As each dish came down; conversation stopped. First, we had to figure out what each item was. The tamarind-soaked jicama suddenly tasted like butterscotch…wait, what was this again? A wave of foaming coconut hanging over my Wagyu seemed more like a stiff-peak beaten vanilla meringue to me. There was deliberating, there was plate sharing, there was investigating, and there was a halt to traditional dinner flow. I enjoy a meal with flavors that are present, noted, and take their seat as the conversation returns. I do not enjoy a dinner guest that is constantly interrupting.

For the mains; the Wagyu tasted like liver, like too much good-quality beef does, and was served more traditionally than the appetizers, which was a trend for the mains. Coffee gnocchi were a grey miss, and the coconut meringue was confusing. These supporting players didn’t add to the dish; they were interrupting our star. The turbot with barbecued lentils, cauliflower and dried apricot was cooked to perfection, and the barbequed lentils could have come straight from the B&M can.

Deserts continued the trend; a toasted coconut cake was fine, and the brown butter ice cream was more of a thrill to conceptualize than eat.

I enjoyed my experience. Perhaps I’ll return, for a lunch special. I am glad that foie and I have a new spark in our relationship. WD-50 is a must-go, and a must-see, and boy am I glad Dufresne is taking the risks he is. In other industries, R&D is carried out in Ivory Towers or funded laboratories, where experiments can go awry. In the business of molecular gastronomy; diners pay for the privilege to be a lab rat.


**
WD-50
50 Clinton StreetNew York, NY 10002Phone: 212.477.2900

Starters: $14 – $17
Mains: $24- $35
Cocktails: $14- $18
Wine list: Complete, complex
Reservations are recommended, though not always necessary
All credit cards are accepted.

Better Than Pizza: Jamacan Beef Patty

When it comes right down to it, I’m cheap. And usually hungry. And a bit lazy, not wanting to wander too far out of my neighborhood to find something tasty. And I crave unusual ethnic food far more frequently than I crave something most of my peers enjoy, like Tasty-D-Lite or Luna Bars. If I’m going to pay money, what I buy needs to be interesting, delicious, unusual, and satisfying. When it comes to cheap snacks, I’m a major pain in the ass.

That said, I don’t have caloric or fat limits, and I take great pride in my omnivorousness. So a city like Brooklyn is made for me – filled with ethnic variety, options, and a respect for thrift. It’s easier to rattle off a list of ten places to try than come up with ten reasons to visit the same shop twice.

So it surprised no one more than me when I started making a once-a-week habit of Christie’s. Christie’s makes pasties, or Cornish pies, or hand pies, or whatever you want to call highly seasoned savory meat stuffed inside flaky pastry. Christie’s calls them Jamaican pattys. Mon’.

Like all remaining urban culinary secrets, it was a place I’d walked by a zillion times, but was finally taken there by a trusted culinary advisor. When I walked in, I noticed that we were the only white people there; everyone else was speaking with strong Caribbean accents and seemed to be regulars. A very good sign.

Growing up, my best friend was from the Caribbean, so I was no stranger to Soursop, Peanut Punch, Coconut Water or Sorrel Drinks. Their beverage cooler contained all the usual subjects, without any riff-raff from the Coca-Cola company.

There was a steam table with jerk chicken, oxtail, callaloo, and curried goat. All good signs. But my friend brought me here for a meat pie, and that’s what I’d be having.
$1.85 later, I had a warm pie crust in my hand, filled with some unidentifiable meat no closer to organic than a packet of Pop Rocks. True comfort food.

The meat was seasoned within an inch of it’s life. Black pepper, allspice, MSG…perhaps a little hashish. But I am ahead of myself; the key to this experience was the first bite – before I even tasted the meat, there was something else entirely:

When I accepted the hand pie (and the $0.15 change, which I *did* leave as a tip; my frugality knows socially appropriate boundaries), I felt its weight and warmth in my hand. I had a look and couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship; this pie that knew no temperature less than 38F. It had been crimped by a person and…let me just take this corner piece off…flake, flake, cleave, steam puff. Indeed. I nibbled at the pastry and my eyes widened – involuntarily. The pastry fissured on my tongue; flake is too lightweight a term to use to describe the oral experience. It cleaved, and dissolved.

Which was a good thing, because I had to take another bite, and another. This is how I got to the aforementioned meat. The texture was as terrible as the pastry perfect. But I got past it, as you look beyond a friend’s chronic lateness and instead choose to enjoy her vivid personality. The seasonings. There are no words.

But there is an address:

Christie’s Jamaican Patties.
387 Flatbush Ave, Brooklyn 11238Btwn Sterling Pl & Carlton Ave Phone: 718-636-9746

Just Say Yes: Fearless Leg of Lamb

I was parallel parking my bashed-up, decade-old Volkswagen cabrio on the streets of Brooklyn when he pulled up next to me.

“Excuse me? Excuse me, Miss? You wanna fix that dent in your fenduh?” He was driving a black 15-year old Mercedes that wasn’t in great shape either.

Ah, the fender dent. It's a bit of a sore spot for me. You see, my parents were watching my car at their home in North Carolina last summer. At the end of their babysitting, my father brought my car to a guy who would wash it and spiff it up for $15 bucks or so. Not a business, just a guy. But my father isn’t above a shady business interaction, so that's how it goes sometimes.

At midnight, my parents got a phone call from the local cops. “Are you the owners of a Blue Volkwagon Cabriolet, license plate number…”

“Uh, yes.”

“Well Mr. Fishman, I regret to inform you that it appears a Mr. Johnny Holden has been driving drunk in your vehicle.”

“I see.”

Before getting pulled over for reckless driving, Mr. Holden was kind enough to back my car into who knows what, accruing many dollars worth of damage.

My parents didn’t mention this to me until I picked up the car and noticed a huge gash and growing rust spot in the back of it. “Uh, what happened here, mom?” I asked, opening the trunk to load groceries for her.

“Oh, your father and I forgot to tell you. It’s the funniest story…” And she proceeded to tell.

I couldn’t help but return to 1989, when I got into my first accident with the second-hand we-don’t-care-what-you-do-to-it car. It wasn’t my fault, and I was more than happy to crack open the bar mitzvah bank account to take care of it. I figured, they're my parents, this car is one step from the junkyard anyway, I was OK and the damage was only cosmetic.

Or so I thought. Let’s just say my parents didn’t laugh off my little car accident as easily as they laughed off this one.

I gave a "harrumph", and drove the car back to Brooklyn, wounds undressed.

So this guy next to me in the beat-up Mercedes had my attention. I got out of the car and asked for more information. “The name’s Nicky. I work down on 4th Avenue, at the body shop. You can take the car down there, and I'll do the same job for you, but the owner is going to have to take his cut, because that's how they do. Lemme give yous a quick estimate.”

Before I could say, “Nick the body man” He tallied up 10 rusting dings, nicks and other reasons for him to bang my body with a hammer for the low low price of: “Tree-fiddy.”

Now that was actually a deal. I added in a few spots he hadn't seen, got the number under $300, and we shook hands.

I called my parents, who agreed to pick up their portion, and Nick got to work on my body. I left Nick to his work and offered to pay upfront but he wouldn't hear of it, "I don't take any money from yous until yous is happy wid my work. Which you will be." We exchanged cell numbers and I went back to work for a few hours.

When a strange man comes up to you on the streets of Brooklyn with an offer that sounds too good to be true, hear him out. Then say yes. Although over-educated girls from the suburbs are taught to say no to men with propositions and thick Brooklyn Italian accents, the street smart city girl in me knew better.

Postscript: His work was excellent, my car is back to it’s old self, and I've redeem my father’s faith in shady businessmen. But even if the work was mediocre and the drama continued, it would have been worth it. For the story.


Fearless Leg of Lamb with Herbs & Garlic
by Allison Fishman
Serves 8

Don’t be afraid of a butterflied leg of lamb – it’s big and ungainly and, yes, lamb-y, but spring is here and the time is right for roasting these suckers. Sure, it’s scary: but take on the challenge: You’ll be handsomely repaid for your fearlessness.

2 tablespoons fresh rosemary leaves
2 cloves garlic
1/2 cup fresh mint, packed
1/2 cup fresh parsley, packed
Coarse kosher salt
1/4 cup olive oil
1 5 1/4-pound boneless leg of lamb, butterflied, trimmed of most fat and sinew
Freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 450°F. To a mini food processor, add rosemary and garlic. Pulse until finely chopped, about 5 to 6 pulses. Add mint and parsley and pulse, scraping down the sides of the bowl until you’ve got a finely chopped herb mixture, about 8 pulses (don’t over process, you don’t want mush, just flakes).

Spoon the herb mixture into a small bowl; drizzle with oil and season with salt. Stir until you have a paste. Give a taste and adjust seasoning as needed; the flavor should be vivid.

Unfold the lamb, and season the inside well with salt. Rub the mixture all over the inside of the lamb. Roll up the lamb, jelly-roll style, and tie it with kitchen string to make a neat little package. Don’t sweat perfection on this one; if you’ve tied your shoes, you can tie this. Just improvise.

Sprinkle the outside of the lamb bundle generously with coarse salt and pepper, and place the lamb in roasting pan in the center of your oven. Roast until instant-read thermometer inserted into thickest part of meat registers 130°F for medium-rare, about 1 hour 15 minutes. Remove pan from oven; let lamb rest, covered with aluminum foil, for 15 to 30 minutes. Save any accumulated juices from the roasting pan.

Remove kitchen string from lamb. Cut lamb into 1/3-inch-thick slices; arrange on platter. Combine any juices that appeared after carving the lamb with the no more than 1/4 cup of the drippings from the roasting pan. Drizzle this over the lamb before serving.

Attack of the 20-Somethings: Flex Your Mussels, Boys

Over the weekend, I saw two dear friends of mine. Both men, both successful, both extremely good looking, tall, kind, with physiques that put most twenty-somethings to shame. One is an pal from high school, one a roommate from college. Our relations have always been platonic, and that works well for us. At this point, we’re family, clichéd though that is.

The men don’t know each other, but each wanted to see me for the exact same reason. It appears as though they’ve given their big, thumping 36-year old hearts to women they'd like to marry. But those buoyant hearts have met the sharp stiletto heel of someone who doesn’t want to go that route. Yet. Or maybe ever. They're not sure.

Though unrequited love is not unusual, their situations share a coincidence: both of my boys have fallen for twenty-three year old girls.

That’s right; one girl is just out of college, and one is still attending. My boys were kicking up their heels to “Shout” on suburban bar mitzvah dance floors when these young chicklets passed from their mother’s loins.

And hey, I’m all for dating hot young things, but to see these extraordinary men undone in such a way is baffling. They are accomplished professionals and good men, crying in their beers, desperately clinging to their cell phones in hopes of a random text message. They’re confused, weakened, totally beaten up. I’ve never seen them this way before.

They’ve begged these girls back, sent passive-aggressive packages of “stuff you left at my house” filled with returned gifts and memories of better times. They’ve written poetry, songs and even offered jobs and money. With each of these earnest attempts, the applets of their eyes drift further away. Desperation is ever so unappealing.

So why aren’t these men dating women their own age?

Bite your tongue. Though they could be dating the women they’ve grown up with…the doctors, lawyers, TV personalities, journalists…accomplished women they’ve known and loved who, as far as I’m told, are solidly improving with age. But why go for a complex Bordeaux when you can suck down a drinkable Beaujoulais?

Because...

• “Women our age don’t look at us the same way younger women do; they don’t look up to us.”
• “They have their own lives. These girls are blank slates.”
• “They’re old. They’ve only got 5 to 7 years left to have kids. I don’t want to deal with that.”
• "Honestly? They're intimidating."

So this is what has become of my male peers. The mid-thirties woman, unable to get dates for the aforementioned reasons end up taking matters into their own hands. After years online dating, she's shopping for something new: sperm. Once she's mourned the perfect life she'll never have, she's content to create her own family unit. After all, she's got a great job, makes a bunch of money, has ample love to give, and most importantly, the desire to do it. Eggs wait for no man.

Thirty-something men and women both want to settle down. Allegedly. Yet they continue to pick partners that just don't want the same things they do. Then mourn them with earnest aching. But they stay single, and don’t seriously consider one another.

While my marriage-ready male friends desperately stalk their former loves on Facebook, 30-something women start flirting with the 20-somethings too. (Jarred sperm can only do so much.)

As it turns out, 20-somethings are fun. And casual. Nope, they’re not emotionally available either. In fact, I’m wondering who is, but I’ll save that pondering for another blog. For now, my peers and I are looking to just enjoy life before we get knocked up with sperm from a guy we’ll never meet. (And you thought technological streamlining was all iPods and YouTube. Now we've found a way to avoid the ultimate middleman: man himself.)

Today’s 30-something woman has been liberated to a place where our men no longer feel needed by us. Or wanted. Or adored. So they get groovy with girls who would have been illegal to date at their 30th birthday, who make them feel big and important, until these girls see something newer and shinier, get bored and move on.

I don’t blame these girls for the games they’re playing; hell, I’ve done it too. The 20s are for playing. As was said by a 28-year old man I know, “I don’t know how your friends date those girls. I try, I mean, they’re cute and all, but you just can't count on them. They don’t return text messages or emails; they’re just too immature.”

I wonder if he'll feel the same way when he's in his mid-thirties. He's got a while before then. After all, the chicklet who'll break his heart just bought her first bra.


Mussels Provencale
Serves 2 as dinner, 4 as appetizer

In these complicated times, simple is best. Make yourself a pot of mussels: it’s the ultimate 30 minute meal. This recipe is just the beginning -- play with add-ins like blue cheese, cream, celery leaves, mushrooms (though not all at the same time). Children of all ages like to eat with their hands; it's a perfect meal for whomever your friends bring to dinner.

1 2-ounce piece slab bacon (about 1/4-inch thick), cut into 1-inch lardons
2 tablespoons butter
1 large shallot, minced
3/4 cup white wine or beer
3 pounds mussels, rinsed and de-bearded
2/3 cup grape tomatoes, halved
1/2 to 1 cup chicken stock or clam juice, if needed
1/3 cup chopped parsley
Baguette, for serving

1. In a wide pot (braising pots are a deal) over medium heat, add butter. When it foams, add bacon and cook until it begins to caramelize, about 4 minutes.

2. Add shallot and cook until softened, about 4 minutes. Add wine or beer, bring to a simmer. Add mussels, cover, and cook until opened, about 5 to 7 minutes.

3. Add tomatoes to pot and cook until warmed through, about 2 minutes. There should be a nice amount of liquid in the bottom of the pan if you’d like more, add chicken stock of clam juice. Remove from heat, stir in parsley and serve with a warmed baguette.

Heal Thyself: The Call of Katz's

I am exhausted. I am styling food for a television show, working with a pedigreed production company -- the kind that plays hard and works harder -- and puts out an impressive product. My typical day starts at 7:30 AM and ends after 8PM. I don't take lunch; I don't sit; I spend a great deal of time wondering if now is the right time to go to the bathroom, or if I could hold it for another hour and a half so as not to disturb taping.

I'm having work nightmares (Will the cilantro droop!? Have we secured enough flounder for the fish sticks?! Is this the correct size bottle of mayonnaise!!??), and barely making it through 6 hours of sleep. But I have one day off a week, and this is that day.

I can't simply have a bagel, or whatever is convenient and nearby just because I'm hungry, exhausted and overworked. Exhaustion isn't a permission slip for easy. My spirit will heal in proportion to the goodness of the food I put into my body; I just know it.

If I had a Jewish Grandmother who was able, I would sit at her kitchen table and let her love me up with kasha varnishkes, sweet breads and fricasee. But mine boxed up her kitchenware years ago, and her dementia makes her confused by who I am, let alone what she can feed me. If I was to go to her house and open her fridge, my options would be grape jelly, strawberry jelly or margarine, all stolen from the local diner and recently liberated from a wadded up tissue in her pocket.

But I need that Grandma love, and so I go back, back to before my time, to the place where my grandmother was born. I go to the Lower East Side, to Katz's, for a pastrami on rye.

When I get there, the place is packed. Katz's is a cafeteria hall filled with dining degenerates; the same crowd I've seen in the grandstand at Belmont. It's solidy working class, yet ethnically colorful. The only thing this crowd has in common culturally is sweatsuits, bling, girth, and a love of Jewish deli.

I stand behind a 6 foot 6, 350 pound black man who is holding his round, 7-year old daughter's hand, and asked if he was on line. "I been coming here thirty years, and there ain't never been no line so I don't know what you're talking about." He wouldn't look at me, and angled his body so that I was forced into the aisle where I'd bob like a buoy.

A dusty, flanneled unshaven white man in front of him turned around, "Yeah, well I got you beat by ten years." The old-timers were so busy cockfighting their tenure that neither answered my question.

There's a sign on the wall that says. "Each cutter has his own line. Find the shortest one [and get on it, dummy]." so I scoped out my five cutters: An old Jewish man who, though cute, took almost as long to make a sandwich as a good brisket takes to cook; Two young and fast Latino men, with square gold-and-diamond studs in their ears; An effeminite Asian man and a Black man who reminded me of Chef on South Park. I went with the centermost cutter, a Latino man who was handing out the biggest pieces of pastrami for tasting.

I got to the front of his line, asked for the fattiest pastrami he could find. He smiled, went back to the steamer, and came back with a 5-pound piece of meat dangling from the end of his fork. He smacked it on the cutting area in front of him, and started slicing. He used long graceful strokes, from the butt to the tip of his knife.

The outside of the pastrami was caked with black spices. When the cut slices flopped down, the hard black crust yielded to a bright pink center. Slice, slice. Black, pink. As he cut, puffs of steam rose from the meat. It was Lower East Side morning mist, and it was glorious.

He gave me a center slice to try -- a big one, and smiled when I grabbed it like a barbarian. I looked at it for a while; how do they get that pinky color? It was as vivid and tender as a virgin's labia. Aha; this is why this hall of meat is filled with fluffy men who appear to deny themselves little. Now that I think about it; I'm not sure I'll ever look at pink roast beef or slow cooked pastrami the same way again.

I let out a soft moan, and the cutter continued assembling my sandwich; layer upon layer of melting meat, at least half a pounds worth, but probably more. A schmear of spicy mustard, all nestled between two slices of soft rye that would return to dough if I took more than 20 minutes to eat my sandwich, which I did.

I walked to a table, but not before I got myself a plate of pickles (sour, half sour, and green tomato), a can of Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray tonic, and a chocolate egg cream. Though I needed to stand on two additional lines for the drinks I did so without hesitation; that taste of pastrami reminded me that what's worth eating is worth eating well.

My table would be in the center, not far from where Sally had her memorable meal. I was deep into my first bite when Carlos, an attractive Latino man, and his 6 year old daughter sat down with me. "Do you mind?" he asked. And before I had a chance to answer, "My partner and I are opening a grocery store down the street. I see you like good food; come and see me there. Here's my cell number. I'm also a personal trainer and I'd like to help you work off that pastrami." And off he went, like a puff of pastrami smoke.

Time would pass, and more friends would share my table. Two tall, strikingly attractive Catholic brothers would order sandwiches of their own (painfully, they ordered their lean pastrami on a baguette, and with hard, cold Swiss cheese slices that would be neither warm nor melty...). I summoned a Christlike generosity to forgive the goys their culinary oys.

We would spend the next few hours eating the Lower East Side -- I'd show them Russ & Daughters where we'd buy some chocolate babka for later. They'd return the favor by introducing me to Iberian ham, freshly cut, at Despana. We'd sit at a Carrera marble table in the back, and suck on the just-sliced pork. We'd leave, and tear apart the babka on the street. We laughed with food giddiness as a nippy end-of-winter's dusk snuggled next to us.

I walked around my Grandmother's neighborhood of sixty years ago until the gaslights ignited and the sidewalks filled with tonight's revelers. I bought myself some almost-spring tulips and made it home with time to walk the dog before falling into a deep, cozy sleep.


Katz's
205 East Houston St. NY, NY
Pastrami on Rye

Walk in, take a ticket (and *don't* lose it or you'll be charged $50 bucks). Egg creams are on the right, by the grill (where you can also get an oustanding hot dog -- load it up with kraut). In the center are the meat cutters; pick the one you like. I aim for the fastest, but you can select based on age, looks, skill, or smile. Get the fatty pastrami on rye with mustard. The $1 fee for lean meat is a moron tax; avoid it. Ask for lots of pickles.

On the left, you can get fountain beverages, Dr. Brown's and beers. Further left, there are desserts -- cakes, chocolate pudding, plus you can get sausages and salamis to go (or to send). If you don't want to deal with the drama, you can sit against the wall and order through a waiter. But that's like going to Belmont and only hanging out in the Owner's Club dining room, away from the grandstand. You're in an old school cafeteria now -- mingle with the riff raff and let them show you how it's done.