CHEAPO AIR

Posted on April 9, 2012 by admin

CHEAPO AIR

Illustration-Ron Leishman

We’ve been away on the West Coast Swing of the book tour.
Well, okay, that’s a little grand. We had a Selected Shorts gig in Berkeley and we scrambled to get as many book signings as possible while we were in the area.
Anyway, the idea was I’d book the flights and then bill it all back to the rightful people after the trip. So I found something online called Cheapo Air and I booked the whole deal through them. And there, my faithful readers, begins a tale.
Cheapo gave us a flight to San Francisco that was on Alaska Air. No problem – I love Alaska Air. Many nice experiences with them. We’re in the taxi, approaching JFK and the driver says, “I don’t see Alaska Air. There’s no Alaska Air here.”
‘Well,” I say, all puffed up. “I have it right here on my itinerary – Alaska Air, flight … so and so …” and he goes around again and he’s quite correct – Alaska Air is not on the board.
Jill hops on the cell phone. I’m now into my travel anxiety, giving tense a new name.
“Hi” she says. “We’re flying this morning from JFK to San Francisco at 10:00AM on Alaska. What terminal do we go to?”
And they tell her – the nice people from Alaska – that it’s a Delta flight because Alaska doesn’t fly out of New York.
Why didn’t our people tell us that? Because they’re Cheapo, that’s why.
Cut to the trip home:
We get to SFO and the curbside guy tells us he can check us in. He’s very confident about it. He doesn’t let us touch our bags, he snaps to his computer like the pro he is – he’s looking for a tip and I’ve already fished it out of my wallet. And then his face darkens, there’s a tension around his eyes, and I’m thinking, “Cheapo Air is giving me the shaft again.”
And sure enough, there’s a problem. Our man tells us to schlep our luggage inside and talk to the powers that be. Everyone who looks us up in the computer gets a big furrow in their brow.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“Your birth dates are not in the record. Security.”
“Here! Here’s my birth date. It’s right on my Drivers License.”
‘I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to wait in this line.” And he sends us to a long, slow line that’s rife with suspected terrorists and felons.
You get what you pay for.
We did eat well on our trip, however. Two high spots were Gather in Berkeley and Picco in Larkspur. We hit Gather between shows on Sunday, joined by some old pals who saw the show. Jill was delighted by the vegan choices and since I tend to eat lightly before a show, she and I shared the Vegetarian platter and it was one of the best combinations of taste in texture in recent memory. It was billed as a Vegan Charcuterie and went like this:

vegetarian charcuterie

1. Citrus – pistachio, coconut milk, fermented black bean

2. Trumpet mushroom – Cannellini bean, spring onion, horseradish, herb salad

3. Chickpeas – dried Habañero, English pea, cilantro

4. Mushroom tartare – spring vegetables, radish salsa

Each bite, slathered onto crusty bread, was heaven on a stick.
Picco was a party, too. There were eight of us and everyone was hot to share the food. Everyone thought that was a good idea – except me, of course.

avocado bruschetta

“If you’re sharing,” our waitperson said as we sat down, “I have a few suggestions.”
And at the top of the menu, it says, “Designed to share … “I was stymied. There was no way I could go into my rant about wanting to eat what I ordered and nothing else. It was a party and I didn’t want to be the pooper, so to speak.
The food was great, I must say. Top-notch. There were shots of English pea gazpacho with Dungeness crab; avocado bruschetta; sautéed broccoli with preserved lemon; pappardelle with duck ragú; risotto with peas and carrots, made from scratch each half-hour (a really nice touch); their crispy fried chicken; all served with bottles of a nice aglianico from Campania.
If you have to share, Picco is a very good place to do it. And they have a pizzeria next door, which everyone tells me is great. Next time.


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EATING KALE

Posted on March 11, 2012 by admin

How do you find a vegan at a dinner party? Don't worry, they'll tell you!

We had a moment the other night, a unique event in the long history of the Tucker-Eikenberry alliance.
We had kale for dinner – just kale. That was dinner.
It was an odd night, which could be said about a lot of nights these days. Our social engagement was a 5:00 to 7:00 kind of thing and we found ourselves back at the apartment around 7:30, our night done, with neither of us a thought in our head as to what to do next. We didn’t want to go out again – although I heroically offered run up to the Peace Food Café on Amsterdam, Jill’s home away from home, for some take-out.
“No,” she said. I’ll make some kale from Alison’s recipe.”
“You’ll make?” I thought. This whole thing of Jill’s cooking is very new. There’s lots of territorial shit going down right now in the kitchen.
I took control: “All you need is an inch or two of water under the steamer.”
“Don’t chop the walnuts too much. Various sizes are nice.”
“Get your brown sugar out and ready. You don’t want to be looking for it at the last moment.”
“Garlic burns very easily.”
Well. The Italians would say, “Allora.” She did great. One plate, two forks — kale with garlic, walnuts, salt and sugar for dinner.
Kale, by the way, is closer to steak than it is to spinach.

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PUB DATE PUB DATE PUB DATE

Posted on March 5, 2012 by admin

Congrats!


For anyone thinking this post is going to be about a sociable evening of darts, pints and girls with cute accents, I apologize in advance.It’s actually about the publication of my first novel, ‘AFTER ANNIE’, which debuted this past Thursday.
Publishing a novel isn’t like opening a play, where everything comes to a point in one evening. You open the show, go a party, get drunk, go home and read the reviews. You know your fate and the fate of your project in one big, messy emotional night.

Books are different. It’s more like welcoming a baby into the world. It just lies there; it doesn’t do anything; it doesn’t go anywhere; everybody’s afraid to pick it up and they all have advice on the best way to change it.
I was thinking about using this moment to write a diatribe on the demise of the book business, but instead I’ve decided to congratulate myself:
Congrats, Mikey. You wrote a book. And there it is, sitting on a table in the bookstore. Way to go, man.

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BUSTED IN THE WASTELAND

Posted on February 29, 2012 by admin

quarter pounder with uh oh

Shortly after noon on Saturday, I was walking down to the car rental place on 77th Street. We were off to the country to visit some friends. I was feeling a little peckish, as the British say, so I decided to grab something quick to eat on my way. On a whim – I swear I don’t do this more than once or twice a year — I popped into McDonald’s and ordered a Quarter Pounder with Cheese to go. I unwrapped it and was happily munching away as I walked down Broadway, when I ran into a friend who also happens to be a regular follower of this blog.
“What’s for lunch?” she asked with a smile, but when I got closer and she saw what I was eating, the smile turned into a look of disbelief and disillusionment.
“McDonald’s? You?”
“Well, you know …” I blushed and tried to hide the sandwich with my other hand. Maybe, I thought, I could convince her it was a buttered baguette stuffed with imported prosciutto.
“What is that, a Quarter Pounder?” This was from another acquaintance who happened to be strolling by with his wife. The two of them are well-known Upper West Side foodies.
“Well, every now and then … “ I mumbled, trying to extricate myself from the growing mob.
“Oh, the big gourmet,” said Frank, another foodie acquaintance of mine who popped up out of nowhere. “Those things’ll kill you,” he said with a supercilious look.
The crowd was growing – in both size and hostility. It was like I had defiled some shrine or something.
The problem became the smell. If you eat anything from McDonald’s – even if it’s just a diet Coke or something – the smell stays with you for three days. You can shower; you can brush your teeth; you can change your clothes – it doesn’t matter – you smell like McDonald’s for three days. I think it’s part of their marketing philosophy.

Our doors are closed to you, sir.

Now the smell was actually drawing people – from across the street, from around the corner – fourteen members of the Upper West Side Chapter of the Chaine des Rotisseurs showed up out of nowhere and surrounded me, babbling in French. They pointed at my half-eaten burger and shook their heads with disdain.
Okay, I’m exaggerating. But oh, how I yearn for years before I had my food blog, when I could chow down on the street with anonymity.
Those days are gone for good.

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MY BODEGA

Posted on February 21, 2012 by admin

 

The local abomination.

One of the defining traditions of life in New York City is the corner bodega. It’s an iconic representation of the melting-pot mentality that helps to set off New York from the cookie-cutter chain stores of suburbia. I use the word bodega loosely because although it began as a Hispanic institution, its Moms and Pops now include proprietors of many cultures. To qualify as a real bodega it must be on your corner – not in the middle of the block; it must carry milk, juice, slightly stale Kaiser rolls and any other necessity you may have forgotten when you were shopping at a real store – and the first language of the person
behind the counter must not be English. That’s a bodega.
Imagine my shock when I was strolling up Columbus Avenue last week only to discover a shiny new 7-11 on the corner at 89th street. A 7-11! The Anti-Bodega! I could feel the property value of my co-op shrinking as I stood there, gaping at this anomaly. What’s next? Denny’s?
My corner bodega is called Zabar’s and many people would protest that it, too, does not qualify as a real bodega. But they’re just being picky: it’s on the corner (sort of); it carries milk – from cows, from sheep, from goats, from soy, from almonds; 1% milk, 2% milk, whole milk, half-and-half, whipping cream, heavy cream, sour cream, cream cheese, crème fraiche – and others, I’m sure. And although the original Zabar’s Mom and Pop were Jewish and came from Eastern Europe rather than from Central or South America, Korea, Thailand or China, they were immigrants finding their way into American society by opening a little food store on the corner – a bodega – or schmodega, if you prefer.

The heart of the Wasteland.

The great thing about Zabar’s – the thing that made me choose my apartment within walking distance of this extraordinary outlet – is that they offer the best and freshest of everything. They’re not a real market like Fairway or Whole Foods, but a dedicated foodie will always be able find what he or she needs. For example, Zabar’s doesn’t have ten different brands of San Marzano tomatoes like Fairway does, but the canned tomatoes they have are top-notch, Italian and D.O.P. There aren’t aisles dedicated to hundreds of different almond butters like Whole Foods has; Zabar’s has one almond butter. It’s called Yum and it is. And when I can’t find Treviso radicchio at Fairway, chances are Zabar’s is stocking it. It’s uncanny what you can find there in a pinch - and “in a pinch” is exactly what a good bodega is all about.

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