Travel

G did a bad thing. He went to Bouchon Bakery in the Time Warner Center and came home with all these goodies. I mean baddies! He claimed they were for our guests but a few crumbs fell into our mouths as well. Do you love Thomas Keller? (If you don't know who I'm talking about, Rip Van Winkle, you can read his bio on the Bouchon Bakery website.) I had an incredible lunch at the French Laundry in the spring of 2001 and even went into the kitchen to have Thomas sign a copy of his recently published cookbook of the same name. It was immaculate in there and quiet as a tomb. But the food that came out was hardly demure. For such a serious chef, he loves his little food puns: oysters and pearls (tapioca); coffee and doughnuts (cappuccino semifreddo), etc. He opened Bouchon Bakery right outside Per Se—his magnum opus where I have dined in splendor overlooking Central Park—so that it could provide bread for the restaurant and also "add an additional layer of cafe life to the surrounding area." So thoughtful. There, you can grab and go, perch on a stool, or get a real table at which to enjoy light fare, including soups and sandwiches, quiche, wonderful breads and all manner of sweets. I once had a huge coconut-dusted doughnut stuffed with passionfruit curd that nearly did me in. They even bake dog treats for New York's most pampered canines. My personal favorite from the selection shown above happens to be the frisbee-sized Nutter Butter. It's unwise to eat more than a quarter of this creamy, peanutty travesty at a time. I've even posted the bakery's recipe for it should you be reckless enough to want to try this at home.
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I’m going to institute a new feature that, along with Round-Ups and Novel Ingredients, will become something you’ll see from time to time on my blog. Shop Talk will give me a chance to spotlight some of my favorite retail venues, both brick-&-mortar and virtual. Many of you may already know about Global Table, as it’s received plenty of coverage elsewhere. Still, I’d like to toss in my 2 cents. Owned and curated by Nathalie Smith, a former stylist at Elle Décor, this tiny shop on Sullivan Street in SoHo is stuffed to the gills with a well-edited selection of housewares at really accessible prices. Smith has a great eye for the beautiful and the functional—from delicate glass decanters and bamboo bowls to melamine trays and even lamps. Want to make a statement with a bunch of oversized ceramic vases in brilliant hues?
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Ikat is all the rage now, so I'm sure you've seen it on the runways and in plenty of shelter blogs and magazines. I've been madly in love with it ever since I encountered my first piece in Indonesia about 15 years ago. Since then, I've looked for it in many places, with varying success. Although I always associated it with Southeast Asia, and had found different types in India and Cambodia, it was thanks to the internet that I discovered it's also a national art in Uzbekistan! The three types shown above are all from the spring 2010 collection of Dries Van Noten. The top and bottoms ones are woven ikat, and the middle one is an ikat print. They were absurdly expensive but I can't say I regret it: I am officially obsessed with ikat and know I will wear these pieces for the rest of my life. (Note to self: must not get any fatter!) What exactly is ikat, you ask? And well you might.
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I grew up in a bilingual family, speaking English generously peppered with Spanish. Although we all spent time living in Mexico and Spain, somehow I am the only one who ended up with a Castilian accent. Born to a Chicana teacher and a Jewish professor of Spanish literature, it makes sense that both of my sisters work in bilingual education of one sort or another. (I am the anomaly.) We are three daughters, linked by blood and by our inherited passion for language. My sister Susi (Susana Chávez-Silverman) has just published her second memoir, Scenes from La Cuenca de Los Angeles y Otros Natural Disasters.

Like her first one, Killer Crónicas, published in 2004, it is written in its own unique back-&-forth between English and Spanish—what she refers to as "code-switching," and others have called Spanglish. Each chapter is a “crónica,” an episode culled from diary entries and letters that trace her journey from California to South Africa to Australia and back. The prose crackles, as full of quirky charm and deep insights as my beautiful sister. I hope you get a chance to lose (and find) yourself in her lyrical writing.
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Blindingly white beaches. Pale turquoise waters. Enormous lobster tails. Relentless sunshine. Balmy breezes. The occasional piña colada. Room to breathe. Toes buried in the sand. The nostalgic scent of suntan lotion. Salty rasta curls. Family dynamics. Herbal steam and massage. Tan lines. Poolside lunch. Kids splashing. Mangoes. Hours of reading (yea, Kindle). Naps. Freedom. Moonlight romance. Early nights. Bliss.
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I've never gotten into reality TV, never seen Top Chef, so I can only judge Tom Colicchio on the basis of his food which I think is pretty damn good. It was over a luxurious dinner at Craft in 2005 that G requested permission to officially court me. I still remember coyly nodding my head as I stuffed in a mouthful of roasted chanterelles. This was a man who knew the way to my heart. (Which one? you're asking...) I've also been a loyal fan of Craftbar over the years, especially during the reign of Akhtar Nawab, when you could sip some delicious Campari cocktail at the bar while noshing on fried sage leaves stuffed with sausage. These days, in its new location on Broadway, Craftbar is still a fun spot—and a good deal—for lunch. During the abbreviated run of Craftsteak, I had one of the best steaks of my life, a flatiron. But I remember being rather appalled at the blasting air-conditioning (for all those sweaty, rib-eye-eating Wall Streeters) and the equally affronting price tag. Now this huge, wood-filled space has been reincarnated as Colicchio and Sons—a more modest but also more ambitious restaurant. As Sam Sifton of the Times said in his 3-star review last week, "A lot of testosterone has been drained off, and a combination of flowers and a Grateful Deadish soundtrack do much to counter the boom-era feel of the restaurant’s towering ceilings and soft leather seats." I took a friend there for her birthday lunch yesterday but arrived early, so decided to perch at the bar while I waited. Of course this led to a cocktail (at noon!), a wonderful combination of thyme-infused vodka with lemon and ginger ale called the Hard Thyme, accompanied by a teensy bowl of chile-roasted nuts. When my friend arrived, I was pleasantly loose and ready for anything.
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We're eagerly awaiting spring up here in the boonies. Of late we've been snowed in, buffeted by gale-force winds, and now deluged with driving rains that have brought waterfalls literally gushing out of the woods. The vernal pools are forming and bits of green glow like sea glass on the forest floor—hardy moss and ferns that have somehow weathered through.

In our own yard, the blush of new life can be seen on the ripening buds of the lilac bush and in the emerging colors of the succulent garden. We have been in the city for the past couple of days where the magnolias are threatening to burst into bloom at any moment. I'm about to have lunch at the newly lauded Colicchio & Sons (3 stars in the Times) and will soon head back to my own kitchen. For now, I'm turning my face to the sun with high hopes for the new season.

Over the Christmas holidays last year, G and I traveled to Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos with our friends Lisa and Philip. We saw beautiful temples, explored the overgrown wonder that is Angkor Wat, took a boat ride up the Mekong, strolled through the art galleries of Saigon, ate countless bowls of pho, slurped down many coconut frosties, and bought way more Cambodian silk than anyone has a right to. Among the trip's highlights were the many markets we visited. The gorgeous fresh produce, the delicious food being cooked on the spot, sparkling seafood on display and, yes, plenty of other, less appetizing things—like roasted roaches (Philip ate some and said they tasted like nuts), snakes on a stick and a few unidentifiable substances in varying states of decay.

We were pretty restrained about eating on the street like that, having picked up assorted parasites on other trips (and having all become violently ill on this one after eating the homemade paté de foie gras of a French expat at his tiny bistro in Siem Reap). But thanks to the fabulous Australian Luxe guides we were turned on to a fantastic restaurant with branches in both Hanoi and Saigon. I think they were both called Quan An Ngon, but since the guide described them as being as big and packed as "Pam Anderson’s bra," that's how we referred to them.
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Our journey north yesterday was so much fun! Visiting River Brook Farm in Cochecton really got me excited about the arrival of the new season—though in the wake of gale force winds and freezing rain that still seems a ways off up here. Still, nothing says spring like cuddling with a baby goat. They are so silky and sweet-smelling, so lovable and mischievous, nibbling on your hair and your fingers and your collar. As you can see, I was in ecstasy. It was also great to see the farmers, Alice and Neil, whom we hadn't visited in a couple of months. They're all revved up for planting season, super-organized and already cutting bags of salad greens—spinach, mache, miner's lettuce, etc—from their greenhouse. And they've still got several kinds of potatoes, jars upon jars of rare heirloom beans, and hardy vegetables like squash and celery root.

After a prolonged stop at the farm, we made our way up to Delaware Delicacies, Ray Turner's smokehouse in a remote corner of Hancock, New York.
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After spending the first part of our honeymoon traveling in southern India with our dear friends Scott and Lisa, G and I made our way to Rajasthan for what would be three of the best weeks of my life. Among the many spectacular hotels we were privileged to visit was this incredible 18th-century palace in the araval hills outside Udaipur. It is not the immediate go-to hotel in Udaipur; most people head for the Oberoi Lake Palace. But G somehow managed to snuffle this one out (like the truffle hound he is) and it was absolutely stunning. Devi Garh has only 39 suites, and they all feature local marbles and semi-precious stones. Our room was appointed with lapis lazuli—enormous sleek, azure slabs of it. There was a gorgeous pool and a wonderful spa where we were oiled up and rubbed down. Other features included little outdoor sitting rooms; a bar with chaises longues piled with brilliant silk pillows where you could have drinks at night by the light of these amazing wire baskets that held small, glowing fires; and secret courtyards, including one with a swing hanging from a jacaranda-like tree. And at the end of each of the two magical days we spent at Devi Garh, there was dinner.
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