Travel

I was lucky enough to be featured on a really wonderful website/blog that I have mentioned before and of which I am truly enjoying being a part: food52. I'm so thrilled to be singled out by Amanda Hesser and Merrill Stubbs, two cooks and writers whose recipes and career trajectories I admire greatly. The spotlight has brought some new visitors to gluttonforlife, some of them bloggers as well, and I want to welcome one and all. So thanks again for your support and kind words. They mean the world to me.
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You can take the girl out of the city but you can’t take the city out of the girl…especially when she’s stuffing it back in with both hands! No better place than Momofuku Ssam Bar to remember what it’s like to eat somebody else’s cooking. We chowed down on David-Chang-deliciousness and it was yet another flawless dining experience, from cocktails to cookies. You know all about the place already, right? So I don't have to tell you that you'll eat hunched over at the bar on a hard stool, gazing at strange '70s art featuring John McEnroe and rocking out to loud music. It's all part of a funky, stripped-down dining experience that really wakes up your senses. So glad they’ve now got a full bar and mixed drinks on their extensive alcohol menu. I've written before about the truly wonderful “Penicillin;” even posted the recipe for you here. Smoky Scotch + ginger syrup + lemon juice = divinity. It outshined the Wild-Turkey-based “Gold Rush” I had last night, if you ask me. Here’s what we ate:
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You may have seen Mark Bittman's piece about eating legumes in the Times last week. He provided some excellent and simple recipes, like spiced red lentil dal, and mung bean dal with apples and coconut. He talked about the typical Indian way of finishing these dishes by stirring in an extra flavor booster—cream, butter, fried onions or nuts. (Apparently this is called a "tarka.") It reminded me of a dish I was obsessed with during our visit to India, a thick and spicy stew of black lentils enriched with cream. I first had it in Jaipur, that magical city of bazaars and bangles and precious stones and yellow marigolds. We were staying at the Oberoi Rajvilas, one of the world's most outstanding hotels. Peacocks roamed the grounds outside our luxurious "tent," and one night we collapsed into our enormous, pillowy bed to watch "Ghandi" and eat room service. What arrived was this incredible daal makhani, fragrant with ginger and chile, rich with ghee.
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Fela is astonishing! One of the most vibrant and uplifting theatrical experiences you will ever see. You should treat yourself to a night out. The show has migrated from off-Broadway to the Eugene O’Neill theatre on 49th Street. Some heavyweight producers have signed on (Jay-Z, Will and Jada Smith) and luminaries in our packed house included Spike Lee (yes, wearing a baseball cap) and Oprah BFF Gayle King (sporting a Michele Obama-esque waist-cincher). Written by Jim Lewis and directed and choreographed by the legendary Bill T. Jones, this music and dance extravaganza is about Fela Anikulap-Kuti, the Nigerian creator of Afrobeat, a unique synthesis of highlife jazz, James Brown and traditional African rhythms. We saw Sahr Ngaujah in the taxing lead role, but some nights Kevin Mambo takes over. Apparently he is just as good. As incredible as Sahr is, and as smokin’ as is the on-stage band, the show for me was all about the nine female dancers. They represent the 28 women who worked and toured with Fela, all of whom he married in one big ceremony.

Their performances are centered around their incredibly regal attitudes and their amazing booties, constantly rotating and shaking to the beat. The colorful and sexy costumes (designed by Marina Draghici, who is also responsible for the fine set), and the extraordinary makeup, are like the vivid plumage on rare birds. Their bodies range from Amazonian to tiny, from sinewy to well-muscled; they are all strong and supple and gorgeous.
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Still at the Ace Hotel in New York City. Bastion of all things vintage-fabulous, steampunk and industrial chic. I like the use of typography throughout the hotel. I brought my camera but forgot the cable to download images to my computer. (Duh. I swear I will get the hang of this soon.) So instead I am posting this picture of me taken two years ago, at a truly fabulous hotel outside Udaipur, called Devi Garh. It's an ancient Indian palace and one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. (More on that soon, when I post about the incredible Kashmiri curry I ate there and now know how to make.) I suppose it's a sad fact of colonialism, but the Indians really know what good service is. Here at the Ace, not so much. Our do-not-disturb sign—a magnet that says "Not Now" and can be stuck to the metal door—somehow vanished during the night. The room service burgers delivered from The Breslin's kitchen (beef not lamb): Eh. The thrice-cooked fries, however, were divine. And I give them credit for sending up little jars of ketchup, dijon mustard and mayonnaise. And for the crisp lacinato kale and radicchio mixed into their green salad. For dessert? The homemade ice cream on offer was vanilla only, and no chocolate sauce available, so we passed. An in-room viewing of The September Issue wrapped up the evening, and we were really quite happy. Grace Coddington, with her witchy mane of flaming red frizz (gorgeous) versus the bizarrely stiff and bug-like Anna Wintour—no contest, really. Given her upbringing, and the real-world accomplishments of her talented siblings, Anna, poor dear, is clearly burdened with the shame of working in fashion. It's too bad, because when you see the magic that Grace creates, the sheer transporting fantasy of a beautiful girl in an other-worldly dress, you see that fashion's escapism is not without merit.
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At this very moment, my location is the polar opposite of the one in this photo where I'm sipping tea on a break from snowshoeing. Right now, I am having a delicious mocha that was meticulously crafted for me by one of the hot, pork-pie-hat-and-mustachio-sporting coffee-barkeeps at the Stumptown in the Ace Hotel on 29th and Broadway. The Ace is among the new hotels favored by the tragically hip (along with the downtown Standard and the Jane). It also houses The Breslin, a gastropub of sorts from the Spotted Pig crew (onion soup with bone marrow, various stews and concoctions from both ends of the pig). Upstairs on the 6th floor, our spacious room looks across 29th Street almost into the window of a loft I lived in during the summer of 1986. It has a turntable we actually know how to use (and some pretty lame records), and a great leather couch strewn with a black sheepskin. Pretty homey. The lobby is riddled with thirtysomethings in knitted caps hunched over their Kindles and Macs, and bellying up to the bar to order the requisite bourbon cocktails. I bought a bottle of Bookers for the room because, frankly, well, never mind... I'm leaning up against the gleaming brass counter in Stumptown, swaddled in my Rick Owens wrap sweater, sipping my mocha, hunched over my own Mac. Hey, maybe I do belong.
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Days gone by. An opportunity to look back. And just like that, another decade draws to a close. I remember ringing in the millennium amid fireworks on a rooftop on Central Park West and then walking down Broadway in my blue cashmere dress, all the way to Times Square. Post-midnight, it was surprisingly empty with just a few dancers in spangled Native American costume still performing on a raised stage. A strangely poignant moment of anti-climax. I could hardly imagine what this decade had in store for me. Bottomless sorrow followed by the redemption of true love. Inspiring friendships. Explorations in food. The undertaking of a novel. Travels to Africa, China, Mexico, Thailand, Iceland, Morocco, Italy, India, Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos. Life in Los Angeles, New York City and now Sullivan County. I sit here, staring out my window at three enormous grackles hunting for birdseed under the first powdery layers of what promises to be a ski-worthy snowfall, and I am grateful: for the adversity that shows me I am strong; for the work that connects me to my passion; for the love that sustains me; for the joy of living that I can share with all of you. I wish you good health, good food and good times in 2010.
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"Just when you think it couldn't possibly get any better, it's time for lunch!" That was the motto for our trip to Kerala in December 2007. A couple of months after G and I got married, we took a five-week honeymoon in India. The first two weeks were spent in southern India with our friends Lisa and Scott, part of the time on these amazing old-style boats that floated along the canals. We spent the days lazing, reading, obsessively bird-watching, and observing daily life along the water's edge. We had our own cooks on board and we stuffed ourselves silly on their delicious regional cuisine, based largely on coconut, ginger and seafood. It's not what you would necessarily think of as "typical" Indian food (although of course it is).

I drank quite a few mojitos sitting at the bar of the Hotel Nacional in Havana, Cuba, while listening to a band of swoonworthy studs play my request of "Contigo en la Distancia" (one of my all-time favorite love songs), so I feel confident I can recognize what the authentic version of this classic cocktail tastes like. A muddler is a must for making it properly. This handy bar tool is used like a pestle to mash (aka muddle) fruits, herbs or spices in the bottom of a shaker or glass. This helps release and meld their flavors, the better to infuse your mojito (or caipirinha or mint julep). Knock one back this weekend in the company of your beloved and say hello—or ¡hola!—to summer.

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