Here, Eat This! The Adventures of Kiki Maraschino

Saturday we moved hotels, since we had a good deal at the Westin Times Square – thanks to my brother’s awards points and generosity. Our room wasn’t ready yet, so we entrusted the front desk with our corned beef from Stage Deli and my medication, which they promised to refrigerate. Then we headed off on the Q train to Coney Island.

It was a cold and rainy day, so Coney Island was desolate. But we didn’t care, and neither did all of the kids on the train who completely lost their minds when the Cyclone came into view.

Our first stop, Nathan’s, was no trouble to find at all. I was surprised to discover a Kenny Rogers Roaster sandwiched between the hot dog and seafood counters. I went for a chili dog and a dog with peppers.

The mustard is so good in New York – this photo did not turn out well, but the mustard really makes NY dogs. Nathan’s was not the same as the Nathan’s you buy in the market. They were flavorful with a nice snap and an explosion of fat. I ate them both. Bob had a cheesesteak, but I was focused on my hot dogs. Did I mention the fries? I can see why the birds swarm this place.

I had also ordered frog’s legs and a lobster roll from the seafood counter, expecting to pick a little at everything. I sabotaged myself by wolfing down those two dogs. The frog’s legs weren’t nicely cut into drumettes as they had been in Paris, and the bright daylight didn’t hide the unappetizing black veins. They had also cooled already, so the frog’s legs just weren’t the same. Plus I couldn’t get the word “articulated” out of my head as I stared at them. The lobster roll was more like lobster-flavored mayonnaise, so we just picked at it.

We wandered through the rides, some of which are in Astroland and some of which aren’t. Astroland has been the subject of much debate as it is slated for demolition to make way for condos. Locals are up in arms about it, even though they promise to spare the historic Cyclone. Most of the rides are carnival rides that could easily be packed up and relocated, but it’s about tradition.

I loved the trippy artwork, especially the clowns. There were also a lot of devils. And dead rappers. It was a little like Thugland.

Bob went on the Cyclone first so I could take pictures and he could report back on its scariness. He said it wasn’t scary, but it was really painful.

I picked The Breakdancer as the next ride, since I love spinning and I had never been on that one before. It was dedicated to Ant, “Loved by Many, Hated by Few, Respected by All.” I can only hope when I’m gone I am hated by few. As the ride started, the MC started shouting, “This one is for you, Big A!” I realized, “Uh oh, this ride is in tribute to his dead friend. It is going to be one hell of a ride.” And it was.

After a few intense minutes of spinning, I decided to video the ride. It was really hard struggling against the G forces to get out my camera and I gripped it in my fists. After awhile, the ride switched to spin the other way. It seemed to go on forever. This ride was never, ever going to end. The hot dogs in my stomache considered relocating. The MC asked if anyone wanted off, but no way was I going to wimp out after not going on the Cyclone. So we started all over again. Spinning, spinning, spinning; it wouldn’t stop. I knew I was going to live out the rest of my life on that ride. I was going to die on that ride. Hated by few.

The video I took lasts for a full minute, and it was less than a third of one spin in one direction. So at the very least we rode for 9 full minutes. That is a conservative estimate. After the ride, we both had to sit down and we were not feeling so good. The hot dogs decided they had enough and started a fistfight.

We walked along unsteadily as the booths and rides started shutting down. I had hoped to go for pierogie while we were in a Russian neighborhood, but I knew if smelled cabbage I was going to hurl. So we jumped on the train back to Manhattan.

When we arrived at the hotel, we discovered they had lost my medication. After an hour of freaking out, it was finally found. Bob returned to the room triumphantly, and I asked, “Where’s the corned beef?” I will not even try to describe the look he gave me. Our room was fantastic, the view was spectacular, and I was sad that the experience of checking into a room like that had been marred with worry. I called the manager to get the name of the desk clerk who hadn’t been very nice about the whole thing. Instead he let me complain to him for about 5 minutes, then asked, “What can we do to make it up to you?”

“What are you offering?”

“Have you had dinner tonight?”

“No, we have been too busy freaking out.”

“May I offer dinner at Shula’s, our steakhouse?”

“Well, we were meeting a friend for dinner. Would dinner for three be pushing it?”

“It wouldn’t be pushing it at all.”

And so instead of heading down to SoHo as arranged, we ended up calling our friend John to come to Times Square for a free steak dinner.

The atmosphere was warm and cozy in the dim restaurant. The restaurant theme was the Dolphins’ 1972 winning season. Kind of a specific theme. In spite of that, the decor was tasteful and more reminiscent of a supper club than a sports bar. A bottle of champagne started at 130 dollars, and we decided to not completely take advantage of the hotel manager. John and I each had a 20-dollar glass of the champagne, but stopped at one and switched to beer. My mother always taught me to order from the middle of the menu when being treated, and we all chose steaks in the 40-dollar range, even though they had one for 80.

For starters, John had a bisque, which I didn’t sample since he had a cold. Bob had something that has completely slipped my mind and I ordered lobster cocktail. I didn’t know yet that in New York a lobster cocktail is comprised of one half a Maine lobster in its shell. So it was kind of a decadent meal after all. The lobster was thrillingly cold and sweet.

Our steaks were high quality and cooked to perfection. The sides turned out to be big enough for the whole table. I could have lived on leftovers for two days. The crab mac and cheese kicked total ass and I will be hunting down the Shula’s in LA for that specific dish. John’s twice-baked potato was rich with cream and cheese, and Bob’s lobster mashed potatoes were unexpectedly good.

The damage was around 360 bucks after tip, so the hotel still got off cheaper than if they had comped us a night. One hour of my worry is certainly pricy. While Bob waited for the leftovers, John and I hung around the landing where a lot of people wanted to know if they could help us.

We walked around Times Square to work off the heavy food, and hit Ripley’s Believe it or Not museum. I love visiting them when I travel because every museum has different stuff. John took exception with calling things “unbelievable” when they were just “unfamiliar”. “Can you believe people would be SO STUPID to think masks ward off evil spirits???” I have to concede that there is a really patronizing tone in a lot of the commentary. I will still happily pay 20 bucks to see the life of Christ in toast.

Usually each museum has one shrunken head – the Times Square museum had about 10, including one of a caucasion with a big walrus moustache. Later I would disturb passers-by on the street when I remarked, “I have never seen so many severed heads all in one place before!” I also discovered that when my head is in a jar I kind of look like Drew Barrymore. Maybe I will have a big jar made to wear around from now on.

Back on Times Square, things were jumping. I seemed to be the only person to notice that there was a huge fistfight taking over the corner across the street. When a bunch of the people fighting made a break for it and ran towards us, I grabbed Bob. When a huge phalanx of cops started across the street, I called out to John, and headed back towards the hotel. My cell phone rang, and it was John, “Where’d you go? You’re missing the riot!”

I said, “Whenever I see more than 5 cops coming my way, I go the other way.”

He said, “That’s a good rule. See you guys tomorrow?”

“Sounds good.”

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We met my friend Anne-Marie at MOMA for an afternoon of Starry Night and Mademoiselles du Avignon.

A lot of the modern pieces involved lights and film and made me kind of dizzy. The photography exhibit was a study of light I would have liked to check out more. But by this time the museum, which was free after 4pm, was crammed with so many people it became uncomfortable.

Bob and I said goodbye to Anne-marie and wandered down the street to nosh along 54th. We happened upon London, and thought we would see what Gordon Ramsay has to be so cocky about. If the bar menu is any indication, he has every right to be a screaming bastard.

The lamb samosas were made with lamb confit rather than ground lamb. It was flavorful without being too gamey. I was unsure of how short ribs could be interpreted into bar food, but damn if they didn’t debone the ribs to make futuristic little squares topped with a rosette of mashed potato. Precious. They were also delicious and filling.

The ultramodern unisex bathrooms confused the British tourists, but they were clean and larger than our hotel bathroom.

As we enjoyed our drinks, I looked up and who was passing but Jean Baptiste. I called out, “Jean Phillipe!” Ramsay cleverly hires only men named Jean-something to keep things simple. We chatted about the upcoming opening of Gordon Ramsay in West Hollywood’s London Hotel. We could have happily dined on bar food all night, but we had seen a few other places that looked intriguing.

The Oyster Bar looked very Roadfood-y, but the overeagerness of the host and the resigned looks on the diner’s faces gave me cause for concern. We decided to have a beer and think about it.

The garlic bread was nicely seasoned, so we decided to order, but with restraint. I selected the cold seafood appetizer since it would be hard to muck up, and easier to tell if the seafood was off. The plate was a huge disappointment. The crab and lobster were overcooked and flavorless. The shrimp were just wrong. Bob tried one oyster and declared it bad. I worried, “Bad as in spoiled?” He said, “Bad as in not good.” The quality of the seafood was good, and the potato salad was delicious. It seemed like maybe once this place was loved a long time ago. Someone made sure the garlic bread and potato salad recipes were classic. But something happened – the place was sold, and now the restaurant is lonely and moribund.

We escaped the Oyster Bar and immediately spotted an Original Ray’s Famous.

I hear so much crap about California pizza from New Yorkers – how pineapple doesn’t belong on pizzas, blah, blah, blah. I was simultaneously disappointed and vindicated to see that the REAL New York slices had toppings like Buffallo wing, pineapple, BBQ chicken, and even broccoli. Broccoli! It’s a sin against God and man.

Our first slices in New York were nice and foldable, although my Margherita wasn’t nearly as good as Bob’s pepperoni and sausage.

We jaywalked across the street to the Stage Deli for rugelach, cheesecake, bagels and corned beef for breakfast. Checking out the standard celebrity Polaroids on the wall, I was amused to see instead of the usual pose, Sally Jesse Rafael was perched atop the counter hugging a giant jar of pickles.

I never understood the appeal of black and white cookies before. Stage Deli’s was a light, fresh and spongy cookie topped with soft royal icing. I think if a place becomes famous for something, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. High turnover means fresh goods, and this is what their cookie had going for it. I don;t think I’d ever eaten a truly fresh black and white before.

The NY cheesecake was very familiar, not too sweet, and a little powdery. I have to admit I prefer creamy Philadelphia-style cheesecake. Although you have to give them points for the rugelach cheesecake, “Hey, you got cheesecake in my rugelach!” “No, you got rugelach in my cheesecake! Hey…”

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Friday we had reservations at Nougatine, the “casual” dining room of Jean-Georges. Of course, New York casual is not LA casual. Everyone was so stylish I could have snapped a photo in any direction and printed it in a magazine. I asked a man in a suit where the restroom was before I realized he didn’t work there. I was still coming off of working the graveyard shift and had not adapted to the time change. I had rolled out of bed and rushed to Nougatine on an empty stomach. So I was not interested in the prix fixe menu that had previously looked so appealing.

Bob ordered from the prix fixe, and I ordered an artichoke as well as a crab salad and ice cream/sorbet medley, and asked the server to let the chef decide the order in which the dishes should come out. Bob’s salmon confit was lovely, tasting very much like lox and served with toasts.

My artichoke arrived first. I was very pleased. They had cooked the hell out of it – exactly how it should be. At some point in the 80s, LA restaurants decided everything should be cooked al dente, especially vegetables. They have never quite recovered and continue to serve rock-hard artichokes. The homemade mustard mayonnaise was intense with lemon and horseradish. The horseradish began to sting about halfway through my artichoke, and I wondered why the chef had chosen such a strong dish as my starter.

When my crab salad arrived, I understood. The server poured the sauce over, which was made from lemon, horseradish, and reportedly melon, although it was lost in the horseradish. They really love horseradish. A lot. The peekytoe crab was sweet and cold, but the occasionally overwhelming bites of horseradish started to make my head swim. Halfway through the course, Bob and I switched plates. His chicken was moist with a crispy, salty, almost southern-fried skin. It was exacty what chicken should be. Bacon and olives are an unlikely duo, but were addictive and kept the chicken from being too mundane.

For dessert, Bob chose the chocolate biscuit with chantilly, which was like an upscale Devil Dog.

I went for the selection of ice creams and sorbets. Unlike Los Angeles, no one feels the need to tell you what is on your plate. There is a hesitation on their part to impose that can leave one feeling a little abandoned. I was also the only person in the entire restaurant drinking iced tea. In spite of the busboys waging a silent war on empty water glasses, it was hard to get refills for my tea.

Anyways, I am happy when they don’t tell me what is on my plate because then I get to guess. The first sorbet overshadowed everything else – it was a lime/mint bursting with flavor. The second sorbet was a mild cucumber, which was unusual and fun. There was vanilla malt ice cream and a strawberry sorbet. The final ice cream stumped me. The flavor was so mild, I could hardly taste it after that crazy lime/mint. I knew it was a fruit because it made my sour recepters twinge. I finally gave up and asked. The server had to check with the kitchen, which surprised me. I guess nobody ever asks. It was rhubarb. Although 4 out of 5 ain’t bad, I felt like I had lost the game.

(Thanks for the tip, JG!)

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By the time we arrived in our comfortable, yacht-like room at the Essex House, Bob and I were too tired to go wandering the streets in search of slices. It was raining cats and dogs, and the street along the park looked desolate. I called down and asked if the hotel restaurant had available tables.

“Is it casual or formal?”
“Casual”
“Really casual?”
“Really casual”
“Levis casual?”
“Of course”

I had not taken the time to research our hotel very thoroughly. I was too busy debating delis and figuring out museum schedules. We stumbled into South Gate, Kerry Heffernan’s restaurant (and former location of Alain Ducasse). You might guess this place was not exactly what you would call casual.

I knew we were going to hit a lot of restaurants, so I asked if I could take the menu as a keepsake. The server raised an eyebrow, “Would you like a pen to take notes? Are you…?”
I said, “Oh no, but I have a friend who always asks me what I ate and I can never remember all of these gastriques and things.”
After the server left, Bob asked, “Are you pretending to be a rube?”
I was tempted to say, “With you in that shirt I don’t have to pretend” but I secretly enjoyed how comfortable Bob was in his Mike Watt plaid in such a swank restaurant. Especially since he was seated next to a man who was wearing a bowtie unironically.

An amuse bouche arrived, and I said, “Oh! An amuse bouche!” I’ve experimented with different pronunciations, but no matter how I say it, servers always seem pleased and never correct me. Maybe it’s because I get so excited, like a child pointing at a zebra and yelling, “Horsie!” The salmon tartare with olive tapenade was delicious, which surprised me because I am no great fan of raw fish. In spite of that, I was pleased too see there were also cheese gougere.

Bob started with the smoked char. The presentation was almost too precious. It was cold smoked, like lox – it was interesting to try fresh savory.

My foie gras was ingenious. Nicely charred and custardy, the meat sat in a sauce of rhubarb (sorry, that’s rhubarb coulis – I don’t want you to think I’m a rube). Fresh rhubarb was carefully cooked to match the consistency of the foie gras. As the daughter of Canadian farmers, I have cooked more than my share of rhubarb, and it is no mean feat to get rhubarb to that point without it breaking down. The dish included tarragon-preserved kumquats. Although the taraggon flavor was lost, kumquat was a perfect match for the foie gras. A crisp coated with pistachios jutted out jauntily – but it was not a crisp. It was like a flatbread, but wasn’t a flatbread. When the chef came around to greet the tables, I asked him about it and after a little “who’s on first” confusion about my crisp not being crisp, he explained that it was a Middle-Eastern crepe. And something about eggs. I had no idea what he was talking about. There was a time when if I read all of my cooking magazines and FOOD sections, I could keep up. You could not stump me. But now I sometimes watch Top Chef and I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. Maybe it’s time for me to up my game. Or maybe it’s a good thing to not know everything; perhaps it makes me slightly less insufferable.

There are a few drawbacks to my uber-sensitive palate. I balk at gamey, fishy and bitter flavors. Bob revels in these things. And so he loved the oven roasted lamb loin that I found too lamb-y. The spring vegetable and lamb cassoulet accompaniment fell flat with a watery sauce, no sausage, and edamame in place of beans. I don’t normally order hangar steak because of its toughness, but I was seduced by the short rib ravioli. I was right – the hangar steak was a little too tough, and the ravioli were sheer heaven. Angel’s breath in a sheet of pasta that was light as air. I wished I had an entire plate of just the ravioli. The chianti vinegar reduction and onion soubise were lovely.

For dessert, I angelically ordered the cheese plate. When they set the table, they arranged the silver with the tines of the fork pointing towards me. I’m sure that is proper for the cheese course, but it still felt vaguely threatening (“In my country, that means you are marked for death.”) Then my best intentions fell by the wayside as I ate the drunken goat, triple creme and camembert with slice after slice of rustic bread. Bob ordered the mille feulle, which I immediately deconstructed. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. The chocolate sheets were of high quality, but unremarkable. The chocolate quenelle was kind of bland, but the banana layers were spectacular. I wished there was more of the banana cream, and the bottom layer was simply fresh bananas topped with broken bits of bruleed sugar. Eaten altogether, the layers worked together perfectly. Oh, there was also a nice banana ice cream quenelle and banana powder. I wondered what it would be like to snort banana powder, and decided it was time for me to turn in.

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