babka

6 PM: Prepare for sleep, antacid and glass of wine in hand. 6:05 PM: Phone rings with invitation to dinner picnic in Columbia Heights. Tummy talks to brain and then goes to sleep, not to wake until midnight. Midnight: Scan fridge. I didn't steal any of the leftover pork? Lordy but that was a lovely picnic! Special kudos to Jacques for pork-flavored polenta (seriously--it was that tender), to Keith for the cake I wanted for my fifth birthday party, to mktye's charming husband for logging hours and hours and hours on the ice cream churner, to the busboys for lamb sausage that puts Vace to shame, and to the babies, for figuring out how to sneak in much-envied naps. oh--and to Nadya. For showing up with the same obscure georgian walnut sauce & eggplant dish that I toted along in absolute confidence that not even the Rockwell crew would have tasted it before. (and hillvalley: we should probably talk about that dead fish.)

The following note popped into my email box over the weekend. Upon reading of the need for "glamourous" women and "dashing" men, my mind instantly turned to the Rockwell Foundation crew..... in what context I thought of the Rockwells, I will leave to your imagination. (edited to protect the contact's email address from spam):

How do you know you're a well-adjusted foodie?

Warning: Mango sauce and fresh curried potato chips may cause inexpensive addiction followed by short but powerful napping urge.

Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb its chops were soft as snow. Everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went. Everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to go. Mary went to Naan and Beyond, Naan and Beyond, Naan and Beyond Mary went to Naan and Beyond and grilled that lamb to go.

liver-flavored tofu, fried. I ate mine, then bilrus's, then the dregs from the platter.

Journalism awards are strange creatures that you win on merit and merit alone--your peers sit down and read what you've created and say yes, this tells the story, this is the best. or at least that's what journalists say when they win. When they lose, the competitions are rigged lousy things that nobody wanted in the first place. I would have taken either position on behalf of Todd--if he won, it was indeed truly on merit--if he lost, it's because the competition hasn't figured out how to recognize the truly gifted in the field, 'cuz he's that good. Since he won, though, I can simply say holy cow: Merit won. Congratulations!!!

never. never, ever. and I'm ready to visit paradise, darlin', depending on your definition of "middle of the week" "three weeks out"

harumph. By the time I arrived at the decent and respectable hour of 12:45 P.M., some greedy folk had snatched up all the good Sunnyside proteins. fortunately, "Stew Meat," if cut from organic kobe beef, still makes a hell of a boeuf bourguignonne.

Possibly it was Christmas, possibly it was simply an errant evening, but it's hard to say from what you wrote. Can you describe the food that was good but not up to hype?

I vote for the 22nd--suspect I'd get in trouble for skipping my sister's wedding to attend a picnic in D.C. on the 15th. .

he'll always be imaginary to me.

yup. and yup.

On Monday, R. and I needed a celebration. "There are oysters in the fridge," I said. I'd only brought home bivalves once before, mussels then, half of which failed to open after cooking, which is how we discovered I didn't know how to handle them. "I'll buy you dinner at Cashion's," she said. We agreed to meet in ten minutes in front of our house. Eight minutes later, she called back. "It's Monday. Cashion's is closed." "I bought a nice riesling to go with the oysters," I said. "How about the roof at the Reef?" she asked. "We have an oyster knife now," I said. "Perry's," she suggested. And so we clambered up the stairs, R. turning her delicate heels sideways to attack the narrow steps. Every neighborhood should have a roof like Perry's: Bright stars (Christmas lights back up the real things); a white-washed bar wrapped around a third of the space, suggesting a cabana but with less skin; tight-shirted boys on dates seated next to Armani-clad European business men; food far beyond the necessary aspirations of a chef blessed with that roof; and girls crying in the restroom. Three of 'em, to be exact. A new one surfaced on every bathroom visit. We ordered a bottle of champagne and a plate of sushi. I wanted to save room for oysters afterwards. R. said she wasn't very hungry. The bartender, Jose, tossed much-appreciated ‘dears’ and ‘sweeties’ in our direction as he reached across the narrow bar to spread a crisp white napkin between us and discretely dropped another one on each of our laps. A silver bucket appeared, a wooden platter was whisked into place, and we toasted the night, each other, and Perry’s before we ate. The sushi was sushi. The loquacious and the connoisseurs amongst you could trot out several hundred words to explain why it was far better than average but far short of first-rate, where the textures played well and where they were off, and the horrendous consequences of our forgetting to order the real wasabi proffered by the menu. All I can say is the shrimp was sweet, the eel was cool, the tuna was fatty, and we didn't know the name of anything else and there was nobody to explain it to us, but we ate it anyway and were very happy. Behind us, a couple too beautiful for words had just agreed to marry one another. Their friends swirled around them with brightly colored drinks raised in many, many toasts. I needed the restroom. Down the narrow steps--a trip which might have been better made before two glasses of champagne had worked upon my sense of balance–and behind a hidden door, a woman was sobbing. "Terribly sorry," she sniffed as I washed my hands. "My life has taken such an awful turn." "Can I get you something, or help you downstairs?" I asked. She'd been crying for a while--I'd heard the woman before me extend the same offer of assistance--but her eyes were clear. A bit of cold water and some lipstick was all she needed to walk out with her head high enough to get home. No, but thank you, she said, splashing her eyes and wiping her hands down her jeans before taking a deep breath. I returned upstairs to discuss dessert. We held a detailed debate on the relative merits of gingerbread and sorbet. During the ensuing stalemate, I commented upon the callousness of boys who break up with girls at restaurants. Never, ever, I said. No, never, R. said, and we agreed to share a pecan white chocolate brownie with white chocolate mousse. She ordered something foul and sweet that involved peach schnapps while I drained off the last of the bubbly. The brownie was sweet without taste; the mousse was foamy without chocolate, and R. went to visit the restroom before we left. Two women crying, she reported upon her return, neither of them the brown-haired, blue-jeaned girl with whom I'd spoken. Behind us, the beautiful people who were going to marry each other were telling stories about their childhoods. Their friends’ drinks had progressed to dark liquors in distinguished glasses. The Armani business crowd had left, as had a large boisterous family that had celebrated a rollicking good time among the quiet date tables for two. The waiters were all hovered around the register staring intently at the screen, and the beautiful night air had turned nippy. I buttoned up my shirt as we paid our bill. "The oysters could keep until tomorrow night," I said as I took hold of both handrails and hoped I was sober enough to descend. "I could spend every evening on the roof of Perry's," said R.

Crusty's got a crunchy-looking stack of matzo in the display case with a big note saying Order NOW for the weekend. And damn. The chicken dahlia was good on a wintery day, but when it's sunny and sweaty outside, it's _good_: Chicken with more taste than my napkin and onions carmelized into candy, both layered with peanuts and a sauce that has just just enough kick that you eat through your best intentions to save half for tomorrow, because the pleasure of the next bite anesthetizes the pain of the last one.....