February 1
I had 8 p.m. dinner reservations at Bagatelle on Wednesday, but I got there early, so I lingered at the bar and sipped Sauvignon Blanc as I got to know the bartender, Giuseppe, a friendly chap from Calabria who came to New York, met a woman, got married, has a kid, seems happy.
I think Clark Mitchell showed up right on time and ordered what I was having, which is of course a very quick way to get a drink. He later switched to a gin Martini — with onions, so I guess it’s technically a Gibson. He said he has made that his regular drink, a slight switch from his previous regular drink, a gin Martini with a twist.
Clark had been invited to dinner at Bagatelle separately, but he passed the invitation on to some underlings at Travel + Leisure and went as my guest instead. He brought along, at my request, a copy of an article he wrote on Gstaad (Clark's the guy in the mostly red jacket, looking very sporty).
He handed me the magazine and then went to say hello to his underlings.
I’m so proud that Clark has underlings now, not that I had anything to do with it, but it’s nice to watch people grow.
The menu at Bagatelle, which just opened in Manhattan’s Meatpacking District, is mostly simple French bistro fare, so Clark and I had mostly simple things. He ordered crudités and a filet with Béarnaise sauce, and I had leek-filled truffled ravioli and a steak au poivre. We drank Pomerol with it.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Ia Alano
Introducing the most fashionable customer I've ever had--Ms. Ia Alano, who works as a Marketing Officer in Rustan's. Her date that night was Miguel, whom I can say is equally good looking as Ia. They were very sweet to each other so I have no doubt that they will end up in a relationship soon. Ia was the first to experience the Special Christmas Dinner I prepared during the holiday. A special menu for a very special occasion.
Ia's Birthday Celebration!
Grilled Lemon Herb Salmon with Potato Gratine.
With flowers on the floor and not the usual white petals.
Kani & Bean Sprouts Salad with Grilled Peaches.
My very own Frozen Chocolate Foam which I think was Miguel's favorite.
The take home goodies I gave for the month of December:Cupcakes which I ordered from Yumi Castrillo.
Another reason for me to smile...
Thank you so much Ia!
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Slight Return
Where does one begin after such a lengthy period of sustained silence? My last post was written on June 3rd 2007, well over six months ago and that is a long time. I know that in the grand scheme of things it isn’t a long time – the lower Palaeolithic lasted approximately two million years, the Mesozoic Era spanned a whopping 186 million years. Even the gestation period of the hippopotamus is eight months so there may well be baby hippos conceived before I penned my last entry that are yet to enter the world – however, since I was just beginning to get into a stride, get the hang of this writing lark and start to compose some seriously regular culinary musings, six months is a long time.
I knew it would happen. There was simply no way I was ever going to find the motivation (or time, or desire for that matter) to work full time for ‘the man’ and continue to live the life of an out of work food writer. The creative muscle just wouldn’t have time to exercise and by June the muscle was fast wasting away. Which is a shame because I was at the start of quite an interesting culinary adventure. I’d just cooked pigs’ feet for the first time and was happily ready to move onwards to the head. I had grand plans to make my own salamis and air-dried hams, I’d planned out a vegetable patch for the back garden and growing timetable to yield fresh fruits and vegetables for the whole year. I’d bought a book on how to make your own cheese. My bread baking skills had even progressed from woeful to merely inadequate. And then it all stopped.
The cooking didn’t stop. Or, at least, not entirely. I still found the time to create and research and taste and improve and make notes and cook old favourites. What stopped was the meticulous recording of what was being cooked. The words that seemed to flow out freely in the wake of every successful and non-successful epicurean experiment just dried up and I kept kidding myself that it was just a temporary lull – that after a holiday I would happily type out five thousand words about the incredible food I enjoyed in Thailand or that a brief trip to the Smokehouse or butcher or fishmonger would not only inspire me to cook but also to write about it. Alas, no and now my memory fails in providing me with the requisite amount of information to recall all the things I’ve cooked since ‘Trotter Day’. The cause of this drought was not lack of desire per se, it was a lack of desire brought on my acute boredom of doing a job that I simply did not want to do, and after spending eight brain-numbing, mind-melting, eye-bleedingly dull hours sat in front of a computer screen the last thing one wants to do is spend further time staring at a VDU. Couple that with a jaded lack of motivation and fear that I’d ‘sold-out’ and I just could not bring myself to write about food and cooking and eating and all the things I loved. I almost felt as if I was an adulterer, like I was cheating on my passion, my life, with a cheap slut – one that I had no real desire or reason to spend any time with at all but doing so left me feeling too guilty to enable me to go back to what I loved without first knocking it on the head.
And so I did. I left my job. And here I am, ever-so-slightly unemployed but deliriously happy. And there is so, so much to tell you about. If only I had the time…
Comments, feedback, thoughts, ideas et cetera are all welcome.
I knew it would happen. There was simply no way I was ever going to find the motivation (or time, or desire for that matter) to work full time for ‘the man’ and continue to live the life of an out of work food writer. The creative muscle just wouldn’t have time to exercise and by June the muscle was fast wasting away. Which is a shame because I was at the start of quite an interesting culinary adventure. I’d just cooked pigs’ feet for the first time and was happily ready to move onwards to the head. I had grand plans to make my own salamis and air-dried hams, I’d planned out a vegetable patch for the back garden and growing timetable to yield fresh fruits and vegetables for the whole year. I’d bought a book on how to make your own cheese. My bread baking skills had even progressed from woeful to merely inadequate. And then it all stopped.
The cooking didn’t stop. Or, at least, not entirely. I still found the time to create and research and taste and improve and make notes and cook old favourites. What stopped was the meticulous recording of what was being cooked. The words that seemed to flow out freely in the wake of every successful and non-successful epicurean experiment just dried up and I kept kidding myself that it was just a temporary lull – that after a holiday I would happily type out five thousand words about the incredible food I enjoyed in Thailand or that a brief trip to the Smokehouse or butcher or fishmonger would not only inspire me to cook but also to write about it. Alas, no and now my memory fails in providing me with the requisite amount of information to recall all the things I’ve cooked since ‘Trotter Day’. The cause of this drought was not lack of desire per se, it was a lack of desire brought on my acute boredom of doing a job that I simply did not want to do, and after spending eight brain-numbing, mind-melting, eye-bleedingly dull hours sat in front of a computer screen the last thing one wants to do is spend further time staring at a VDU. Couple that with a jaded lack of motivation and fear that I’d ‘sold-out’ and I just could not bring myself to write about food and cooking and eating and all the things I loved. I almost felt as if I was an adulterer, like I was cheating on my passion, my life, with a cheap slut – one that I had no real desire or reason to spend any time with at all but doing so left me feeling too guilty to enable me to go back to what I loved without first knocking it on the head.
And so I did. I left my job. And here I am, ever-so-slightly unemployed but deliriously happy. And there is so, so much to tell you about. If only I had the time…
Comments, feedback, thoughts, ideas et cetera are all welcome.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Wisdom that comes with age
January 30
“You need to stop calling people kids,” Andy Battaglia told me the other night while we had dinner at Monkey Bar.
I have taken to doing that. You might have seen me do it on this blog from time to time — I say things like "the bright kids at Eater.”
I mean it as a compliment. Kids are energetic and enthusiastic.
But Andy, who is my cultural guru, says it makes me sound old.
“I am old,” I told him.
“No you’re not,” said Andy, who just turned 33.
I’ll be 41 in April, which isn’t, you know, old old, but it means I have a little perspective. And I realized last night that it has made me slightly less stupid — my internal “you’ve had too much to drink! Stop, stop now!” alarm goes off much earlier than it used to.
Back when I was truly young, and living in Bangkok, that alarm went off when it was time to find a taxi to fall into rather than pass out on the street.
I am happy to report that I have never passed out on a Bangkok street.
Last night, it went off while I was talking to beverage writers and such at a rum party at the Brandy Library.
The party was in the bar's basement, down a spiral staircase that required some level of sobriety to navigate.
I had a mini-burger or two while chatting — mostly about world travel if I remember correctly — with assorted people from the drink world. But I didn't eat much because I'd had a meatball hero for lunch, and a meatball hero's a lot of food.
High-end VSOP rum, and an orange-flavored cordial made from rum, were being dispensed from cute little casks, and I sampled them with enthusiasm while talking about the benefits of flying business class with Jack Robertiello, what to do in Argentina with a caterer whose name I have forgotten, places to drink in New Zealand with Naren Young, while also catching up with the regular gang.
I was having a perfectly nice time when, after refilling my little snifter and taking a sip, my better self, watching me from the relative safety and objectivity of my brain, said "THIS IS YOUR LAST DRINK!"
I finished my conversations, put my glass down, said my good-byes and was able to take my gift bag, climb the stairs, get my coat and engage in what seemed like perfectly reasonable parting words with Shawn Kelley and Allen Katz, who were chatting outside the Brandy Library, and made it to my subway. I don't think my speech was even slurred.
This morning, no hangover.
Good alarm.
“You need to stop calling people kids,” Andy Battaglia told me the other night while we had dinner at Monkey Bar.
I have taken to doing that. You might have seen me do it on this blog from time to time — I say things like "the bright kids at Eater.”
I mean it as a compliment. Kids are energetic and enthusiastic.
But Andy, who is my cultural guru, says it makes me sound old.
“I am old,” I told him.
“No you’re not,” said Andy, who just turned 33.
I’ll be 41 in April, which isn’t, you know, old old, but it means I have a little perspective. And I realized last night that it has made me slightly less stupid — my internal “you’ve had too much to drink! Stop, stop now!” alarm goes off much earlier than it used to.
Back when I was truly young, and living in Bangkok, that alarm went off when it was time to find a taxi to fall into rather than pass out on the street.
I am happy to report that I have never passed out on a Bangkok street.
Last night, it went off while I was talking to beverage writers and such at a rum party at the Brandy Library.
The party was in the bar's basement, down a spiral staircase that required some level of sobriety to navigate.
I had a mini-burger or two while chatting — mostly about world travel if I remember correctly — with assorted people from the drink world. But I didn't eat much because I'd had a meatball hero for lunch, and a meatball hero's a lot of food.
High-end VSOP rum, and an orange-flavored cordial made from rum, were being dispensed from cute little casks, and I sampled them with enthusiasm while talking about the benefits of flying business class with Jack Robertiello, what to do in Argentina with a caterer whose name I have forgotten, places to drink in New Zealand with Naren Young, while also catching up with the regular gang.
I was having a perfectly nice time when, after refilling my little snifter and taking a sip, my better self, watching me from the relative safety and objectivity of my brain, said "THIS IS YOUR LAST DRINK!"
I finished my conversations, put my glass down, said my good-byes and was able to take my gift bag, climb the stairs, get my coat and engage in what seemed like perfectly reasonable parting words with Shawn Kelley and Allen Katz, who were chatting outside the Brandy Library, and made it to my subway. I don't think my speech was even slurred.
This morning, no hangover.
Good alarm.
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