Ritz Bites

Snack Attack Motherf*cker

The schlepping on the plane ride is a pain, but the embarrassment of riches to share is always worth it.

Here's a typical edible souvenir bounty. Along with hard Italian cheeses bought at much lower prices, I bring home lots of sweets. (Not kosher for Passover, mind you. I might have been good about seder preparation and attendance this year, but definitely slacked in other areas.) The mini black and whites go first, and now that H has decided he doesn't like Zabar's rugelach those take a little longer to get through. With backup in the freezer babka lasts a while. You don't realize how heavy Zabar's babkas are until you carry two, three, four at a time. Like bricks, I tell you. Delicious, gooey, sweet bricks. Perhaps my favorite dessert ever. I have to admit, I feel sort of stupid now linking to these products online and complaining about having carried it all, knowing I can order stuff anytime instead of dealing with the bulk myself. Still, it somehow wouldn't be the same.

If only I'd been able to sneak away with a Bouchon Bakery signature dessert, and transported the mini icebox cake from Baked in Red Hook. The layers of butter cream and soft wafers packed such a sweet punch I could only eat about two bites. But I'm obviously not lacking for chocolate-based goodies. At Baked I bought a tin of Jacques Torres hot chocolate; I better make lots of it soon. I forgot to check the fast-approaching "best used by" date, so with this weather I foresee making many cups of cool chocolate milk instead of steaming cocoa.

It's also worth noting that in addition to the QM2's new berth (bow pictured above – it was such a shock to see it and a rare instance of total news oblivion paying off), some very exciting developments are afoot in that area much to the pleasure of our friends who live down there.

More New York food highlights to come. But to bring my musings back to home, here's a short piece from the current Weekly about a local character. The restaurant is never one of our usual dinner destinations (breakfast sometimes). Instead we enjoy the walk down for take-out next door at Victor's Deli, where the folks are always friendly, the wine selection is solid, and the pastrami's not half bad.

Downtown to Uptown Lunch Treats

The Neue Galerie is one of my favorite museums, despite the meanie no kids policy. It turned out to be a perfect place for my 90-year-old grandfather, since its self-contained size and interesting small collection makes it a very manageable activity, and eating options are a major cut above typical snooze-fest museum fare. The upstairs room at Caf Sabarsky was too packed, so we opted for the newer and relatively austere downstairs spot. The wait was slightly shorter for a table in the room that's much more akin to Adolf Loos's "Ornament and Crime"
M.O. than Josef Hoffmann's early works.

Grandpa loved his newfangled open-faced liverwurst sandwich with onion confit, much to our surprise. We weren't sure how he'd respond to the new twist on his poor boy old school favorite. I surmise that the cost of eating out in Dallas has been creeping upward, because he didn't complain about the prices, even when he asked for a coffee "refill" and was charged for another cup. It's not a bottomless cup kind of place, natch.

Homemade sptzle with wild mushrooms, peas and sweet corn got me over my tarragon aversion. It's an herb I'm not quite sure what to do with, other than mix it with carrots, and I'm generally not a big fan of its unusual flavor. Clearly the kitchen knows what they're doing with seasoning this homey, creamy dish.

After a dizzying experience at MoMA ("I think I'm starting to hate art," Grandpa said after pushing our way through the crowd) and a long cab ride downtown, I dragged him to Lupa so I could selfishly have a bowl of the bucatini all'Amatriciana that's a requirement of every NYC trip. Their rich version uses actual guanciale and, unusually, sliced red onions. I forget how oily it is, but ho fatto la scarpetta anyway. My eating agenda was not without reward for Grandpa; he loved the rainbow trout cooked en papillote with wild mushrooms. This lunch rounded out his week of good eating (and celeb spotting) in New York which included Balthazar, Sparks, and Brasserie sans moi.

Later that week the kids had no problem devouring below-average pizza purchased near Yankee Stadium and eaten in the park across the street from the stunning Depression-era courthouse and Josh and Brady's awesome new digs on the bustling Grand Concourse. Thankfully we'd already had Lombardi's so I didn't experience Great Pizza Deprivation. Still, sad that here I had to request the pizza not be given to us under-baked with snowy white crust. The most memorable part of this lunch – other than the company, setting, and occasional roar of the crowd during the game in-progress – was when Charlotte adroitly caught a falling slice in between her ankles. Clearly a critical skill for any New York City kid.

Report from another culture: Peking Gourmet Inn

The pervasiveness of signed headshots of mostly unknown actors at your local L.A. dry cleaner is always a ridiculous part of the cultural landscape. Years ago when staying in a hotel on Capitol Hill I learned of the equivalent phenomenon in
D.C.: the signed politician's vanity photo. The only exposure I'd had to these were the 8x10s we'd get in return when in elementary school we wrote innocent, well-intentioned letters to our elected officials. At least the hotel reached across the aisle, since photos given by Dems were on display, as well as Strom Thurmond's shaky signature over his mug.

The multi-ethnic 'burbs of northern Virginia are a world away from The Hill, but the political culture still resonates far and wide throughout the region. That's why the walls of Peking Gourmet Inn in Falls Church, Virginia are plastered with photos showing the proprietors cozying up to the nation's most powerful lawmakers.

We can't help but wonder, however, if the absence of a little engraved plate below Tom Delay's picture (above) means it's quietly on its way to being taken down.

Anyway, Prez Bush the First did have a major political role China after all, so he should at least have good taste in Chinese food – and it turns out
P.G.I. is his favorite restaurant. That's about the only tip I'd take from that clan. Again, it can feel strange being in this part of the world.

The huge restaurant is intensely busy and familiar enough in the old school way to make authenticity not too scary. You know the scene: suspended paper lanterns surrounded by tassels, waiters in stiff red jackets, technically out-of-place Tiki style cocktails, and prints of chrysanthemums and other comforting images from points east.

It's hard to miss the fact that the Peking duck is the thing, since cute little yellow guys adorn the outdoor sign and all printed items. We order two of the Long Island-raised birds, which is one too many but my brother-in-law will make a soup after my vegetarian sister and the kids leave town.

With the exception of one elder Chinese man, there appears to be a division of labor with regards to the traditional duck carving. It's mostly performed expertly by Latina women, and I'm not sure if it's an honor to be charged with this task, or if it's considered one of the less desirable jobs at Peking Gourmet Inn. Whatever the case, it takes a lot of practice.

The roasted animals are perfectly sliced with the crisp skin removed, and when rolled in the homemade pancakes with plum sauce and shredded spring onions the package is a savory delight even for a non-duck lover like me. It's not the most succulent meat in the world and has the usual slight toughness and dark flavor, but that's part of the appeal, especially with the snappy skin.

It takes a special thing for my niece to be easily allowed to break her usual vegetarianism. During the meal she eats at least ten stuffed pancakes; who says 2-year-olds can't pack away serious meats like this? Alas, it will be a very sad day when she makes the connection between the adorable quackers she loves to feed at the riverfront and the contents of these pancakes.

Because I must have something green in my system we leave it up to the waiter to bring us some kind of mushroom with any sort of verdant leafy vegetable. He comes back with tender baby bok choy with a heavy, glimmering sauce (one reason why I don't eat Chinese foods very often) that I devour with joy despite the glaze. They definitely don't skimp on the mushrooms, and we leave with ample doggie bags.

No wonder P.G.I. straddles the political divide.

Peking Gourmet Inn
6029 Leesburg Pike
Falls Church, VA 22041
703.671.8088

A few wonders of the Pacific Northwest

With less than 48 hours in Seattle and a fully programmed wedding weekend, we had to use our limited time very carefully.

First order is to meet my high school pal Sean at Espresso Vivace, natch. We've been ordering our beans from this legendary coffee purveyor ever since the trip we took to Seattle over five years ago. It's good to be back at the source!

But while the cappuccino with literal heart is thick, rich, smooth, and not bitter, we're hardly floored. Either Espresso Veev is a little off its game, or H's barista making skills have gotten that much better with practice and better equipment. I think it's the latter.

Next it's a stroll through Pike Place Market, where we eat a lackluster meal, marvel at the stunning views over the Sound, and feel blinded by the screaming-with-color daffodils.

Clear blue skies and bright sun don't do much to ward off the 50-degree chill, meaning more of Seattle's finest hot beverages are in order. My coffee roaster friend and expert Angel (his actual name, not as in guardian) recommends Victrola Coffee, a few blocks up from Vivace on Capitol Hill's charming 15th Avenue. My affections are immediately won by a place that embraces the Deco aesthetic, replicates vintage signage, and bans WiFi because of its deleterious effects on general socializing and flirting with the employees.

It's hard to betray my Vivace loyalty. But while Victrola's menu is a little busier than its predecessor down the hill, this coffee is a winner. Whoever is working the huge, rad machine – the manufacturer of which we ask and promptly forget – manages to get more body and texture into this cup than what we had in the morning. We pick up a pound of Victrola's Streamline espresso blend to experiment at home.

Can't get enough of that funky stuff

Here's another little flash back to some of the best food experiences of our trip to South America. It's exciting to look forward to the next out-of-town jaunt as we leave to spend the weekend in Seattle.

Incredible lomo saltato in Lima, what I dreamed of having. It just took a while to get it. We found these divine heaping platters at Queirolo, an atmospheric old lunchtime spot in the Centro decorated with pisco bottles stacked up to the ceiling (um, earthquake zone?). Lunch cost around $8, complete with a tall Cusquea for two.

Fruit and snack stands like these are almost on every block in Rio. Sheer heaven. If you want to taste totally things, these are the places to go. Some foods, like the hardly sweet fruta do conde, you can't get in the
U.S. for sure.

I wish we could have Aa here like what's found at BB Lanches and thousands of places in Rio. This Amazonian berry is starting to make inroads as perhaps the next pomegranate-type, anti-oxidant rich fruit. These smooth blends are so refreshing, filling, beautiful and delicious. BB Lanches also makes fabulous fried finger foods, like the large teardrop-shaped fried Coxinha de galinha, stuffed with pulled chicken. The best beer-absorbing snack perhaps ever.

Ah, a chunky, fruity capairinha at Academia da Cachaa. My temporary addiction. What a great introduction to the national cocktail...at least what I remember of it.

We downed a few choppe at Jobi in Leblon at 2:00 a.m. after the sweaty workout of going to the Mangueira samba school rehearsal. After hanging out here we were back at BB Lanches. I've never seen so many still people out after 3:00 in any city.

Designy Detour: The Streets of Rio

The stories and myths about the mean streets of Rio loom large. Popular culture and perceptions about Brazil don't provide an accurate barometer, and being a tourist in town for four days doesn't give much in the way of quality insight, either. Let's just say that some tales are exaggerated, and many must be true.

But no one ever told me about the actual sidewalks! Get those Havaianas on, and let's hit 'em!

Imagine my amazement to stumble upon (literally) these thick-cut black and ivory stone mosaics arranged in fascinating, exhilarating patterns around the beaches and neighborhoods of Rio. This unique characteristic of that city's built environment would send Jonathan Adler or the Eameses into a tizzy.

I saw someone wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the symbol of Leblon and Ipanema beach (see above right), and sadly never found it for sale. Our hotel makes clever references to it in the caf's bathroom and on the matchbooks.

(Sidebar: thank god some people still smoke in the world, because the slow demise of matchbooks is, in my estimation, a very vexing trend. I've got a collection to maintain, people! Best matchbook award by far goes to the self-igniting fosforos we picked up from El Mercado at the Faena Hotel + Universe.)

Copacabana has its own motif, a sinuous wave that alas, I didn't get a good image of. Some of the walls of small buildings (
e.g. bathrooms) are clad with it, too. Expressions of neighborhood pride this brilliant are rare.

Readily available fresh fruit cocktails and mosaics galore – two true signs of a highly evolved society.

Claiming our Steak

We now travel back in time to last month in South America, when for a few short days steak maintained a certain primacy in our existence.

The first encounter with a proper Argentine grass fed beef is more about the social experience than the meat itself. We meet up with Silvio et posse our first night in Buenos Aires for Christmas Eve dinner at the Four Seasons. With all that free flowing, unlimited Catena Zapata wine, the night becomes a big fuzzy blur, much like the homemade cotton candy we're served at the end.

A clump of salmon tartare with a briny oyster is a big contrast to what's to come. And it all comes quick – in fact, I can't believe how fast the staff is pacing this meal. Crazy. It's not as if we're forced to vacate the table either; we wind up occupying it for over three hours. So much for the reputation of laid-back South America. I too hope this experience proves to be anomalous, because the food arrives COLD. At least it's a thick, moist filet with a mildly sweet reduction, and we're able to cut through it with our um, butter knives. Again, the wrong cutlery is thankfully not the norm in Buenos Aires steak culture.

We then get turned away at the über of-the-moment Faena Hotel + Universe, Philippe Starck's design attack on BA (and where the Apple store will soon open). We'll be back, bitches! Our bruised egos do return for drinks – twice, in fact. Anyway, this most expensive meal of the trip isn't the best food-wise, but it's definitely among the most fun.

The next night for Christmas dinner with H's aunt, uncle and cousin we get to walk in the well-trod path of the great Johnny Apple. (In case you can't tell, we socialized a lot with friends and family whose trips coincided with ours.) At Cabaa Las Lilas restaurant located along the revived waterfront, we might not get the royal treatment like Mr. Apple did at the restaurant and the estancia, but we do get to marvel at the parrilla station from the viewing window. I feel like I'm in a maternity ward, but instead of cute wrigling newborns in basinets, I'm watching very sweaty yet well-groomed men jockey for position while throwing slabs of hot pink flesh onto the unique custom grill and replenishing the stash.

Between the five of us, the sampling of juicy Ojo de Bife, Bife de Chorizo, and Medalln de Lomo is enough. (The waitstaff divides the pieces for us. Nice touch.) There's no need at all to order one steak per person. It's all great as to be expected, if not slightly under-salted, like I find a lot of food in BA to be. The meat aspect is rounded out with the tasty antipasto of cheese and various marinated veggies platter they give you when seated, a delicious fresh mixed salad, as well as garlicky French fries and championes a la Provenzal.

Forty bucks a head is among the priciest meals you'll find in Argentina, and it's also a clear indication of the nation's gradual economic recovery since Apple's visit in 2002 when $20 would buy you that same meal. But it'd easily cost three times more at Ruth's Chris, right?

We take a meat respite on our third night in town for a satisfying chic Italian dinner. Amazing to think 48 hours feels like enough of a break to recharge in order to take on El Estanciero in the Las Caitas section. Until Calle Baez, never have I seen such a concentration of hip, sleek, and dazzling restaurants, as well as a seemingly endless march of patrons who match said description. Not to mention the affordablity factor (at least for dollar-toting Americans).

El Estanciero is hard core parrilla with a slightly edgier, Nuevo Gaucho attitude. And with the highest end of the wine list $25 bottle of a bold and well-structured Terrazas Malbec, about half the price of Las Lilas, with even better food. I have to taste the flavor-packed entrana (skirt) steak, which arrives nearly charred on the outside, and is red and buttery when cut open. (Those two pieces actually comprise one $6 order, BTW.)

Just when I think we're done with Red Meat Tour '05, we go to Rio.

And when in Rio, you gotta try churrascaria. Because eating at Fogo de Cho is reserved for H's writer man dates, I had to rely on memories of Churrascaria Plataforma in NYC to psychologically prepare me for the experience of Porco Rio's. Without them, I might've passed out from the sheer volume of well, everything: the mile-long salad bar and hot foods buffet, to the teeny tiny chicken hearts, to the continuous hawking of cow parts.

The scene blows my mind. Not to mention that the supply of the waiter charged with dolling out chicken hearts must represent about fifty dead birds.

The "No Obgrigado" side on my "chip" doesn't do much to stem the flow of offerings. I hold out for the picanha, that special re-carbonized, fat ringed meat that's the churrascaria signature. I also nibble on some rump roast, chorizo sausage, and other non-veggie delights, but mostly gorge myself on the grilled shitakes, palmitos, red leaf lettuce, mozzarella, and artichoke hearts. I've got my limits.

"Where Liberace meets Aunt Goldie"

Judging by the topics and locations recently mentioned here, you'd think I never eat or do anything within the borders of the City of Los Angeles. Not true! It's just that I got other material from other places.

But good fun stuff has been happening here, like finally making it to Haru Ulala, and meeting up with Josh of the Food Section , his wife Danielle who runs the Celebrity Baby Blog, and their adorable infant daughter. So, I'll get back to L.A.-related blogging soon enough.

We were all smiles this past weekend during my return trip to the Parker Palm Springs with the folks, sister, and niece and nephew in tow. Baby Alden's mood was clearly no exception. (That happy pillow is infectious, I tell ya.)

While not specifically "family friendly" – a category we all hate – the many kids who were running around and spoiling the otherwise relaxing good time of the grown-ups (many of whom were in town for the film festival) clearly points to the irresistible playfulness of this all-Adler milieu. It's hard to leave.

The food and decor at Norma's and Mister Parker's work within this near rule-less universe, too. Anything goes, whether it's food or interior design. Any color, any combination, just go for it.

Prices to eat in-house at the Parker are to be expected. It's a cornered market full of lazy vacationers in a town where it's hard to eat well for little. Other people say that food in Palm Springs is no great shakes. Our one trip out to a dressed-up frat restaurant downtown turns out to be a stressful bust. The TGI Friday-like tomato sauce tastes like something you'd eat when "hoping to get laid," as my dad accurately observes. The relative bargain price of $44 for a bottle of '02 Girard cab proves to be the high point.

Back at the hotel, Norma's makes all sorts of rich gooey things you'd never make at home, and that's part of the fun. It's vacation! Relax a little. Eat a lot and gasp! – go swimming in the Esther Williams-meets-Atia indoor pool less than an hour after you've finished the meal. We did all of the above, loving the Campanile brunch antithesis.

The breakfast aperitif smoothie "shot" gets you going in the morning. Then heaping dishes of artichokes benedict, served with tons of mushroom-laden cream over artichoke hearts, the tasty potato pancakes, and salmon benedict comprise a veritable calorie fest.

Even for an open minded gal like myself, the first glimpse into Mister Parker's is off-putting. Too much Barry White Boudoir on Acid. But dim the lights, drop the needle on the Love Unlimited Orchestra record, and voila!, it totally works as a cozy dinner lounge. And mirrored ceilings with "spider" chandeliers (CP's take on them) are a big hit with the toddler set (shown at right). LOVE it!!

Most entres are too much, honestly. Minimalism barely gets a word in edgewise with the soft, tender pork tenderloin chunks topped with cipolline, but enough to make it simply satisfying. Main courses like vegetable gnocchi in a Parmesan basket with what seems like 20 vegetables seems to have 30 ingredients too many.

If you share, dessert is definitely worth the calories and expense. The apple charlotte with apricot sauce and vanilla ice cream is partially encased in a light crust, and the flavors meld beautifully. Miss CP asks to have her namesake dessert several times the next day. Though a little bit flat, the chocolate marquise is a welcome break from usually overly fluffy mousses, which I tend to not like much.

The only quality of life sacrifice is forgoing the late night Lobby Crawl. (Yeah I know, life's tough.) With the kids in the mix, we're back in the room by 9:00 each night. So watching The Band Wagon for the gazillionth time and waking up by 8:00 a.m. makes up the routine.

But at the Parker, where everything is a spectacle and for show, That's Entertainment.

Is it a vegetable? Is it a root? Who gives a hoot? Palmitos!

Sorry for that even worse twist on our friend Damon's already silly El Camino ditty. ("Is it a car? Is it a truck? Who gives a fuck? El Camino!")

So, I hardly ever gave much thought to the origins and harvesting of hearts of palm until I began my palmitos fest in Buenos Aires.

In the U.S., hearts of palm are relatively expensive to buy in grocery stores compared to other canned veggies, most seem to come from Brazil, and though relatively light in calories and such, the canned kind makes up for those health perks by conserving them in crazy amounts of sodium. I ate them as a kid because my mom tended to have them stashed away in the pantry, and I liked their softy saltiness.

As if I needed any more reasons to love Buenos Aires and the collective drawing room of the Recoleta neighborhood, La Biela cafe.

My introduction to the profusion of palmitos in parts of South America is pricey for BA (22 pesos, or 7 dollars, I think) but it's also the biggest heaping serving of hearts of palm I could ever imagine. I expect ensalada de palmitos to be mixed in with other stuff. You know, a few tomatoes and some lettuce, the usual. But no. La Biela serves it straight, no chaser, except for optional additions of olive oil, lemon juice, and balsamic. They're soft and not as salty as what we get back home. I eat every bit and return back to La Biela for a second round.

We'd eventually find palmitos combined with other salad things at restaurants, like the tomato and palmitos starter we had at El Estanciero in the overflowing-with-places-and-people Las Canitas area (pictured above right).

Other than something obviously having to do with palms, I still have no specific idea what a more "pure" palmito looks like until we get to Rio.

We meet up with Silvio and Carl our first day there at the Via Sete Grill, located on the Rodeo Drive equivalent (meaning there's Louis Vuitton and Cartier, but it's a much physically shorter street and features far more barely dressed folks milling about than these environments in LA or NYC).

The restaurant is a sleek beach-adjacent spot that offers lots of salads, grilled foods, and the ubiquitous fruitstuffs; Via Sete definitely caters to the diet/health conscious affluent Carioca or foreign traveler. I confess -- I got the green salad with grilled tuna. Hearty and fresh, but I also felt guilty for eating what must be a mainstay of the Fashion Rag Editor's Diet (until we go for ice cream at Mil Frutas afterwards).

The heart of palm fits well within this scheme. It comes grilled, and they only give you one. Hardly a bounty. Yet served in its palm encasing, this is the Holy Grail of palmitos and appears as tropical and site-specific as a food can be.

And the appetizer is ... not very tasty. Instead it's by far the blandest of all I've had, and requires a lot of salt. I appreciate the firmer texture and it's cool to eat it this way. Still, I don't need to have this version again.

Next time it's back to the brine.

Se ve ceviche

Several cab drivers we speak with in our slowly improving Spanish tout the diversity and fame of Peruvian gastronomy. We're already fairly familiar with it, in a tip of the iceberg sort of way by virtue of living in
L.A. and having the benefit of nearby Peruvian restaurants. Folks in Lima were psyched to hear this. (I'm still curious, however, about what traditions are taught at the Le Cordon Bleu Perú, a frighteningly fortressed and secured building, much like many others in Lima we walked past.)

So one could imagine how stoked I was at the opportunity to sample ceviche, the raw marinated fish for which Perú is famous. With its coastal location, Lima is known for its many cevicheras. These close after lunch, since afternoon ceviche was once a necessity that's become tradition, much like kosher requirements.

Yet we do have some piquant tangy sea bass ceviche in the eve at La Costa Verde, a heavily touristed restaurant complete with flags of your nation propped on your table. This place comes rightly recommended by a friend who lived in Lima, mostly because it allows you to sample from a wide menu and sit perched above the sea in the Barranco neighborhood. Plus we get to witness one of the two high school dances we come across while in Lima.

In addition to the ceviche, I chow to the max on the arroz peruano: a saffron-laded rice piled with mollusks and crustaceans (pictured at right). I forget how filling ceviche is; we should've slowed down to make room for the second round.

Not being an expert, I have little criticism of the ceviche vis--vis freshness or flavor. It's got it goin' on. The hunks of sea bass gently resist the bite and then relent, the meaty interior releasing all its soaked-up citrus. And this best-of-the-trip ceviche is ... quite similar to what we have a Los Balcones del Perú on Vine Street, where I don't have to worry about whether or not I should eat the lettuce, and they serve it
O.G. style with Andean corn and hunks of boiled sweet potato. (Predictably, I never met a potato in Perú that I didn't like.)

It's always a simultaneously depressing and exciting fact when something from its authentic source isn't all that noticeably better than what you find within a two mile radius of your house. (This globalized phenomenon will totally go out the window once we get to Brazil.)

Anyway, once we get into the Andean interior of the country we still manage to find some ceviches, but more commonly based on local river King Fish (pictured above). At the Sanctuary Lodge, the spice is much mellower than what we had at Costa Verde, perhaps toned down to sate the hungry gringo palates after their respective Machu Picchu treks.

On our last day while stranded at the Lima Sheraton, we resort to a last minute hotel meal because we're too pooped to venture out into funk of the Centro again. Plus it's not the wisest thing to do so. I hate myself for doing it, but after making our way through this space (Hello, Jeremy Bentham) we use our LAN-issued vouchers and head into the buffet at the Sheraton, only to find Vegas-style faux blue sky ceiling murals below which lies a shockingly good ceviche spread.

Octopus, mussels (skipped those), ceviche mixto, squid, and other kinds of fish get their own place. I'm most into the spry fava bean and queso fresco salad. And to pile onto the surprises of the evening, the crowd is almost exclusively Peruvian.

We miss the corny coronation of the Inca performance, but we've got a plane to Buenos Aires to catch.