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I saw a woman with long dark hair and a beautiful presence, seated in a leather chair in one corner of the room. Richard approached and snapped more photos, and we discussed the safety of Morocco with him.
Richard showed us all a fresh photo on the rear screen of his Nikon, of Combo, with his long lashes and dreamy eyes.
How scuzzy Penn Station in NYC is, not a single restaurant with inviting food or places to sit!
Emily, Richard’s niece, over lunch at Union Oyster House in Boston (where Daniel Webster ate six plates of oysters a day and President Kennedy dined). Never have trees seemed so alive to me, living beings breathing all around us in their coats of mauve, burgundy, scarlet, orange, brown, goldenrod, yellow! I’ve never seen brussels sprouts attached to a stalk as thick as my wrist the way my aunt Susie serves them. The former frat house where my father met my mother: littered with beer cans, scruffy, post-Halloween party. The bannister one can see from the entrance window that my mother slid down one night (she was really that frisky?) that now has a newel post half way down—to stop Betty Heimark from raising hell? That a young woman, Maia, answers our knock and invites us to come in and have a look around.
It seems amazing to me that a couple might find true love, so deeply suited for a life together, at such a tender age. That my mother, here in the 1942 yearbook in the library, was in the May court, and not the May Queen. That the Asian language we hear in the back of the bus belongs to Nepalese students at Amherst, a language we’ve never heard.
That our Williamsburg landlady, Iris, has two big coils of hair at her ears like a Navajo maiden! That reading Iris’s novel combined with an invitation from my friend, Cassandra, sparks a new idea, and I begin writing each morning here in Williamsburg. Meeting Mona’s two-year-old twins: what a fabulous mother she is, organized, disciplined, gay! The NYC Metro, its grime and darkness, how slow the trains, how crowded, how badly marked the stations! How much NYC reminds me of Amsterdam, the Dutch roots, practical, industrious, extraverted. Walking one night on Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg, I discover a 24-hour health food store where a calm Nepalese man presides! We walk to Greenwich Village, cross Washington Square, find 14 Gay Street, the basement apartment where Sam and Betty swear I was conceived. Two days later in Manhattan, we duck into a Bank of America lobby to wait out the rain, and this man strides by, grinning and waving! On the crowded Metro, a man facing me has a red face dripping with sweat, sweat staining his shirt. I wondered if I’d be tempted by Brooklyn, find it more appealing than Paris, but no, not even close. Richard's photographs were taken on a recent morning outing with Madame and her paste-up buddy, Fred le Chevalier, that began with a civilized morning espresso in an 11th arrondissement café. Now, in this community of Paris street artists, Richard and I watch these same fluctuations of fortune, but without the same financial stake. Last June, we were able to accompany the shy, prolific, gentle knight of Paris street art, Fred Le Chevalier, one of our favorite artists and people, as he pasted up a whimsical street mural to say thank you to Paris Play for allowing our photographs to be used in his first book, when Quel dommage! Would he exile himself into the suburbs, or return, rolled posters and paste pots in hand, to the Paris streets? Three weeks after his confrontation with the police, we began to see new Freds appearing in the 11th arrondissement, and then spreading outward from there.
I was immediately transported into yet another "past life," Berkeley in the late '60s, where I lived in a commune of artists and we created performance art, in which as many as 100 people would create an Event for one person, the aim of which was to transform that person's life, in some small way.
Michael Haimovitz, the ringleader of these Events, invited a group of men and women to a big, elegant house high up in the Berkeley Hills with views of the San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. Several women cleared his manuscript and glass of water from the long pine table at which he was reading, covered it with a thick cloth, and removed the poet's clothes. Several other women guided him to lie down on the table and began to expertly massage him, while the chorus of women continued to chant phrases from his poems, and to tattoo him all over with stamps on which the images of his poems were inked. So thank you Fred, for persevering in your art in the face of government madness, and for putting love at the center of life, where it belongs. The famous wall, at the front of the influential French pop musician's former residence (he died in 1991) was a pilgrimage site for fans from all over the world to leave painted and written tributes, but also had become, in recent years, a mess of unrelated tags and random graffiti. So the estate (now controlled by his daughter, actress-singer Charlotte Gainsbourg) wiped the slate clean. After being approached by street artist Anthony Lemer with a tribute concept--Gainsbourg's face in black-and-white surrounded by his song titles and lyrics and other slogans in various colors--the estate agreed to paint over the wall of graffiti and let Lemer have at it. Gainsbourg (Google him if you're unfamiliar) was a fascinating artist, whose work from the fifties through the eighties encompassed a variety of styles, from pop, jazz, disco and reggae to electronic and funk, and he was considered an influence by artists like Arcade Fire, Air, Beck, Belinda Carlisle, and Jarvis Cocker.
He was also a renown "bad boy" whose lyrics were full of wit, puns and sometimes not-even-oblique references to sex.
A fan wearing what he said was an original T-shirt from Gainsbourg's last gig gets a photo with the artist.
However, the thousands of fans who trek to his wall each year, most less adept at art than Anthony Lemer, don't care about his last years, only about his profound legacy that seems to keep growing. The estate hopes this fresh start will bring a wall of elevated art with it, but, as one street artist in attendance said, "Good luck. Not knowing what to expect prior to our visit, the first thing that I noticed, once inside of the restaurant, was the "Order Here" sign that hung directly above the counter. Six golden, buttery, scallion-flecked pancake wedges arrived piping-hot, accompanied by a miniscule dish of soy dipping sauce. Encased within a perfectly-steamed bun was an abundance of gristle-free chunks of soy + honey-glazed roasted pork and sauteed chopped onions. Perfectly-cooked (as in medium-rare) strips of hangar steak and wilted Chinese broccoli were enveloped by a savory, brown, soy-based sauce and plated atop an ample mound of sticky white rice.
While I found the greens to be bitter (I gave most of them to Christine), I relished in every bite of the incredibly tender beef. Soft tofu and Chinese long beans were enveloped in a rich black bean sauce and served over nutty, brown rice. Dense, sweet egg custard (like a thicker, harder version of flan) filled the hollows of a delicious, buttery French pastry shell, proving to be the perfect end to a savory Chinese meal!
Pig and Khao is the first solo venture for Top Chef alumna Leah Cohen, who is better known for shagging fellow cheftestant Hosea Rosenberg than for her performance on the show. The two dishes I ordered may be the best ones: I had the advantage of reading early reviews and heeding their recommendations. At least, that’s my sense after two visits last week to a restaurant that is not yet a fortnight old. The cuisine is the same Southeast Asia-meets-barbecue theme of the Williamsburg restaurant, but there are very few dishes in common. I loved the Heirloom Tomato Salad ($13; above left) with pepper, fresh coriander, charcoal, and olive oil, resting in a pool of kimchi water.

It seems to me that at $111 for two people (before tax and tip), replacing silverware and plates between courses ought to be automatic, not something you have to ask for.
That $111 bill, by the way, included a $40 bottle of Tempranillo that paired well with the food. What saves Fatty Crab, and the reason I would still go back if I’m in the neighborhood, is that the food remains complelling, even if overpriced: $13 for two small pork buns?
The restaurant was full on a Sunday evening, which means that Zak Pelaccio has no reason to change. The fries, or rather, fried confit potatoes, were too greasy and not crunchy enough for my taste, although that didn’t stop me from finishing them.
Four years ago, on the way to dinner at Dressler, we took a brief walk around South Williamsburg and suddenly found ourselves in no-man’s land. The restaurant is a mash-up of the faux Malaysian cuisine offered at the other Fattys, and Texas barbecue supervised by former Hill Country pitmaster Robbie Richter. Brandt Farm Beef Brisket ($18; above right) was the least successful dish, and like the others, ill-conceived. Notwithstanding that, the servers and runners were helpful and knowledgeable about the food. It recalls, almost perfectly, what the Buddhist teacher Chogyam Trungpa called the magic of the present moment. But by the low standards that currently pass for New York Times criticism, this one passes muster.
The servers look like college students, but fortunately they know the menu well and give good advice. The Fatty menus in both locations are similar, down to the way they are delivered—loose sheets on a clipboard.
It didn’t help that the food was practically thrown at us, as if we were contestants in a speed-eating contest.
Wanton Mee, or Wet Wanton ($17; above left), was a delicious mix of noodles with shrimp and pork dumplings.
Most of the food is very good—quite a bit better, in fact, than the surroundings and the service. The restaurant follows the irritating contemporary trend of turning out plates as they’re ready, regardless of whether you are ready for them. A salad of watermelon pickle and crispy pork ($7) was wonderful, offering a sharp contrast between the cool watermelon and the warm crunchy pork.
The dish of the evening was Short Rib Rendang ($17), which is braised with kaffir lime, coconut, and chili: tender, succulent, and flavorful. Visit our convenient location on Pocahontas Trail and ask about our military discount, or book one of our storage units online! John and Elana Talk About Food - Blog - Play With Your Food a€“ Make Your Pasta Shine! It also has a tendency to make me (and in this case my coworkers) revert to kindergarten activities and roll some pasta in some glue and glitter and make jewelry. Sprinkle in your glitter (whichever color you like) and mix it around with your hands until it's evenly coated.
References allow you to track sources for this article, as well as articles that were written in response to this article. I always like pasta in my plate with lots of butter sprayed on it, but this glitter pasta's necklace is so funny and inspiring. We talked a bit, and I learned that she was a former flamenco dancer, and now a psychologist and hypnotist.
She leads me upstairs where all the rooms have images of seal pups on the doors, each with different names.
The students are expected to be studious monks, but there are traces of another life downstairs. She was surely the most beautiful with that sweep of Veronica Lake hair, full Norwegian lips, character and intelligence in her eyes!
That a big poster of her hangs above the bed, naked with flamenco hair and pose, with two strategically placed red fans! Since then, we've been able to follow and photograph him a few times alone, and in the company of his fellow street artist, Madame, as he continues pasting his work up and helping friends do the same. Example: a San Francisco poet whose work was lyrical, imaginative and surreal, but who read his work with all the vividness of a banker counting money, and (unbeknownst to him), needed our help in loosening up his performances. As the poet began to read his poems, the room became warm, overheated, and all the men left, seemingly to try to fix the problem. When the lights were lit again, every woman was fully dressed, legs crossed, listening as attentively as if we were at the Berkeley Library.
The artist was not paid; he did it as a labor of love, and completed it Bastille Day morning, using a photograph of Gainsbourg as a model for his careful, subtle spray can work. A CIA grad and former chef de partie at Eleven Madison Park, she opened Centro Vinoteca in the West Village with Anne Burrell, and was later promoted to executive chef.
They pull off the bone easily, then you wrap them in whole wheat pancakes with beets and yogurt. It isn’t a large restaurant, especially with the backyard garden closed in colder weather.
Fatty ’Cue (Williamsburg) and Fatty Crab (UWS) had closed previously, after founder Zak Pelaccio left the company. The menu is in five sections, lightest to heaviest, though to call anything light here would be a bit of a joke. This was the first time in my experience that a Fatty kitchen actually seemed to understand the concept of pacing a meal. And the least they could do is to reprint an outdated menu that is dog-eared from over-use. There are options with ham and a fried egg on top, but I didn’t think a burger needed all that help. In this formerly desolate area, chef Zak Pelaccio has installed the latest member of his fatty family, Fatty ’Cue. Most items are a mixture of proteins from the barbecue smoker and Asian-inflected condiments.
I had two of the snacks and two of the specialities (again: these distinctions seem arbitrary), and it was a shade too much food for a solo diner.
Cucumbers ($6; above right) with smoked chili, brown rice vinegar, and toasted sesame seeds, fit the bill admirably, but they were nothing special on their own.
You’re supposed to slather the steamed yellow curry custard on toast, then put the bacon on top of that. It came with a curry sauce on the side, but I quickly figured out that it was superfluous—as sauces invariably are with the best barbecue.
Meal pacing is often a problem at small-plate restaurants, as indeed it was on our last visit to Fatty Crab. Fatty Crab in the West Village was a much deserved hit (our review here), but nearby Five Ninth (which he has since left) was always uneven, and Chop Suey (where he consulted) was a joke.
Unlike the downtown branch, it takes reservations, and it is more than double the size (70 seats vs. The cuisine is vaguely Southeast Asian, but much of it is filtered through Pelaccio’s American perspective.

The UWS location has a few more selections, but those in common are the same price at either place. Actually, those short ribs were the exception: most of these dishes deliver plenty of heat.
We each had one, and would have had a second if it had been possible to flag down a server. His other restaurant, the more upscale and expensive 5 Ninth, is just steps away, in the center of the Meatpacking District.
This can work well if you’re intending to share (as my friend and I were), but I find it presumptuous when I am informed that this is what the kitchen means to do, like it or not.
A dish called Chicken Claypot ($10) offered tender cubes of meat that had all of the flavor cooked out of them.
Every once in a while you see an exhibition in which you love everything, and this was one. Sealye Hall, no longer Alpha Delta Phi, fraternities banned last year, as my trustee father long thought they should be. I was sad when I had no good news, elated when I could report that I would bring them back enough money to constitute their first mortgage. Our story, which caught the attention of Huffington Post writer Mary Duncan, leaves Fred in limbo, the Damoclean sword of justice poised over his elfin head. Besides, his work is paper pasteups, which are easily taken back down, and which decay anyway when exposed to time and weather. The billboard aims to promote all kinds of street art, and each work's limited shelf life is an homage to the fact that street art is ephemeral by nature. He designed and created two hundred and fifty masks, each cut out and drawn and colored by hand, and turned the audience into participants at a masked ball celebrating the dance of love. Cocktails are inexpensive ($10); along with beers, they vastly outnumber the wines (just five choices).
It takes reservations and isn’t marred by the occasionally amateurish service that plagues the other locations. At the same time on Friday, I got the last free bar stool, and the hostess was quoting walk-in waits of an hour or more for tables. The other night, he was offering a mean-looking cassoulet (I mean that as a compliment), perhaps suggestive of the more Frenchified cooking style that he has in mind for the permanent restaurant that will be coming next. It’s the third member of the brood, after Fatty Crabs in the Meatpacking District and on the Upper West Side.
I don’t know the reasons, but getting the permits for a barbecue smoker is notoriously difficult, especially in an historic neighborhood full of buildings that pre-date modern construction codes. There were a couple of moist pieces on top, but those below (not visible in the photo) were dry. This time I lucked out, and everything came out (except the drinks) at exactly the pace I wanted.
That might be more than most people would want to pay in a casual restaurant that is not conveniently located, for food that is certainly interesting but is also uneven.
To expand on the playbook of awesome, Malaysian-ish cooking on display at the Fatty Crab restaurants in Manhattan, Mr. In that respect, he reminds me of David Chang, who actually claims to be serving American cuisine at his Momofuku restaurants, despite the obviously Asian roots they sprang from. All of those specialties are $17 or less, except for the restaurant’s signature dish, the chilli crab, which is $28. A sweet and sour fish broth with rice noodles ($10) was plenty of fun, but awfully difficult to eat.
We ultimately didn't use the idea, but we got an obscene amount of pleasure from the creation of it all.
You want a slightly watery glue so you don't get clumps of glue stuck in your pasta ridges. He's a tall, bearded street artist we've covered four times before, in Facebook posts, whose "Co-exist" campaign in the wake of the Charlie Hebdo massacres was embraced by Parisians of all religions and backgrounds.
But what I loved most were three drawings of "terrorists" based on Star Wars Jedi: a Christian, a Muslim, and a Jew. If he spray-painted, he says, he could understand the attitude of the police and building owners.
Non-bacon addicts might be advised to share this one with a friend, but I was happy to eat it myself.
When the server re-appeared to clear the plate, he picked up the fork and hesitated slightly before making the right decision to replace it. You’re supposed to make sandwiches with the steamed buns, adding red onions and chili jam, but I ran out of buns before I ran out of brisket. Based on other reviews I’ve seen, this will not happen to you, unless the stars are in alignment. The hostess seated me a table on the quiet (relatively speaking) third level, which has only five tables. However, it has the foodie buzz, and if you get there much later than 6:30pm, you can expect to wait.
In these three drawings, Culture Combo addressed the recent terrorist acts around the world with the most potent weapon: humor. Everywhere you turned there were photographers capturing the play, and the conversations were warm and frolicsome, too. As he droned on, some twenty-five women in the room (who were all beautifully, even a bit primly dressed), one by one, shed their silky dresses and lingerie.
He knocked on the door of his neighbors, two women who were in love with each other, and told them the tale of all these naked women. But, like the seminal writer, Jack Kerouac, Gainsbourg's last years were a descent into public drunkenness and crankiness, too often caught on video. The bartenders were knowledgeable about the food and happy to explain the odd combinations of ingredients at length. Nobody famous was on duty when I visited, but we had a good dialogue about cocktails, as the expression goes. Once again, a knife would have helped, as the remaining pieces of meat did not yield to a fork alone.
Fatty ’Cue offers smoked crabs and smoked lamb ribs, coriander-dusted bacon and pieces of pig.
We saw a few diners who, perhaps deceived by Frank Bruni’s two-star review, looked surprised by the gritty surroundings that are atypical for a purportedly serious restaurant in this neighborhood. The next time the poet glanced up from the page, every woman in the room, all of us in our early 20s, was naked. His two friends insisted on helping him wash off the tattoos, and got into the shower with him, as he told them every last detail.

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Author: admin | 14.01.2016 | Category: Aluminum Sheds

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