The Homegrown Dinner Party

In case you didn't know, I rented a garden plot in Adams Garden in northwest Portland a few months ago. I think these community gardens are a great idea--and a great deal. Being a white-collar city person having a romanticized, idealized image of farming--a tan earned by work under the sun, dirt under the fingernails, aching muscles due to actual productive exertion rather than the various human hamster wheels at the gym, being self-sufficient--can get frustrating when living in a gardenless apartment. July's issue of Gourmet magazine even has an article about the U.S.'s version of agriturismo ("Weed it and Reap"). Here is a quote from it that summarizes my feelings about farming perfectly: "With the white-collar urbanite's false nostalgia for manual labor, I was eager to get my hands dirty." Renting a community garden plot is the perfect solution to satisfy these fantasies. Just look under "City of Portland" in the phone book, and you'll find the phone number for community gardens. The rental fee is only $45/year, plus an additional $10 deposit the first year. It's a steal.

I've planted quite a bit: lettuce, broccoli, tomatoes, cauliflower, arugula, mint, parsley, basil, lavender, strawberries, radishes, beans, peas, squash, zucchini--you get the idea. A lot of it isn't ready yet, but I have lettuce coming out my ears.

So one night last week, I got together with my friends Alex and Bruno, and we all drove out to my garden. A great deal of weeding got done, Bruno threw a slug into an adjacent plot even though I told him to just kill it, and we picked a bunch of stuff to make dinner with. That was the exciting part.

We picked lettuce and radishes for salad, and used my arugula and parsley for a pasta dish. Honestly, the pasta wasn't so great (that was my fault), but it was a lot of fun. The salad was good, though. Alex was in charge of that.

All three of us were busy in my tiny kitchen, Alex studiously rinsing the potentially slug-infested lettuce, Bruno mashing butter and garlic for the garlic

bread, and I was blending away the ill-fated arugula-based pasta sauce. Really, the main problem was lack of salt. If not for that, it would actually have been pretty good. So happy and satisfied with our endeavors, we ate:

Oh yeah, and for dessert we had store-bought creme brulees, but garnished them with strawberries from my garden.

I think this conversation that night pretty much sums everything up:

Alex: It's nice to eat things you've grown.

Laura: Yeah.

Bruno: Like boogers.

And there you have it.

New York: Part 3--Brasserie Les Halles and Hudson Bar

Brasserie Les Halles

Ah Anthony Bourdain, how I miss thee. I finished watching all that Netflix has to offer, but am still craving more. You definitely ended on a high note, pretending to be James Bond in Vietnam. Squeasle anyone? Porcupine actually. I laughed and laughed. Probably the funniest thing I'd seen in a long time. But I digress.

Our penultimate night in NYC, Ingrid and Margaret finally caved and agreed to go to Anthony Bourdain's restaurant, Brasserie Les Halles. We decided on the Downtown outpost and headed out. I've been waiting months for this.

Let's just say, it wasn't quite what I expected. Bourdain describes it as an attempt in replicating a working-class french brasserie. I expected small, intimate, cozy. The place was huge!! A cavernous brasserie, harsh lighting, and not exactly packed. As soon as I stepped inside, my hopes of meeting the chef himself evaporated. It seemed pretty clear that his present role was honorary only, and that he didn't really have a hand in the daily operations of the place anymore. Very disappointing. But we must press on.

We were seated, and our server Daniel was the most entertaining server I've ever had. I think he made our night, and we probably made his. He seemed very W.A.S.P.y, and I was a little confused as to why a rich kid needed to be a waiter, but that was beside the point.

Now, back to the restaurant. Here's the problem: we were sitting in a corner booth, discussing the atmosphere, and concluded that yeah, he must not be involved anymore. Then Ingrid said something along the lines of "yeah, check out my seat!" I looked, and the banquette (is that what it's called?) had been torn, and instead of properly repairing it, had been hastily mended with duct tape. Yes, duct tape! Really classy. I was shocked.

Daniel the amazing server returned. Margaret asked him what on the menu he recommended. He replied, then spacily asked, "now what were you asking?" Margaret reiterated her question, he repeated his answer, and then Margaret started giving him crap. He looked confused at first, then I started laughing, then he realized that she was just teasing him. Dinner commenced. For appetizers, we ordered a potato salad that was non-traditional, I believe involved kalamata olives, and was good. Other than that, I don't really remember it. Also, we ordered a gravlax and cucumber salad. I liked it, the gravlax had a very assertive flavor, but if you aren't a strong fish fan, I could see how it could be problematic. Unfortunately, I didn't take pictures of either dish.

Entrees. We all ordered different variations on steak. All were artfully prepared, tender and juicy, and accompanied by whatever sauce we ordered, as well as frites and a salad. Bourdain claims to make the best french fries in the world. A tall claim. My verdict: they were good, but honestly, couldn't compare to the fries at Laurelwood or Moon and Sixpence here in Portland. Sorry Anthony.

When questioning Daniel the spacey server as to what he liked, he heartily recommened the Coq au Vin, saying that the smell was "intoxicating, dahling." None of us ordered it. That, however, was his dinner for the night, and in an unusual twist, decided to bring out his dinner plate so that we could smell it. We all sniffed, Margaret made a smart-ass comment, and were all astounded that a waiter brought out his dinner for us to look at. It was very entertaining! And, it did look pretty good. But it was time to go. We exited, but then I ran back in. Daniel was too entertaining not to have a picture taken. Here he is:

His response to my asking permission to take his photo: "Well, I can't say that this hasn't happened before." Yeah, whatever. But he really made dinner fun. But seriously Anthony, check in on your restaurant once in awhile. I think you'd be appalled by the atmosphere.

Brasserie Les Halles

15 John Street

New York, New York 10038

212.285.8585

http://www.leshalles.net/ny_downtown.php

Hudson Bar

Our next stop was Hudson Bar, recommended by the New Jersey sister Diane. Hudson Bar is a swanky affair in the eponymous Hudson Hotel. It seemed like the kind of place that you might see a movie star or two, but maybe that is overly ambitious. But, it was a supercool place. Definitely different from anything in Portland. The entrance was highly inconspicuous: nondescript green escalators heading up, up, up.

When you actually were up, up, up, it looked like a hotel reception area, but unlike any I had ever seen before. I don't know how to describe it, but I'll do my best. It was dark, had crystal chandeliers, lots of greenery, all of which sounds usual, but was done in a very non-traditional way. Their website describes it as surreal. I think that's accurate.

We find a seat inside the bar. The floor is lit, and a large "bench" running the length of the room is a long log with chair backs attached at intervals. I've never seen anything like it. Everyone there is dressed, except me of course. Oh well. I'm from Portland, what do you expect?

By now you must be wondering about the drinks. Ah, yes, the drinks. They were pricey. Drinks in New York in general are pricey, even at cash-only dive bars expect to pay $10. But, at Hudson Bar my drink was approximately $17. Yes, that's right, $17. And I didn't even especially like it. I ordered a Smoking Martini, and the waitress especially described it for me, since apparently people often order it and end up sending it back because they didn't like it. It is a standard martini, but in place of the vermouth, whiskey is added, hence the smokey taste. It was okay, but I wished I had ordered a girlier drink like Ingrid had. I tasted hers, but I don't remember what was in it. Passionfruit maybe. Whatever it was, it was good, better than mine, but normally I am a martini fan.

Drinks finished, we decide to explore the place further. There is a garden, but the doors are locked for the night, no new customers! We also find a game room full of pool tables, dart boards, all the usual suspects, but decorated in over-the-top glam. It's like a rich guy on acid was in charge of decor. Case in point: the fine art adorning the walls consisted of photos (maybe they were paintings, I can't remember) of cows wearing goofy hats. (I know the photo is a little blurry, but at that point, so was I. Those drinks were strong.) Creepy, actually.

The toilets were pretty fancy too, but that's just the word on the street, because I never actually saw them.

So check out Hudson Bar, but don't order the Smoking Martini.

Hudson Bar

356 West 58th Street

New York, NY 10019

212.554.6500

http://www.hudsonhotel.com/hudson_hotel_hudson_bar.asp

It's late, almost 3:00 a.m. Time to go home.

New York-Part 2: Cucina Italiana Paprika

I didn't forget about my blog, I just have been very busy lately with a variety of things--work, socializing, being very tired from socializing--I guess that covers it, but it is surprising how much time that takes up. If this post is a little rough around the edges, I apologize, I spent all day at jury duty, which is very draining. Anyway, on to the food.

Our second night in New York, we were wandering around the East Village in the hours approaching dinner. We weren't sure what we wanted, but apparently we had each individually noticed a cute little Italian restaurant called Paprika, but not mentioned it to each other. After some successful shopping, hunger overtook us, and we started looking for a good place for dinner. Eventually, we made our way back to the street we had started on, and there was Paprika. All of us simultaneously said something like "Oh! I like this place." (Sorry, that description was a little lame. Anyway.) So we went in.

It was cozy, a little dim, and perfect. A family was seated next to us, and I immediately noticed that the older half of the group was German. I always find that exciting (I studied German for over 10 years). The german couple asked us to take their picture, so I did the honors, and then asked if they would be so kind as to take our picture in return. The result, shown at the top, is a bit blurry, but everyone looks happy.

Now, really, the food. I ordered a French beer which was probably the best beer I've ever had. Unfortunately, I forgot what it was called. How unprofessional! We ordered Insalata Mista con Mele to share, and in an unusual and thoughtful twist, the chef actually divided onto three plates for us, each with a large shaving of parmesan cheese on top. It was quite good, consisting of mixed greens (duh), sliced apple, the aforementioned parmesan, and was lightly dressed with a touch of olive oil and honey. Here it is, in all its glory:

Next, our entrees. Margaret and I ordered specials. Margaret chose a black linguine sauced with tomatoes and shrimp. The black color of the pasta is derived from squid ink. The pasta itself had a slightly firmer texture than most (firm, but, I must clarify, NOT due to undercooking). Could it be from the squid ink? Maybe, I don't know, but it seemed possible. I think she ordered the tastiest dish out of the three of us, the sauce was very flavorful, but light. Here it is, but, unfortunately, the photo is blurry. Sorry.

I ordered papparadelle in a veal ragu with broccoli rabe. It was good and was what I expected, but not what I hoped for, if that makes any sense. Wide ribbons of noodles in a tomato-based sauce with ground veal, diced carrots, and broccoli rabe. Maybe it's just me, but I don't think that broccoli-like vegetable go very well in tomato sauces. But it's done all the time. It must just be my problem. Still, even though it was not my favorite, it was well-prepared.

Ingrid, that rebel, didn't order pasta, she ordered Pollo alla Milanese con Arugula e Pomodori--a chicken cutlet. Standard chicken cutlet, breaded and fried, but done properly like everything we ordered, it was still tender and juicy inside. The cutlet was accompanied with fresh arugula and tomatoes. Simple. Good.

Ah dessert. We couldn't order just one. First, we ordered panna cotta with a light, thin, not-too-sweet sauce that we couldn't quite place. What was it? We asked the waitress, and the mystery sauce was...fig. Oh, yes, I taste fig now. Why didn't I think of it? It was a very light dessert, perfect really, but shared between three young ladies, didn't go too far. So we ordered another dessert, a classic, tiramisu. Our eyes were bigger than our stomachs, we couldn't finish it. Oh well. Good, standard, but didn't blow my mind. I'm sure you've all had tiramisu, so I won't go into detail. Here are the photos:

Friendly atmosphere, a tiny but commanding waitress, relatively low prices, and well-prepared food. If you're in the East Village, go there. Here's all the pertinent information:

Cucina Italian Paprika
110 St. Mark's Place
Between 1st Avenue and Avenue A
New York, New York
212.677.6563
www.paprikarestaurant.com/

Earlier that evening, as we were walking and walking in the East Village, I noticed a funny little shop that I had to take pictures of. It was an entire "restaurant" of vending machines. And, it was all pink. Weird. And, for whatever reason, it smelled strongly of fresh donuts. I have no idea why. Supposedly, this type of thing is popular in Japan, but don't hold me to that. Take a look:

I just wanted to mention this since it was so funny. That's all for today.