Peking Duck (in da) House

Such a lovely day, such a lovely duck.

My sister was in town from Vermont for Easter, and at the last minute we decided to give her a Manhattan dream day, or at least a fun trip to the city with the promise of Peking duck as the climax. We kicked things off in the East Village with a quick visit to an organic vegan restaurant, Angelica Kitchen. Not to eat, silly, but to say hello to one of my sister's VT-transplant friends. And then I took Sis on a subjective culinary tour of the neighborhood.

We strolled by Una Pizza Napoletana and considered ordering an "appetizer." (We wimped out.) We walked past Hearth, Rai Rai Ken, and the old site of Iso, where Margy and I had our true sushi awakening years ago. This sister doesn't do sushi, but her pastry-chef ears perked up when I told her we were right near the famous bakery Veniero's. (I also told her how disappointing I've found its pastries, though it's been awhile.)

To this point our "food walk" had found us taking nary a bite of anything, so we dropped in for a few cookies or a sfogliatella. Wouldn't you know there was a line that snaked clear through the bakery and all the way down the hall of the dining room. Obviously Easter is a good time for Veniero's. We moved on, our minds filled with sustaining thoughts of duck.

Next we tooled around the West Village for an hour or two, and then it was time to meet Margy in Chinatown. We found our third parking spot of the day -- at this point I really felt like I was pushing my luck -- not too far from Mott Street and the Peking Duck House.

I should mention that this whole thing was a bit of a quest for my sister. When we were planning the trip and I asked her where she'd like to eat, she didn't hesitate. She'd heard about the incredible pie at Una Pizza. I'd told her all about the steamed pork buns at Momofuku Ssäm Bar. She wanted the duck.

I'm happy to say she got her fill. I figured one bird would go pretty far among three people, but I wasn't certain. Anyway, we went all out with our appetizer round and ordered both pork dumplings and pork buns, so we weren't about to go hungry. We also balanced things out -- yeah, right -- with some sautéed Chinese cabbage, which was delicious and still held a bit of crunch.

But again, this was all about the duck. Even the absurdly loud and out-of-place techno music pulsating from the speakers couldn't dampen our enthusiasm for the magical meat on the platter in front of us. (I could swear they were playing lite-FM on our last visit, and I'll take robotic techno every time over the dreaded "American Pie.")

Peking Duck House is hardly the snazziest or the most interesting restaurant in New York City, but it bears remembering that the place does indeed get into some pretty important details, even beyond the duck itself. Take the pancakes. They're thin but soft, a little stretchy -- a far cry from the dry, dusty, easily torn wraps that accompany moo shu dishes at inferior joints. And the hoisin sauce is more delicate in flavor and less sweet than most, which makes a huge difference.

It's what the duck demands, par for the course for a bird this good. We sat right near the carving station and watched the "duck guy" deftly run his knife into each dark-roasted specimen until its flesh was set onto a plate in a swirl of perfect slices. Finally, it was our turn, and we asked for the bones, which as presented are really just the leg bones. But that would suffice.

We rolled our own pancakes, with hoisin, scallions, and cucumbers, and at last my sister's quest was coming to fruition. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she made numerous yummy sounds. Margy ate quietly, smiling and sipping her Tsingtao. Me, I just repeated "Wow" a few dozen times. We hadn't made a trip to the racetrack, yet we'd hit the richest trifecta of all: delicious meat, crispy skin, and luscious fat. My sister had picked a winner.

Una Pizza Perfetta

My pizza adventures have been on something of an upswing lately.

First I (mostly) swore off crappy pizza and discovered the excellent pizzeria No. 28 in one fell swoop. And then there's Margy's amazing homemade pizza, which I can pretty much demand at any time of year save the sultry summer months.

But I must say that 2007 really started out with a bang when Enzo, who seems to be my pizza-hunting guardian angel -- or at least my official taster -- finally brought me to Una Pizza Napoletana in the East Village.

I had read about the place for months, years, eons, whatever -- long enough to know that I needed to try it. (It opened in 2004.) The band had an evening gig in Brooklyn, and, earlier in the week, when I mentioned getting together with some or all of the fellas for dinner, Enzo looked at me and said, "UPN, dude." Done.

I did a little more reading in the days leading up to tonight. The user reviews on Citysearch cracked me up. They basically alternate "Best pizza ever" and "What's the big deal?" But, knowing all about Una Pizza's borderline psychotic insistence on using only the best, most classic ingredients and techniques, I had a strong feeling about which side of the fence I'd land on. Still, I couldn't help but notice that every reviewer, regardless of whether his or her comments were positive or negative, moaned and groaned about the price of the pizza. Among other complaints were descriptions of the proprietor, Anthony Mangieri, as the "pizza Nazi," and stuff like, "They make you cut your own pie!" and, "They don't give you free water!"

I'm reading this and thinking, Just show me the pizza.

So Enzo and his wife and I -- my biggest regret would soon be letting Margy skip out on this one -- showed up around 7:30 on this Friday night, and there were a few people on line ahead of us. One thing I was not going to do was get bummed out about waiting, not even while standing outside in winter drizzle. This was a quest, after all -- my ongoing quest to eat decent pizza -- and quests take time. Within a few minutes we were waiting inside, and I could finally see some pies.

Wow, were they small. Yet another feature of the UPN product that Citysearchers couldn't seem to pipe down about. But gosh, were they gorgeous. I caught myself ogling and averted my eyes to that inward place that's always dreaming about pizza. Now and then I'd look over at Mangieri tending the wood-fired brick oven and see him pour olive oil from a copper kettle onto a pie in an artful, well-practiced swirl. The guy had me at hello.

Now, the menu at Una Pizza Napoletana lists four items, all pizzas, all featuring a combination of very basic ingredients (drawn from this list: San Marzano tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, fresh basil, oregano, fresh garlic, fresh cherry tomatoes, extra virgin olive oil, Sicilian sea salt). Want an anchovy? Go someplace else. Feel like some pepperoni? Seek it elsewhere. Heaven forbid you're in the mood for a salad. Waiting on line, I whispered to Enzo, "I wonder if you can get a little hot pepper if you feel like it."

"Probably not," we said in unison.

After a wait of maybe fifteen minutes in the very small, sparsely adorned dining room, a table was ready, and the Italian waitress led us over. Enzo and I immediately began speaking to her in Italian, just to test the waters. She seemed to appreciate that. We ordered three Peroni and three Margheritas (San Marzanos, mozzarella, olive oil, basil, salt). And then, I have to say, I felt a little depressed.

The money thing was getting to me.

Of all the things in this world that we can spend our hard-earned cash on, food is right at the top of the list for me. It just makes sense to seek out certain edible items that might occupy a higher price bracket. This isn't always necessary -- it can even be foolish sometimes -- but very often the best foods, or the best available varieties of certain foods, cost the most. I had already had this conversation with myself before entering the cash-only, four-items-on-the-menu Una Pizza Napoletana, and I had concluded that if the pie is indeed that memorable then it would be worth it to pay whatever it cost.

What a 12-inch pizza costs at UPN is $21. And I really felt the impact once I'd requested one.

But then the pie arrived, and thoughts of dollars and cents receded far enough away that I'd have given Mangieri whatever he wanted from me. After just a quick bite or two, 21 bucks seemed utterly reasonable -- a steal, even. I began to stammer an endless stream of "Wow" and "Unbelievable." Other topics could not enter the conversation, if conversation is the right word for oohs and aahs and incomplete sentences. When we talked, we talked about the pizza.

Two features jumped out at me: harmoniousness and deliciousness.

First, the harmony. Every carefully chosen component of the pie came together in the ultimate "the whole is more than the sum of its parts" way. It helped, of course, that each part had an impressive pedigree, but it was the balance that was so stunning. At another place, I might've wanted a spoonful more sauce. Here, I did not. In a different pizzeria, I might have wanted just a bit more crunch from the crust. Here, that notion would have been a travesty. This crust perfectly toed the line between crisp and chewy, and it was branded beautifully with little char marks from the oven. My friends, UPN veterans, said they'd never had such a well-done pie there, that usually it was cooked a bit less. I found that hard to imagine -- again, what I was eating seemed perfect, and I didn't want to acknowledge that anything less so was possible -- but in my state of rapture I figured that even a less well-done pizza would still be great.

On to the deliciousness. This pie simply tasted better than all but maybe one or two that I've had in my life. I usually judge a pizza by breaking it down -- how's the crust? is the sauce too sweet? does the cheese have any flavor? -- but this one defied my conventions by forcing me to view it as a whole. Harmony again.

Of course, I can try to analyze it. The tomatoes were lovely, a little bit of tang that worked in conjunction with the yeastiness of the dough. The buffalo mozzarella was more assertive than most mozz. Placed on the pie almost in little balls, it melted slightly outward but retained a milky whiteness, and its lush creaminess balanced the acidic tomato. Adding the olive oil, which pooled up just a bit in the center of the pizza (like it does on good pies in Italy), was an important touch -- you could really taste it. And the basil offered color contrast and refreshing herbal flavor.

But the thing that really blew all of us away was the sea salt. If this were a movie review, here's where I might say "beware of spoiler," because I'd want everyone to discover for themselves the little surprises that pop up here and there as you gobble the pie. I didn't know where, I didn't know when -- the large, angular salt crystals were cloaked by the other ingredients -- but now and again I'd get this little crunch followed by saltiness, and it grabbed me every time. The whole experience was thrilling, and it was over too soon.

Before it ended, though, Enzo motioned toward our waitress as she zipped by. "C'è un po' di peperoncino?" he asked. "Is there a bit of hot pepper?" Oh no, I thought, he's gonna ruin everything. But nothing could be ruined -- we had our pizzas, and no one could take them away from us. And it's not as if we were going to order dessert, although in retrospect a white pizza would've been a fine substitute for gelato or biscotti.

Anyway, I could swear that a bit of a smile took a downward turn as our server accelerated past us, answering, "Non c'è la. NON C'È LA!"

"It's not here. IT'S NOT HERE!" You know what? They don't need it.

Finalmente!

Maybe you've heard me complain endlessly about the meager pizza choices in our Jersey town. I'm frustrated, I'm bitter, I'm angry, I'm depressed, I'm incredulous that no one has bothered to make a decent pie within twelve miles of our home. But then I go and eat the local schlock anyway... because it's pizza, dammit, and who wants to go weeks without pizza?

Well, sign me up.

I'm done with the places around here, and I'm not joking this time. I am now willing to go weeks without pizza if it means sparing myself junky pies. I'm not happy about this -- pizza is convenient, it's cheap, and it's always readily available... plus, you know, I'm a tiny bit obsessed with it -- but my hand has been forced by too many crushing disappointments.

Tonight, however, at least restored my faith that someone in this country besides Margy and my mom is committed to pizza excellence. Of course this was across the river in NYC, at No. 28 on Carmine Street, but at this point that's what I'm dealing with: either traveling a little or begging Margy for the homemade goods.

I had heard about No. 28 from Enzo, who is well aware of my obsession and who knew I'd dig the place. I just assumed Margy and I would have to wait for a table, but the joint was hardly full when we arrived. (Seems most New Yorkers are just like most New Jerseyans and choose their pizzerias based on proximity rather than deliciousness.) Walking in, we saw a brick oven, we smelled burning embers, we got excited. We ordered a Margherita with buffalo mozzarella and a white pie with garlic and sopressata.

As we were waiting for our pizzas, a trio of young Neapolitans walked in and made themselves at home at one of the outdoor tables. We were treated to the wonderful sound of their local dialect, which was so thick and obscure to my ears that, though I speak decent conversational Italian, I could only understand the odd word here and there. We were not in the New Jersey suburbs.

Again, that fact was borne out when the pizzas arrived. The first, most obvious good sign was burn marks on the crust. Aah, burn marks. All the ingredients were top notch, and there were very few of them -- another good sign. Pizza, to me, is not a depository for all my favorite meats and vegetables and cheeses; toppings are only there to support the most important component: the dough. And support it they did. The tomato sauce was fresh and bright, and the buffalo mozzarella was creamy and imparted just the right amount of dairy flavor. The garlic on the white pie made itself well known without being overpowering, and a bit of ricotta mellowed out the sopressata beautifully. The crust walked that delicate balance between crisp and chewy, offering a little bit of both.

It's no wonder that No. 28 has gained a "D.O.C." designation from the organization that recognizes proper Neapolitan, that is to say properly elemental, pizza. In that great miracle of culinary miracles, I got hungrier the more I ate, until my brain had to finally interfere and heed the stop signals that my stomach was refusing to send in such a blissed-out state.

Celery Soup, It Ain't

Margy and I were at Juilliard to see a theater workshop directed by our friend Essho, and after the show we were starving and there was no time to waste. We passed a few anonymous-looking pizzerias and Mexican joints, and then across the street we saw a Chinese noodle shop, Bos.

There was a recent Time Out endorsement hanging in the window, and we walked in, sat down, and ordered some shrimp toast and a couple bowls of noodles. The shrimp toast was excellent, but the noodles were a bit of a letdown. The noodles themselves were al dente, but the broth was bland and the pork was chewy. I ate enough to satisfy my hunger, but on those few occasions when I'm not excited by my meal it's hard for me to go the distance. I was mortified when the waiter came by and with a puzzled look asked us, "You're done?" I hate not pulling my weight. But one thing I cannot do is force myself to eat when my heart's no longer in it.

The bygone Cafe Le Wok on 35th made a much better noodle soup, and they never got attention from any local magazines. What a shame -- if they had, the place might still be there today.

Whole Hog

I had a gig in the meatpacking district, and Margy met me after work for a little pregame BBQ at the Hog Pit.

Ah, the Hog Pit. The warm, almost melting cheese biscuits started us off right. We tried to resist eating them all before our entrees arrived, but we mostly failed.

I had a rack of pork ribs with panfried corn and cabbage with bacon. (Call that a piggy exacta.) Margy had a pulled pork sandwich with black-eyed peas and mac and cheese. Somehow I ate all my ribs, but Margy, even after working pretty hard, had enough meat left over to essentially make another pulled pork sandwich.

Ah, the Hog Pit.

My New Favorite Mexican Restaurant

Tonight I realized my dream of eating a nice dinner in an NYC bodega.

I had read about little Mexican grocers and delis that have a tiny kitchen in the back, but I had never been to one. Indeed, this place, a hole in the wall on 10th Avenue, was exactly that -- shelves of canned goods and fridges full of beer and soda in the front, then in the rear about eight or ten stools and a little window leading to a kitchen. Stevesie brought us there -- me, Macca, and Looch, on our way to take a rock and roll cruise around Manhattan -- and he did the honors of asking, in Spanish, if it was okay to drink beer with our tacos. It was.

The tacos were two bucks apiece. I had one with roast pork and one with chorizo and potato, and both were delicious. Macca and Looch found that two between the two of them wasn't quite enough, so Looch went to the counter for a second course and designed her own creation, which she had to repeat a couple times to the woman taking her order. Potato and jalapeño taco, she said, and that's what she got. "I think this is the hottest thing I've ever eaten," she wheezed, as her ears turned red and her eyes began to fog over. I'll try one of those next time.

Feed Us Well and All Is Forgiven

Margy and I love Katsuhama in NYC. What's not to love in a restaurant that specializes in deep-fried pork?

Tonight the service was terrible, and you know what? I didn't mind. We were one of maybe five tables, but we couldn't get our waiter's attention to order another beer. No problem; I just sipped at Margy's remainder until relief finally came. When the food arrived and we noted the absence of the little Japanese pickles that accompany the entrees -- even though the next table had them -- we had to ask for some. That's cool; seconds later we were nibbling away. And my ego can handle having a waiter assume I'm unfamiliar with basic food vocabulary.

Me: How's the prawn katsu?

Him: Prawns are shrimp.

It's not like we were kept waiting for hours or were served cold pork. In fact, I'm not even officially complaining that the first words we heard upon entering the restaurant were, "You're looking for sushi?" See, Katsuhama doesn't serve sushi, but I can't really blame the host for presuming that every non-Japanese person who walks through the door expects to see sushi on the menu. I'm sure it becomes exhausting to deal with that on a daily basis.

Anyway, part of the charm of the place is that it doesn't try to mimic most Japanese restaurants in the States by offering an enormous blanket menu. Katsuhama specializes in the fine art of greaseless frying, and to achieve such a high standard, focus is essential. It's hard to be all things to all people.

I'm just saying that every other time we've been to Katsuhama we've noticed a very friendly, capable staff, and this was a notch below. Whatever. I'm one of those diners that can easily ignore shoddy service as long as the food is good (and as long as we're not paying ridiculous prices to eat it).

And again, at Katsuhama the food is great. I tried the pork-and-prawn combo, which was the first time I'd deviated from the straight-up pork cutlet. I was elated. See those shrimp-looking things? Those are prawns.

Garlic Waits to Pounce

I was in Park Slope for the day, and my boy Joe and I went out for a little Latin bistro action. I was still flying high on Babbo fumes, so I wanted to keep things modest. I ordered an empanada and a watercress and avocado salad. It was the perfect light meal. But then...

I just don't like raw garlic, and the salad dressing was full of it, invisible though it was to the naked eye. I don't mind this so much while I'm eating, but twelve hours later it really starts to get old.

Margy didn't want to go near me. Can't say I blame her. Next time I'm asking for oil and vinegar.

Babbo

I had always wanted to try Mario Batali's restaurant Babbo, but I put it off.

It's not like we visit places of that ilk very often at all. But we allow ourselves the occasional splurge. Anyway, I can always justify these things as "research."

It was Bill Buford's book Heat that did it. Buford, once a full-time writer and editor for The New Yorker, wrote a profile on Batali and eventually found himself sucked further and further into the world of the kitchen staffer, to the point where he spent lots of time working at Babbo, as a prep cook, grill cook, and pasta guy. I'm a somewhat suggestible person, so by like page twelve I was thinking, Margy and I have to eat at Babbo. So I made a reservation, and then I got excited.

My biggest fear was that we'd be arriving several years too late. Since he opened Babbo in 1998, Mario has been spreading himself a little thin. (Okay, maybe that's the wrong term.) He's got several other restaurants -- though supposedly Babbo remains the most "Molto Mario" of the bunch -- plus his surely time-consuming Food Network gigs, which include my favorite television show, Iron Chef. In short, he's a star. I figured he'd be nowhere near Babbo on the night we went, but that's how things go. (Turns out I was correct.) From reading Buford's book I understood that Batali is present in Babbo's cooking even though he's almost never present in Babbo's kitchen.

To our great delight, the restaurant did not disappoint. Far from it. Every dish was wonderful. Even our table was primo. Now, for some couples such a table would have led to an immediate request for repositioning, but not for Margy and me. No, no -- we sat pretty much right outside the kitchen, where the action is.

We watched a huge number of runners bring out plates, always serving an entire table without making anyone wait while others' dinners grew cold. We caught a peek at most of the dishes, and we played little games like guessing which of the dark-suited staff was really in charge (besides co-owner Joe Bastianich, that is, who was clearly the top dog in the dining room). We got to sit right by a big round center table where servers and other workers would carve meat and fillet fish. This was an unexpected source of fun, because there was far more bumbling going on than I would have expected, as not-so-highly-skilled workers (some were better than others) tried to use a spoon and fork in one hand, like they were playing the marimba with doubled-up mallets. Only the marimba was a delicate whole fish, and the mallets could easily shred it. We watched them sweat.

Again, beginning with the complimentary chickpea crostini that started our meal, every single thing we ate was fabulous. And, no holds barred, we ate a lot. We opened with grilled octopus that was meatier and more tender than any I've ever had and was dressed with a limoncello vinaigrette (ah, Mario). Another starter was marinated sardines with caramelized fennel and lobster oil -- firm, briny, delicious.

Then came the pastas. We couldn't resist ordering Babbo's famous beef cheek ravioli, which were filled with a beautifully molten meat mixture and topped with a ridiculously rich sauce made with squab liver. For good measure, some black truffles were shaved on top. It might be uncool for me to admit I usually don't love truffles, but tonight I began my conversion to the truffle way. Our other pasta was equally magical -- black spaghettini with rock shrimp, crumbled Calabrese sausage, and green chilies. Wow. I had read that Batali thinks of pasta accompaniments as condiments rather than sauces, as do Italians in general, and this really illuminated that point. The noodles weren't swimming in anything. They were dressed with some oil, and the other ingredients formed exactly that: a condiment, to encourage and support rather than compete with the pasta.

Oh, and then just for the heck of it we had some duck, a confit leg topped with a sliced breast. The duck was set on a delightful bed of barleylike grains that was fragrant with cheese and studded with lima beans. Golden beets adorned the plate. By this point Margy's hearty appetite was waning, so I stepped it up and devoured the duck. I thought for a second about surrendering, but thank goodness I pressed on; I would still be kicking myself now had I left even one bite.

We finished our amazing northern Italian pinot noir (or, according to its German-speaking label, brauburgunder), and then a stiff sip of grappa prepared us for dessert, which arrived right as Spike Lee walked by on the way to his table. We had Mario's signature saffron panna cotta, which was served with stewed apricots and apricot sorbet. Awesome. And of course we had the zeppolini, little round donuts that were crisp and lighter than air. Those came with three sauces: chocolate sauce, peach marmelata, and something with honey.

Despite all that food, we felt great on our way out. We'd honestly done more damage last night with all those damn tortilla chips. Babbo, bless its lardo-wrapped heart, is still committed to doing things right, and there's no sign of that changing anytime soon. Bravissimo.

Prime Meridien

Margy and a pal had an after-work dinner at the Burger Joint at the Parker Meridien Hotel. Mmm, mmm!

Shadowy Dumplings

I'm not even sure what we're looking at here. This was Margy's "business" dinner at her favorite Tibetan restaurant, the hip, low-lit downtown source of those delicious steamed momo dumplings.

The Real Deal

Lombardi's never lets you down.

Okay, that's not entirely true. It lets you down sometimes. I've been quite disappointed with the pie on occasion. After all, it's a delicate balance between a zaftig slice and one that's just plain enormous, and Lombardi's has been known to tip the scales on the excessively doughy side. A bit of end crust should be a modestly sized handle with which to grab the pizza; it doesn't need to be the size of the restraining bar on a roller coaster.

But on the other hand, Lombardi's gets lots of things right. The sauce is fresh and tangy and bright, and the hot-as-hell oven knows how to scorch the crust in all the best ways. Bubbles abound, rich pockets of mozzarella pop out here and there, and sometimes you find the perfect crunch.

This pie rocked, despite having a few roll-bar crusts. It had better have rocked, because I was enjoying it with my friend the extreme-metal drummer, and he doesn't like things that don't rock. In fact, this Lombardi's pizza might have inspired some of his finest work, because at his show after dinner he pulled off feats of power and speed and sheer madness that are almost certainly impossible on an empty stomach.

Kielbasa on Rye

I had to drown my sorrows, for Margy left me.

I mean, she left me at home for ten days while she went to frolic by the lake with the women in her family. So I rounded up the troops and did what comes naturally: go to the Bohemian Beer Garden in Queens.

If you've never been, the place is a massive fenced-in tree-studded yard that can accommodate, and I'm guessing here, oh, about a thousand people at its dozens of long wooden benches. There's an outdoor bar and an indoor bar (indoor dining rooms too, though no one really goes inside except to order a drink or use the bathroom), and a stand that sells kielbasa and hamburgers. There's also a full menu and, somewhere, a full kitchen.

The beer, it went down smooth. We mostly drank Spaten. When it was time for a kielbasa, I led the charge. The sausage was too salty, the fries too soggy, but that didn't matter a bit. Washed down with more Spaten, it was the perfect beer garden meal. It's sad that the place is the only remaining outpost of its kind in New York City. We need to hark back to the days when there was a beer garden on every block.

A quick message from CFM: Caryn, a good friend and loyal supporter, is embarking on a strange and terrifying journey on Saturday, July 29, and she needs your help. She will be blogging for 24 hours straight. Okay, so maybe straight isn't the right word. But from 9am on Saturday the 29th till 9am on Sunday the 30th, she'll be posting to her blog every half-hour as part of a Blogathon to benefit the cause of literacy. She's even pledging to run a Webcam in the wee hours, "so you can see just what insanity looks like at 3am." Please check her out during the Blogathon -- she'll make it worth your while -- and lend a bit of support as she confronts the Herculean task of facing a blank screen every 30 minutes.

Our First Cooking Class

For a while, Margy and I had been sitting on an awesome gift from our friends Macca and Looch, a gift certificate for a one-day class at the Institute of Culinary Education. Choosing the class from a giant list was agony. Agony. We stalled many times. Japanese? Indian? French? Knife skills? WINE??

In the end, we chose Classic Thai. My reason was that I wanted to make a curry paste from scratch. I really like some of the pastes that come in a jar, but that's too easy -- it's almost cheating. I wanted the real deal, and I wanted to better understand how the flavors work.

So Margy and I met up at the school and gathered with our class of sixteen in a kitchen classroom to discuss the list of recipes with the instructor, over a little not-very-Thai spread of cheese and crackers. "When do we get to drink wine?" one woman asked. I looked around and saw knives. I figured the wine wouldn't come out until the knives went away.

We were then split up into three groups, each group having a menu of dishes to divide up amongst the members. All three groups were to make a curry -- ours was a green curry with pork -- with the option of preparing the paste by hand or simply measuring it out from a jar. As Margy and I shook hands with our three comrades, I said, "I want to make the curry paste." They looked at me as if I was insane. Yet by my calculations we had most of two hours to finish four or five dishes. The others humored me. "Okaaaay," one guy said, shrugging and turning his palms up toward the ceiling.

One of the fun things about this class was that it offered exotic ingredients that I have trouble finding. My Asian market stocks lemongrass, but it has no galangal, or kaffir lime leaves. At ICE, they had it all -- plus plenty of fish sauce and shrimp paste, both of which are so very Thai, while also being funkier than James Brown. It was great to see the instructor pass around an open jar of shrimp paste and watch one person after another recoil suddenly. Smells bad, tastes great.

The problem was that the knives were so dull I nearly killed myself trying to slice galangal. It's a knobby root that looks a lot like ginger (the teacher called it "ginger's sexy Thai cousin," but after checking it out I'd say ginger is actually sexier, if less exotic), but the piece I had in front of me was hard as a rock. I had to kind of saw at it to make sure my blade had at least penetrated the skin and had a chance at working through the whole root before sending the galangal flying and getting my blood flowing. Fortunately, I didn't rush, and I got the job done.

Sure, I almost dumped all of my paste on the floor when I tried to remove the foreign blender from its base and the paste oozed quickly out the bottom, but I stopped it with my apron and eventually corralled it. Boy, did it smell good. Fresh chilies, galangal, lemongrass, lime zest, garlic, shallots, cilantro, spices, and, yes, shrimp paste (only a little) will do that. I had a rush of excitement over my homemade paste. Granted, I used a blender -- I didn't squat over a mortar and pestle and pound, pound, pound, as is the Thai tradition -- but this was still the closest I'd come to the geniune article.

Meanwhile, Margy was prepping the rest of the ingredients for the curry -- Japanese eggplant, yellow pepper, Thai basil, impossibly fragrant kaffir lime leaves -- and we then went to the stove and cooked the curry together. Our classmates buzzed around us, grilling satays, simmering soups, stir-frying pad thais, checking a bamboo steamer full of sticky rice. From time to time I heard that woman ask, "Wine?"

Sooner or later -- later for her, clearly -- the beer and wine came out. I looked around. Yup, the knives were gone. Two assistants pushed together our workstations and turned them into one large dinner table, set with bowls and plates and wine glasses. All of the teams put our finished dishes on another table, and the feasting began. The food was really good; I've had worse at actual Thai restaurants. See that ceramic dish in front, the one whose contents are sort of white, green, and red? That's our curry. Dee-lish.

Let's Thai One On

After working in a -- gasp -- office for the first time in months (only temporarily; phew), I needed a reward.

So I met up with Margy at quitting time and we took a long stroll over to Pam Real Thai. There was a short line for a table, and the owner practically pleaded with us to go to his new outpost a few blocks away ("Same food, same price, more tables"). But we were already at this place, and I could see Pam herself working the stove, pink cheeked and sure handed. We stayed, and a table was ready in no time.

We kind of went overboard on the ordering, but I wanted to try as many things as possible. We began with curry puffs (flaky, a little sweet, and delicious) and a salad called larb with ground chicken. The larb was pretty exotic and offered flavors that were new to us, possibly some unfamiliar spices and "roasted rice powder." Its dressing was bright with lime juice and mint.

Our entrees were squid with ginger sauce (background) and crispy duck with basil. Both were great; the duck was spicy and the squid cooling. We ate as much as we could (then I ate a little more), but that larb was a big-'un, so we couldn't get through the main dishes. That was good news -- we got to bring Pam Thai home.

I'm Not Made of Stone

Tonight I had a quick rehearsal in NYC, to prepare a number for the Thowmbpsin wedding, and on my way over to Mr. Thowmbpsin's studio I realized I needed to address a nagging hunger.

I walked by a string of crappy-looking eateries on my way. Nope, nope, nope. I noticed a new Japanese fast food franchise, the kind where a home office sends its restaurants glossy mass-produced posters with an unrealistic close-up photograph of some horrible new dish, much like McDonald's does. No, I don't think I want chicken teriyaki that was originally prepared a thousand or more miles away, especially if it has a goofy, smacking-of-desperation name like "Samurai Chicken."

But then, with my options narrowing and time running out, I found the right kind of trashy fast food: the chili dog! Perfect.

Chili dog? What chili dog?

The Elusive Sicilian in Midtown

I think this pizza surprised us. When Margy and I made a plan to meet up in midtown Manhattan for dinner, I know she was surprised when I suggested a pizzeria, because the place was a mere block away from where I worked for six years and I had never mentioned it before.

See, I usually mention nearby pizzerias, especially if they're even remotely decent.

The thing with this place, Lazzara's, was that I had never eaten there. I'd heard about really good thin-crust Sicilian pies from my friend K and others, but during my time in the hood Lazzara's closed at 4pm, and I never considered pizza to be a good choice for an office lunch, as my company didn't offer time off for an afternoon siesta. The one time I chewed on a floppy slice (from some other place) at a birthday party in the boardroom, all I could do when I got back to my desk was blink my eyes heavily and try in vain to work.

But I'm glad to say Lazzara's is now open for dinner, because its pie was damn good. The crust had some crunch and lots of flavor, plus it had those precious burnt bits that I dream about. The sauce was tasty and not applied too thickly. The cheese... well, we're just going to have to go back soon and pay more attention to the cheese, because we were too caught up in the fact that we had missed this place for years to form a truly thorough analysis. Plus before we knew it our pizza was gone.

Dragon (Okay, Chicken) Heart

Tonight was the bachelor party for my dear friend Mr. Thowmbpsin, and a meatier tribute to the fine man I could not possibly imagine.

To begin the evening, we gentlemen convened at Churrascaria Tribeca in Manhattan to get our steak on. I mean, steak was only the beginning. Or more to the point, steak was the early middle, as the meal began with a trip to a "salad" bar that under any other circumstance would have provided a full dinner and then some. I sampled shrimp cocktail, squid salad, asparagus risotto, a couple of kinds of greens (which I assume were there just for show), a bean salad, and sushi, of which there was a full spread of both nigiri and maki. I didn't get around to the mushrooms, the chicken salad, the whitefish stew, the catfish something-or-other, or the...

The reason I stopped short is that I had a little double-sided plastic coaster by my place setting that was on its red side now but would soon be flipped over to green. And you know what green means: Show me the meat.

For those unfamiliar with Brazilian barbecue of this nature, you pay a fixed price and then you eat as much as you possibly can. Once you flip the coaster over to green, here's what happens: Men carrying great spears of cooked flesh appear one by one at your table, each offering a different creature, or a different part of a similar creature. As this endless parade of carnivorous delight began, I realized why there was a pair of tongs at each seat, and it wasn't so us dudes could daintily select a cheese-filled roll from the bread basket. The tongs were there so we could grab a slice of meat as the server carved it off his speared shank, or steak, or leg of beast.

Things started innocently enough with spears of chicken and sausage. But beef was soon on its heels. Prime rib, rib-eye, I actually lost track of all the different beef cuts, because I heard from behind me the whisper of two of my favorite words: "Suckling pig?" Temporarily forgetting that there was no shortage of anything and that the carnival of meat would not cease, I scrambled to get me some pig. It was in a mushroom sauce, so it was on a platter and not a spear, but that was cool with me. There was some crispy skin, and the pork was beautiful. My mind was beginning to melt at this point into an alert yet dreamy state, a state where smoke and fat and salt were all that mattered. Okay, and booze too, as eating all that meat just seemed silly without washing it down with a fermented beverage.

I kept going.

"Sure, I'll have some bacon-wrapped turkey -- why not?"

"I'm getting full, but I can't skip the leg of lamb!"

Oh, and the side dishes: mashed potatoes, rice, fried plantains, fried polenta (mmm!) and... broccoli. Broccoli, who told you about this place?

And then I saw a guy walk by with a skewer containing tiny bullet-shaped pieces of meat, all neatly arranged in a row. "Chicken heart?" he said.

I watched my tablemates wave him on, but my pulse quickened. I don't like to eat "parts" -- not at all, really -- but I was so deep in the flesh-tearing zone that this was the one time I'd consider it. I beckoned the fella over, and he slid a piece onto my plate. Before I could lose my nerve, I took a bite. I didn't like it, but that didn't matter. It was chewy and dark and just too gamy for my taste, but at least I had tried it. I celebrated my boundless carnivorousness with a nice fatty piece of duck -- my favorite, the best for last -- which is what's pictured above.

When I say we staggered out of there, I do not exaggerate, for each of us had taken on so much extra baggage that walking upright without stumbling wasn't really an option. We'd have to have a couple-few digestifs before achieving a proper, less meat-weighted gait. I don't think any of us even remembered to flip our coasters back to red to signify our surrender. A guy with a roast beef on a skewer might still be standing by our table waiting for us to come back from the salad bar.

Mr. Thowmbpsin, salute!

Bones!

I was in Williamsburg visiting my friend the Triple G, and he brought me to his neighborhood Thai spot. I'd been eating chicken all week, but the chicken in a sauce of garlic and black pepper (gai tod) jumped out at me, so I ordered it. The fact that the menu referred to a "half chicken" told me I'd be getting some of my precious dark meat in addition to the obligatory breast, which sealed the deal.

I was surprised to find the chicken had been hacked into small pieces, but I didn't mind, because it hadn't been taken off the bone. It seemed more authentic this way, and it was much more flavorful. I know dealing with bones can be a drag, but I'll never complain. I'll take a bunch of labor-intensive bones over a bland boneless breast any day.

Mystery Meal?

I don't even know what this is.

Oh, wait -- Margy does. It was her night out with a friend, and they had a bunch of Indian-fusion appetizers at Leela Lounge in NYC. This is a paneer kabob. Paneer is Indian cheese, and Margy said this version was nicely grilled and quite delicious. She didn't have as much praise for the "assorted veggies" that accompanied the paneer. They were just red and green peppers, which aren't a favorite of either of us. We like red peppers sometimes -- they definitely have their place -- but the greenies just don't do it for us. I aspire to eat everything, but I fall short.