Manhattan

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Nothing like a calamari sandwich to jog the memory

I couldn’t tell you what shirt I wore two days ago and I can’t remember the title of the book I’m reading at the moment, but today, a sandwich I had for lunch triggered a happy memory of something I ate FIFTEEN whole years ago.

Several lifetimes ago (or so it feels like), when I was in college and studying abroad, I went to Spain for spring break, and during a short stay in Madrid, I met up with an old friend from home who lived there at the time. I don’t remember much about that whirlwind trip or my brief visit to the Spanish capital— many a braincell have been killed since then and especially back then— but I do remember a few things.

The Golden Rings from Foxface in the East Village

Art history nerds still to this day, we went to The Prado and took one of only two photos from that day in front of Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights. (How else do you commemorate such an occasion than with an awkward photo in front of a trippy, surrealist painting from the northern renaissance?) After, we went to what I vaguely remember was a bar (Or maybe a restaurant? Again, it’s all very fuzzy, but I feel like we ate standing up at a counter, and there were old men sitting nearby.) and he ordered us two bocadillos de calamares, or the local specialty of calamari sandwiches.

It was a simple thing: a sandwich roll sliced open, smeared in aioli and stuffed with fried calamari. I don’t remember how much they cost but I remember they were pretty cheap (and in line with my college-student-abroad budget) and also, that it was one of the best things I’d ever eaten in my whole life. Hence the memory was tucked away into the things-that-must-never-be-forgotten part of my brain and still lives on today.

It was probably peeking out from the recesses of my mind when I saw the Golden Rings sandwich listed on the menu at Foxface but it wasn’t until I bit into the warm, soft bread filled with hot, fried calamari, smoked paprika sauce and lemon aioli, that I was truly transported to that day and that sandwich all those years ago. While I sadly wasn’t on vacation and instead was sitting at my desk in a windowless part of the office, sweating my brains out after taking the train down to the East Village and power-walking down St Mark’s on a 90 degree August day, I still thoroughly enjoyed my lunch. The sandwich itself was good, toasty bread and not-too-chewy calamari with a subtly spicy, bright zing from the sauces, but I’m pretty sure it was that memory of a sandwich 15 years ago that made it really great.

Either way, as is usually the case these days when I have to be in the office, the Golden Rings from Foxface was the highlight of my day. Maybe fifteen years from now (when I’m hopefully rich and retired… don’t ask me how I’m gonna make that happen), I’ll look back on today and not remember much about it other than how much I really love fried calamari sandwiches.

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Soft serve perfection

If you know me, you know I love soft serve ice cream and eat a ton of it, so you should take it seriously when I say some of the best soft serve in this city is in the Flatiron District and as soon as you’re done reading this, you should go there and get some. If you don’t live here, A.) good for you, you probably have a healthy lifestyle and live in a beautiful home that you paid peanuts for, but B.) maybe you should come visit just to try this soft serve and maybe to feel good about living somewhere that isn’t overrun by rats.  

I’ve already mentioned this place before (refresh your memory here) because the last soft serve I had that was this damn good was actually from the same place: Made Nice, the fast-casual spot from the people behind Eleven Madison Park and The Nomad (i.e. two of the best fine dining establishments in the city, for those of you who don’t wile away your hours on food media.) It was with that soft serve in mind that I went to Made Nice, but then decided to get their other option, something I don’t remember being on the menu the last time I was there, and OH MAN was that a good idea. 

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I want to eat you forever, soft serve.

First of all, yes, it is comically unphotogenic, or at least it is in the iPhone photos I took. While you might first look at it and think, wait, what is that, I promise it’s infinitely better than the over-the-top, cartoonish viral sensations you see on Instagram and the like.

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A perfect bite. 

It’s a pretty generous cup (which already right there, had me cause I’m not a cone girl) of thick, creamy chocolate soft serve, covered in a praline shell with hazelnut crumble and plump, tender roasted bananas. As someone who loves a variety of textures and flavors in her foods, it was perfection. Cold soft serve and warm bananas, rich chocolate and caramelized sweetness, crunchiness and creaminess. Also, having grown up in Miami in a half-Hispanic household, fried sweet plantains were a staple, and the oily, sweet, mushy ones were, and still are, my favorite. The roasted bananas here, while not exactly Instagram-bait, were reminiscent of the ones I love and because they were sweeter, I loved them even more.

I haven’t felt motivated to write here in weeks, but as soon as I cracked into that praline shell and ate a spoonful of soft serve, I knew I had to tell you about it. Trust me, don’t sleep on this one. I know what I’m talking about.

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Same same but different

You ever run into an old flame and things are just so different from how they once were that it kind of makes you feel a whole bunch of things? Maybe a little sad, relieved perhaps, mostly nostalgic?

You think about the good times, and remember how sweet they really were at their height, but then you snap back to the present and maybe you notice the former flame’s lost some hair, put on some weight, looks tired or just different. Maybe it’s you, maybe you’ve changed. Either way, it’s not the same and even if the experience of seeing that person is pleasant enough, and you’re ok where you both are in life now, you can’t help but miss how things once were.

IMG_6839Yea, well, that was the experience I had with one of the great loves of my life this week: a sandwich from Antico Noè. When I lived in Florence, Italy, what really does feel like a whole different lifetime ago, I went to Noè more than anywhere else. I tried different things a couple of times but for the most part I got the same panino every time: the # 4, stuffed chicken with prosciutto, mozzarella, sautéed mushrooms and rosé sauce. It was warmed up briefly in a press, wrapped in a couple of napkins and handed over to me by the same hunky Florentine who seemed to never have a day away from the shop.

A few years ago, Antico Noè opened a shop in midtown Manhattan of all places. (Apparently, some enterprising, panini loving Americans bought the rights to  use their name here and promised to keep it as close to the original as possible.) I’ve been a couple of times since they originally opened and always had a decent enough sandwich. This past week, I found myself in midtown and actually on the same street as Noè, so I thought I’d drop in for lunch.

Feeling ever nostalgic and wanting to recapture the magic, I ordered my usual, the # 4. Staring at a mural of Florence and the same painted logo from the original shop while an Italian pop ballad played in the empty shop (I was there later in the afternoon, after the lunch rush), I ate my sandwich alone.

IMG_6840It wasn’t bad, by any means. The bread was warm and had been pressed down just right to squeeze everything together and make it easy to eat. The mozzarella, warm and melted, oozed out in long strands. The mushrooms gave their earthy, subtle flavor and weren’t slimy or wet as the sautéed kind sometimes are. The meat was alright, flavorful enough and a nice contrast to the other ingredients, though anywhere else I probably wouldn’t have ordered stuffed chicken. The rosé sauce, my favorite, was tangy and creamy.

IMG_6841And yet… it wasn’t the same. As far as lunches go, I was satisfied yes, but I wasn’t raving. If I had friends visiting from out of town, I wouldn’t insist that they eat there, they way I do with every single person who’s ever asked me where they should eat in Florence over the last ten years. The ingredients were the same they use in Florence, but not the exact kind I’m sure. I doubt it was the exact type of mozzarella, or the same sauce, and the bread was baked here, not there, which has to make a difference. In fact, I had my sandwich on whole grain, which way back when in Florence, wasn’t even an option.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t even the sandwich. Maybe it was the fact that I was in midtown Manhattan, surrounded by skyscrapers and stressed office employees, I myself being one. Maybe the sandwich just tastes better in a city that’s looked the same since before the Renaissance, when you’re in your early 20s and worried mostly about where you’ll go out that night or where to travel next weekend. It’s likely that it was both.

I’m sure New York’s Noè outpost does just fine. I’ve been there during the lunch rush and business seemed to be thriving. Lots of framed articles and media mentions line the wall when you walk in, and I’m sure Instagram has no shortage of dedications from people who studied abroad and then came back to try and relive their Florentine lunches.

But for me it felt too different. Not bad, not good, just different. And since I’d like to keep the memory of that sandwich I loved so very much all those years ago exactly as it was, I think I’ll just hold out on Noè and the # 4 till the next time I’m back in Florence, whenever that might be.

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New job, new eats

The past week or so has been all about adjusting to changes. I just started a new job so with that came a new office, new coworkers, a new schedule, and lots of new daily routines and processes to get used to. And while all of it’s been great so far, my favorite might just be the fact that even though my new office is only five blocks away from my old one, because this is New York I’m now in a whole new part of town: Koreatown!

So let me rephrase that: my favorite part about all this change is the new food choices I’m surrounded by! K-town’s a small neighborhood when you consider that it’s mostly just one block, 32nd street between 5th Ave. and Broadway, but it’s a pretty densely packed one when it comes to all the places you can eat and drink (and karaoke, if you’re so inclined).

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Nothing says welcome to the neighborhood like a kimchi croquette!

Just last week I popped into Tous Les Jours, a Ktown bakery, for a celebratory breakfast treat (first week done!) and was faced with no less than one million things I wanted to eat. Luckily (for my thighs), I only had a few minutes to spare so I grabbed the first thing that looked interesting, a kimchi croquette, and practically inhaled it on the rest of my walk.

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SO. GOOD. 

The croquette was doughy and soft and about the size of a doughnut, but because it was also fried, the outside had a crispy crunchiness to it. Inside, it was stuffed with warm, slightly spicy kimchi making this a savory treat that would be great for any meal or snack really. I’ve had lots of different croquettes in the past but none with a korean slant like this so I enjoyed it even more.

Based on my penchant for stress eating, and the fact that I’m going to be learning the ropes and juggling lots of new things at work, I think it’s safe to say there might be a few more kimchi croquettes  in my future.

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An autumn spritz

Few drinks are more crisp and refreshing, more lively, more effervescently delightful on a hot summer day than an Aperol Spritz. But now that we’re firmly entrenched in a very dreary, wet autumn, something about ordering one feels off.

And yet, it doesn’t feel right to jump right into hot toddies and mulled wine either, which are decidedly better when you come in from the cold with a red nose, flushed cheeks and slush on your boots. (We’ll be there soon enough…)

After a recent dinner at Maialino earlier this week, I think I found what feels just right for the season: the Averna Spritz, what in my mind is the Aperol Spritz’s more reserved cousin, a little darker, a little more mysterious and maybe just a little more charming.

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Averna Spritz, just in time for fall

While the Aperol Spritz is traditionally an aperitivo, meaning you’d drink it before a meal to give your appetite a nudge, the Averna Spritz is made with two Italian amari, which as digestifs are in theory supposed to be drank after a meal to help aid with digestion. I say “in theory” because all of these are Italian drinking rules, and here in the land of assbackwardness and disorder (hi, have you met our president?) those rules go out the window. I’ve had Aperol spritzes throughout dinner sometimes, and I had this Averna Spritz before I’d even looked at the menu. So drink what you want.

Unlike the Aperol Spritz, the Averna spritz is darker, both in color and taste, and has a more gingery, herbal flavor from the two amari, which are made from various herbs, spices, roots and citrus rinds. It’s kind of like root beer in that you can’t quite make out the individual ingredients but together they make for something smooth and zesty. The flavors, subtly nutty and smokey, herbal without being medicinal, definitely lean more towards winter, but because the drink is served cold on ice, it’s not a full-blown winter cocktail. Instead, it’s just right for fall.

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A great, gooey gimmick

No one does over the top, gimmicky food quite like New York. There’s the giant soup dumpling you slurp with a straw, the technicolor rainbow bagel, the cookie dough scooped into cones and eaten like ice cream. The more outlandish and calorie laden the better.

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Grilled cheese fantasies come to life

And while I occasionally roll my eyes at the line of people snaking down the block at any of the places turning out these food fetish creations, I’ll be the first to admit I’ve had my share, and I too, have waited in some pretty stupid lines to get a taste of the moment’s food craze. (Cronut, I’m looking at you.)

When I heard about this next thing I immediately thought, “Oh Jesus Christ, that’s absurd” followed immediately by “I must have it.” And so my roommate and I compared schedules, nailed a date, and off we went in search of Clinton Hall‘s Flamin’ Hot Doughnut Grilled Cheese.

Made of gooey, melted mozzarella pressed between two Doughnut Project habanero bacon glazed doughnuts in place of bread, the glorious and oh-so-gluttonous flamin’ hot grilled cheese sandwich is served looped through a hook and dangled over a bowl of thick, hot tomato soup for dipping.

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Worth every last calorie.

Even though doughnuts are involved, the sweet element is minimal here, with just the tiniest, subtle sweetness coming through the layers of cheese and butter and doughy, bacony goodness. The tomato soup, which I  often find to be too runny or acidic, was neither. It was thick and creamy, just the right amount of tomatoey sweet with a peppery kick, perfect to complement the grilled cheese.

Even though Clinton Hall only offers 20 of these per day Friday through Sunday, we showed up  just after noon on a Sunday and didn’t have to fight any crowds or freeze our grilled cheese loving asses off standing outside in any lines. A couple of tables had them and obviously there was lots of gawking and picture snapping, but that’s how it goes with these food fads. But if they’re as good as this sandwich was, I don’t really care who’s watching or taking pictures or rolling their eyes. I’ll be the one licking my fingers and doing the little happy dance.

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Out with the old and in with the calories

Ok, hear me out. This time I have a good excuse for my latest disappearing act. My dear, sweet computer, my ol’ Italian girl with the keyboard that used to trip everybody up except me, finally gave up the fight and went peacefully in her sleep one night.

We had a good long run together, about 8 years, so I think I need some time alone, no? Blogging on my phone, however, is a nightmare and doing it at work isn’t really an option either at the moment, so there you have it: radio silence.

But don’t you worry, it’s been gluttonous business as usual here. Below, a look at the things I’ve been eating and drinking and just not writing about:

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The phenomenal leek bread pudding from Cassette‘s brunch menu wasn’t what I was expecting (since I didn’t really know what to expect) but it was damn good. Oh and the restaurant, in Greenpoint, is adorable. You should go.

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I hated it the first time I tried it but over the years, the Negroni has become one of my favorites. At Extra Fancy in Williamsburg, they have a frozen one. Clearly, I was in love.

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In all the years I’ve lived in New York so far, I had never been to Carnegie Deli so when I heard that the local institution was closing at the end of the year, I had to go. Not wanting to wait an hour and a half on the sidewalk for a table inside, Stas and I got our order to-go and ate it in the park. The Woody Allen (“lots corned beef and lotsa pastrami”), the most delicious knish I’ve had yet, a fat slice of banana cream pie and a thick wedge of the richest, most dense cheesecake I’ve ever eaten, and the two of us were done for.

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And lastly, a special shout out to the pretzel dog at my favorite bar in my old hood, the Rusty Knot. It’s nothing fancy, just a hot dog in the loving embrace of warm, salty dough, but dammit it fills my heart with all the feels every time. Or maybe that was the drinks. Who knows. It’s all delicious.

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I’m a good fork. Or so I’ve been told.

“O Angie, sei proprio una buona forchetta,” says Rita, with a slight snicker as she nibbles on a piece of bread.

Empty fork frozen mid-air, chipmunk-like full cheeks, one eyebrow raised, I stare up at her.

“Huh?” I’m a good fork? The hell does that mean?

I look at my boyfriend, the only other English speaker at a table full of Italians.

“It means you’re a good eater,” he says with a smile, and a look that says, “Be nice, Angie. It’s just a joke.”

The fork clinks against the plate as I drop it and hastily swallow my mouthful. I look at Rita, who’s still smiling at this new Italian idiom she’s taught me.  She, like many of my other Italian girlfriends in Florence, is tiny. Although she was born, raised and still lives in the paradise of carbs we call Italy, she maintains a flat stomach, toned arms and not so much as a hint of a cellulite dimple.  She’s also not anorexic or bulimic. She’s just Italian.

Hours later, we finish dinner at  The Crazy Train, a no-frills restaurant (with a dumb name) on a dark road between Florence and Empoli. Cigarettes are smoked (by the Italians of course), goodbyes and double kisses are passed out in rounds.

Dinner was ok, but after being told I was a buona forchetta, I just couldn’t enjoy my food with the same zest.

“I mean, what does that really mean?” I rant in the car, as my non-confrontational boyfriend drives quietly back to Florence. “Was she saying I’m fat? Is that what it is, I’m the fat American? You guys all think I’m a Mcdonald’s loving fatty, huh?”

We ride back in silence as I stew in my resentment.

Days later I think about the incident, and decide to Google the phrase. Translation sites, language message boards, and dictionaries all tell me more or less the same thing. Una buona forchetta: someone who enjoys eating, and does so with gusto; a foodie, gourmand.

Hmmm. A gourmand, huh? Well that’s not so bad. Sounds kinda fancy.

I read more, and before I know it I’ve gone off on an internet tangent and find myself reading recipes, online restaurant reviews and local food blogs.

Eating, it’s what I do.

And that’s when I realize: I really am a buona forchetta.  Who was I kidding feeling so indignant? I love to eat. And anyone who’s ever eaten with me or heard me describe a meal afterwards, knows I do so with passion.

And so from that now-favorite idiom of mine, I’ve made this blog, a place for me to write about food. Usually not anything that I myself have made, because while I love to eat, I was not gifted with the same enthusiasm for the process of preparing food, but instead a place to write about meals had, snacks shared and new places discovered. Living in Manhattan after two years in Italy, I figure I have plenty to work with here.

That being said, I hope you’ll come back and see what I’ve been grubbing on and where my gluttonous adventures take me. Buon appetito!