Pal Joey

If you're a single woman dating in New York (and, well, anywhere), it's a sure bet that at some point you'll run into a "playa." This type of man is also known as a rascal, a scoundrel, a user, a deceiver, "the name that shall not be spoken" or all of the above. And while these definitions are clear, realizing that the blue-eyed devil who keeps "forgetting" to return your calls is a creature of this species, is not. And often, this is not due to some malfunction in womanly radar or unconscious desire to be hurt, but instead because of the slippery nature of many a playa. They can be sexy, fun and usually have some endearing, vulnerable underbelly, too. And here's the conundrum: A playa is inevitably a bad candidate for dating, but is not necessarily a completely putrid human being. George Clooney, anyone?

The character of a playa hasn't become a source of interest only recently. It's been the subject of many classic books and movies, and of the musical Pal Joey, originally on Broadway in 1940. In the current production of this classic Rodgers and Hart show at Studio 54, the studied specimen is Joey Evans, a handsome, silk-tongued, starry-eyed hoofer looking to set up his own nightclub in Chicago in the late 1930s. After leaving countless towns and women behind in his wake, he sets up shop at a little lounge in Chicago, hoping to make it big with chorus girls and a song-and-dance show in tow. It seems that Joey's dreams of headlining at his own boite will come to fruition with the help of jaded cougar Vera Simpson who takes him on as a fit accessory. But between her affection and his newfound feelings for innocent shopgirl Linda English, this playa has a hard time fitting in all that playing and keeping his head on straight.

Although the plot is vintage, this production is given pop and sizzle from knockout choreography by jazz master Graciela Daniele, tight direction from Joe Mantello and a brushed up book from Richard Greenberg (based on the original by John O'Hara).

Of the three, Daniele's touches adds the most sparkle and punch, and makes this show a dance-lover's favorite. Whereas many preludes include only orchestrations, after Joey appears in a tunnel of light with his travelling-man fedora, an entire dancescape unfolds onstage from the get go. With a ballet underpinning, Daniele weaves in swirling turns and kicks, plus jutting Charleston moves. And it's all grounded by Jack Cole-esque suavity and masculinity. Her creativity is captured best in "You Mustn't Kick It Around" where the club's showgirls transform into gangster men, sliding and slinking in zoot suits. Each step and hip bump help create the glamorous, shady ambiance of the speakeasy era.

On top of the background visuals offered by the fabulous dancers, the show's best assets include stunner performances from leading-lady divine Stockard Channing, theater chameleon Martha Plimpton and newcomer Matthew Risch. In her role as lonely, lovely Vera, Channing puts all the components together in an effortless way to sketch Vera's aching, listless life. Her chords aren't as tuned as they were when she crooned "There Are Worse Things I Could Do" in Grease. But when singing the favorite "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" Channing strums each note with honesty and passion. It just goes to show, all those acting teachers were right: Tell the story in the song, feel what you are singing and the sound is sometimes secondary. Plus with stems worthy of a thirty year old, and the unmatched ability to deliver zingers, Channing remains one of the great divas of today.

Martha Plimpton proves she is right up there with her in a shocking turn from her usual dramatic roles. As Gladys Bumps, a ballsy cabaret singer who has it out for Joey, Plimpton proves she can play low just as well as high. If you've seen Plimpton in any production recently, you know she can act the hell out of anything. So it's her singing that makes jaws drop even more this time. Belting out tunes like the striptease "Zip," her brassy, full voice is steady and powerful, and she seems completely comfortable in her singer role.

But it's Matthew Risch who must get the lion's share of admiration. Originally he was an understudy for Broadway star Christian Hoff. But Risch was thrust into the big leagues when Hoff injured his foot and left the production. Because the piece is clearly Joey's show, this was a huge pass off. But Risch strutted, sneaked and swaggered with a confidence worthy of a seasoned leading man. Yes, he sweat barrels through the amorous "I Could Write a Book" in response to hoofing his way through the first ten minutes of the show. But, as a steady showman, he simply wiped it away while singing and remaining engaged the entire time. His fancy footwork stays afloat too with real dancing chops easy to see in Daniele's choreography. But mostly, it's Risch's way of striking that tough balance between making the audience feel "I love him, I hate him, I love him, I hate him" that is so winning. And a bod that won't quit and eyes that pout with the best of them doesn't hurt either.

True, the story isn't as complex or lofty as theatergoers might hope for, and this makes for moments when the plot ambles and the actors must make do with old-fashioned reasoning. And yes, this is reflected in an audience that can remember the songs from the original version. But somehow, where elsewhere this throwback feeling might be musty and cloying, here it's charming and nostalgic, helping this solid production do well on its own traveling-man legs.

Pal Joey
Rating: Excellent
Studio 54
Roundabout Theatre Company

10 Downing

When I first moved to New York, one of my very favorite things to do was just stroll. It didn't matter where--the West Village, Upper East Side, Union Square. I wanted to discover every block and corner. I loved happening upon a vintage store with an ancient chihuahua as the mascot (Eva's in the East Village), or wandering into the middle of a drum circle in Washington Square (well for about one minute at least). For those first sweet months it really did seem like everything and anything was possible in New York. Many days I still feel that way.

It wasn't until I'd lived in NYC for six months that I realized there was another reason I loved these walks so much: If you take a moment to look up and across the sidewalk, people's lives present themselves from the small peepholes of windows. Although I'm not a voyeuristic person usually, these rectangles fascinated me---and still do. Paper flowers taped to panes, a huge tree squashed in a living room corner or a bookcase bending from the weight of tomes all speak of the different lives that are crammed in this city. What gets me even more is the innovation and creativity needed to use each and every inch of teensy or oddly-shaped apartments.

After five years I've now visited the inside of a huge array of homes in New York---from gigantic lofts and proper townhouses to disgusting studios and worn-in walk-ups---and the windows are as good inside as out in speaking to the unique personality and fervent individuality that defines NYC for me.

Point being, this sort of glimpse into someone's eccentric, personal taste is what visiting Chef Jason Neroni's (with consultant Katy Sparks') new spot 10 Downing feels like. It's full of the personal touches and quirky aesthetics that I liken to a close, artsy friend's impressive, but comfortable, apartment. Maybe this feeling hit me because of the art smorgasbord on the walls. In the cheese-wedge shaped space, the wall hangings range from pastel hued portraits to modern sketches and old movie posters.

While the barrage of color is lovely, entering 10 Downing is a seriously unwelcoming aspect of the whole set up. Because of the triangular room, the entrance is set on Downing street where a few stairs and a squeaky door lead you straight to the maitre 'd podium. This would be fine except once there, you are caught in a complete bottle-neck. On your right is a hallway down to the kitchen invariably clogged with busy bussers while to your left is the slim bar invariably packed with handsome customers. A short glass partition separates this mess of a commotion from the main dining area. Once you have crossed over, the rest of the night is mostly a joy. But these few (or on a weekend night, many) hectic moments are enough to snap any neurotic New Yorker's nerves.

Fortunately the staff have the homey and accommodating vibe down, and once you take a seat at one of the sleek wooden tables with a thatched place mat in front of you, you're in for an enjoyable experience. There are missteps for sure, but at his newest endeavor, serious Neroni shows he knows how to impress, but remembers to have fun, too.

First on the plate are fluffy rolls with treats of rosemary tucked throughout and they are perfect for ripping and dipping in olive oil as you glance through the menu. If you want to have Neroni's best right off the bat, the ocean trout tartar is uber-fresh with tangy mustard seeds. The pop of the seeds with the slick fish is invigorating and a cool take on a classic.

The blue spot prawns a la plancha are a similarly simple taste treat with a punch from thoughtful condiments. The plump critters are cooked just enough to leave them with a healthy snap and dressed with garlic olives and valencia oranges. The citrus surprise lightens the herbacious slick and reminds me of swaying palms somewhere tropical.

Squid ink agnolotti are another seafood hit with luscious, dark pasta filled with sugary peekytoe crabmeat. The packets swim in a tomato and lemon butter bath with a tiny wallop from a dash of chili. Keep a rosemary roll handy for soaking this sauce up.

The roasted brussel sprouts with soft boiled egg and parmesan are a redo of the breakfast trend that's landing on many menus. The leaves are crispy and the anchovy vinaigrette did add some great saltiness, but after the seaside wonders, this dish simply garnered a quiet smile. If you want a tastier, light option, try the hearty beet salad with picon blue cheese and onions. While a beet-and-cheese item is usually pretty standard fare for New American joints, grapefruit enlivens what might be a dud elsewhere.

From the entrees, carnivores, veggies and pescatores have equal footing. If you want a swimmer, the montauk fluke is the real heavyweight. It's actually the most decadent of all the mains---nice for a fish to be getting so much attention! The unexpectedly huge flavor is thanks not only to the perfectly cooked, flaky flesh, but also a silky leek puree accessorized with nobs of dense chanterelles. It's a desert of a dinner.

The gnocchi are another on Neroni's calorie-splurge list (and fully worth it). The lumps of potato are barely held together and melt with just one chew. They bob in a puree of butternut squash that's also equal parts sardinian sheep's cheese. Chunks of the orange vegetable serve as a reminder that this dish has one healthy component for good measure. This mushy yumminess might not be intended for daily health, but it rivals the fluke in lick-the-plate award.

The bison steak is less impressive. While it's cooked well with juiciness to boot, the red salsa drizzle and green salsa condiment left me puzzled. Both items masked the bison's inherently musky, wonderful flavor. While I love that Neroni has decided to use the health-conscious beef alternative, I'd definitely opt for the fattier, well-cooked lamb. Although the loin and chop are seasoned with restraint, the punch is in details here. Chickpea panisses, small squares of the mashed bean, are addictive and salty and friends with some tangy cubes of feta cheese. All together in a bite, the lamb gets the zing it needs. And if you just want some comfort, the roasted chicken with lemon, almond panzanella and arugula does the trick without a yawn of boredom.

After a dinner spent smiling at the food, walls and bustling scene of the 10 Downing home, you might think it too good to be true for dessert to measure up. And while the espresso semifredo is too self-conscious with kumkwat strands, the grown-up PB&J choice is jaw-dropping tasty. Logs of challah bread are toasted and coated in cinnamon and sugar. They're ready to be dipped in home made peanut butter gelato and jam. Eat the parts separately or get back to your childhood and make a sandwich TDF.

With each bite of this dessert I enjoyed what the 10 Downing team was going for: Clear flavors, use of technique and balance for sure. But also, it's a nod to feeling cozy and at home in a city way. Although it doesn't always quite end up this way, on its best nights 10 Downing is able to be a hotspot and neighborhood joint all at the same time. Case in point: While Anne Burrell stopped by to cheek-kiss her friends, I felt just as comfortable with my friends at my own table.

What a nice window.

10 Downing
Rating: Excellent
10 Downing St. at 6th Avenue
212.255.0300

Blackwatch

First off, I have to apologize. It's rare that I see a TDF performance and sit on writing about it. Usually I'm bursting to describe and gush about the show, and also immediately encourage others to go see it, too. But after attending the beyond-phenomenal performance of Gregory Burke's Blackwatch presented by the National Theatre of Scotland at St. Ann's Warehouse in Brooklyn, an odd thing happened: I was left wordless. I was stricken by the incredible artistry and thought set forth onstage concerning not only the elite Blackwatch platoon's time in Iraq, but also the entire war and its horrific trappings. So, before I go on: Go see Blackwatch. Now. It is only open for another week.

Perhaps my procrastination was anchored by the fact that my ex-boyfriend/very old friend is now serving as a U.S. Marine in Iraq and I think about his well-being often. I wonder what he is doing, if he is alright and if he will be okay afterward. Or maybe it was that war as a concept has always seemed putrid and ridiculous to me. And likely it was also because the cast's commitment, talent and insights were so inspiring that I wanted to give this rare performance space to be fully digested.

So now that I have (digested that is), I can try to express what's so enthralling, inspiring and incredible about this piece in words other than....WOW. To begin, the history of the Blackwatch platoon is an intriguing one with roots hundreds of years old. An elite force from Scotland, this league was called on in many wars, beaten back countlessly, but also feared just as often. They were sent to Iraq as a supplement to the British Army. After much controversy, however, in 2004 the group was renamed as part of the larger British military. While this officially disconnected the group from their heritage, the "golden thread" of the Blackwatch name remained intact through pride between fathers and sons, and most importantly, between mates.

Instead of simply hearing about the stories of the collective group and individuals through straight narrative, the audience meets the soldiers in a pub back home post-mission, as well as in flashbacks in Iraq. And here is where the piece truly shines. Not only is each character fully developed--from the surly but lovable captain down to the twitchy novice--but their stories are also told in a multi-media collage in a unique setting. The audience sits on rows of bleachers along the long sides of the warehouse, creating a tunnel of a stage in the middle. The lean playing space is bookended with scaffolding used for speeches, projections and singing. Props are used in creative ways: The pub's pool table serves as a war vehicle, dancing ground and bizarre coffin. While the piece starts out referencing itself (the show was crafted based on words and experiences of the real Blackwatch soldiers on this mission in Iraq) as the reporter comes to the pub, it soon flips to time in Iraq. Surround-sound makes fly-by bombers all the more real, as the audience is thrashed from one time and place to the next. But it all works seamlessly because none of the intricate transitions are unnecessary or thoughtless. Plus, this sort of lightning snap echoes what the soldiers speak of: in Iraq, they sit and wait, and then in a moment, get pummeled with air raids and must be alert and razor-sharp.

Another spectacular facet is the show's use of both song and movement, as created by the entire cast along with the associate directors of each, Davey Anderson and Steven Hoggett, respectively. From traditional Scottish bagpipes to rollicking renditions of Scottish folk tunes, each musical bit captures the pride and fury of the young soldiers who feel they are not really doing the job they were hired to do--fighting--and instead are simply bullying. Intense marching drills with complicated, angular dance sequences are also effective. They are precise, exact and teeming with the braced tension of the young men in a land of hell.

Even more innovative are two mesmerizing movement scenes: In one, one of the group's trusted leaders, Cammy (played by the steady, wonderful Paul Rattray), walks the audiences through the lengthy history of Blackwatch as linked to the clan's uniforms. As he speaks, the cast dresses and undresses Cammy in each get-up through lifts, jumps and rolls. It's a pretty phenomenal quick-change dance.

The most touching and powerful use of choreography is during mail call, the soldiers' one real link to a life waiting at home. All together onstage, the men stand separately, each in his own private moment of longing and pain. Through quiet hand gestures and body shapes, their simple movements ache with despair, and sometimes even hope.

Both in the pub and in the Iraq scenes, the audience sees how fragile the soldiers' calm is. While they joke and play (one scene is a particularly humorous explanation of how any "piece of paper" looks official and is therefore an easy pass out of annoying duties), a tiny catalyst can cause a breakdown of morale, and even cause fighting between the men. And it is in this weakened core, beneath steel training and dirty mouths, that the audience is taken on a ride to see pain, suffering and struggle from the inside out.

Watching this piece is painful and uncomfortable at times, joyous and celebratory at others. Where other "war" pieces only focus on the fighting, Blackwatch is able to highlight this aspect, and also create moments that reveal the man inside the soldier. And, the cast and creative team, directed magnificently by John Tiffany, have found a way to do so with humility, strength, and even beauty.

A piece with creative breadth unlike I've seen before and the power to explore war in a new way, Blackwatch is theater at its very best.

Blackwatch
Rating: To Die For
St. Ann's Warehouse
718.254.8779

Terroir

After trekking through some disappointing wine-bar terrain, every time I visit Terroir on East 12th street, I enjoy one of those satisfied sighs...especially when I get my favorite seat by the floor-to-ceiling window. The addition to Marco Canora's holdings (which includes Hearth and Insieme) has a huge wine selection courtesy of sommelier extraordinaire Paul Grieco and embodies a pensive, but not stuffy mood. It also has a gourmet-happy underpinning that makes you want to drink just one more glass, smile quietly, and instead of rushing to your next Manhattan duty, enjoy your time there instead.

Props to the DJ here, as well: Jimmy Hendrix, the Shins and Miles Davis often pump overhead at this gourmand’s answer to a laid-back happy hour. With just enough seats for a couple of girls’ night parties, laid-back dates and wine dilettantes, the warm atmosphere and cramped physical space decrease the possibility that it will be totally overtaken by the glitterati who usually descend upon newer joints. Maybe Canora and Grieco are not happy about this, but I am.

Although the wine is the star of this spot (the name refers to geographical influences of a wine that inform its flavor), the food definitely holds its own. For a full night of drinking, try the incredible veal and ricotta meatballs. You aren’t dreaming: The cheese is IN the meatball. And, they are the size of your fist and the tomato sauce tastes like an Italian Mama is hiding in a cabinet of the makeshift kitchen in the corner. You will want to eat these every day, probably for both lunch and dinner.

The fatty slab of pork blade also soaks up libations quite well, although the particularly hammy flavor of this cut can be overwhelming in its salt quotient. While the duck-ham with taleggio panini is bland, the radicchio and mozzarella choice is drippy in that delicious sizzling cheese way—a less gluttonous pizza. Or try the lamb proscuitto panini. The gaminess of the meat slices are tempered by pickled, acidic sunchokes and a punch from spicy arugula. It's a surprising combination that's ultra satisfying.

Zesty sage leaves stuffed with lamb sausages are a Mediterranean delight and you can finish the meal with a makeshift dessert of the super-sweet beet and risotto balls. While I was disappointed with them as a savory dish, when I bit into the chewy round, I realized they just needed a label shift. The crispy outside tastes more like a sweet donut than breading, but really, what’s bad about that?

Terroir also offers standbys like charcuterie, cut thin and served with oily olives and a lovely cheese selection. Heavenly Boucheron and fatty salami are a TDF combo.

Once you’ve made sure you're adequately and surprisingly well-fed, you’ll be ready to turn your attention to the dizzying, fantasy wine list...the main attraction. In keeping with the “let’s learn about and love wine in an unintimidating way," the menus are popped into school-binders, covered in adolescent scribbles and stickers. While this might be a nauseating gimmick at other places, the staff’s pleasant assistance negates any snarky comments that might be forming on your lips.

Choices by the glass are offered in full doses or in dabbles of 3 ounces. I always veer towards the sampling sizes, as my alcohol tolerance is low but my taste tolerance is high; I’ve made it through much of the selection of whites by the half glass—not a bad idea to try out all that the extensive list covers, although you might want to take more than one night to do so.

Over the summer, the spot featured an astounding choice of Reislings and you can always find a couple superb selections of them on the list. Another winner is the tangy 2008 Bukettraube. It flies through tons of fruit from grapefruit and melon to more tropical types...maybe mango? Although a floral Jurancon Sec is a bit too heavy, the Hungarian Tokaj (tocai) is luscious with more honey-suckle depth than I've tasted in the Venetian versions.

Reds by the glass play the same wide-range game, with a scope from a peppery Pinot Noir, to a jammy Crozes-Hermitage. Bottom out with the heavenly and complex Chatneuf du Pape. It rides a wave starting with cherry notes that open into a soft hit of spice and finishes round and clean. Or the Barolo is a velvety glass with intense dimension and heavy fruit. But save these two for nights when you can really concentrate on them: A whole glass is better for the heavy hitters.

If you aren't in the mood for wine, flavorful and balanced cocktails, mostly by mixologist Marshall Altier are spot on with bases of wine that still fill a tumbler. The Terroir Loire is especially punchy and fragrant with Bourgueil, Lavender, grapefruit bitters and sparkling Vouvray.

Bottles are even more diverse than glasses and tastes, and hilarious, informative tidbits and anecdotes accompany the notes in the school-binder. And, each time you return, with the help of the servers who are willing to really get into a discussion, with fun stories about suppliers, grape varieties and their own favorites, you might start to understand--and, gasp, enjoy-- "terroir" as a concept.

Need some reading material? Want to learn about your tipple? This is the spot. And it hits the spot.

Terroir
Rating: Excellent
Address: 413 East 12th St.
Phone: 646.602.1300

Speed the Plow

In the single Meisner-technique acting class I ever took, I learned the "Repetition Exercise." In it, two actors face each other and repeat a phrase back and forth, with its meaning, tone, volume and intensity changing as the practice progresses. It's bizarre. But it can also be helpful, stripping away layers that build upon language to reveal the subtext beneath banal exchanges. By the end of the session, repeating "It's nice out today" with my partner offering"I don't think so" in response, I was laughing hysterically. Basically, it can make you feel manic and on hyper-speed, or like you're clawing your way through salt water.

Watching the fantastic-with-a-frantic-underbelly revival of David Mamet's Speed the Plow at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre, I wondered if the cast had tried this exercise, too: Their coke-paced, subtext-heavy take on the play took keen cues from this type of work out. Mamet's nasty but insightful piece takes on Hollywood (or perhaps American in general), the morals (or lack there of) respected as law and the relationship between sex and power, not to mention the souls caught in between. In signature Mamet fashion, his foul-mouthed wit and steely view of humanity strike a disturbing chord through ping-pong-rhythm dialogue and complicated character portraits.

The audience meets Bobby Gould (aptly-cast Jeremy Piven) in his office at a 1980s studio in Hollywood the morning after he's been promoted to head of production. Just in time to take advantage of Gould's new power, his trusty toadie Charlie Fox (the always-masterful Raul Esparza) finally has a bone Gould wants: a script linked with a famous, unattainable actor. The two jockey for respect, validation and triumph while Fox hopes to finally get payback for years of ass-kissing. That is until pert temp Karen (quirky Elisabeth Moss) struts in with innocence and optimism. Through an evening "meeting," she sways Gould away from the profitable but horrendous script toward what she deems a lofty one, though it's unappealing in doomsday prediction. Gould gets caught between a richer self and a better self and tries to grasp at ethics in a world where that terrain is slippery. The final scene finds him struggling between the two, with Karen on one shoulder, Fox on the other and Fox's maneuverings serving as the tie-breaker.

Dealing with this intensity is an exhausting task for the three handlers as they zip their way through mountains of emotion and tongue-twisting speeches. Fortunately, they tackle the challenge well, even though it takes a bit of time for their momentum to hit top speed. Piven's role is a close approximation to his TV character: As Ari Gold in "Entourage" on HBO, he treads the same line between charming and slimy that he perfects on stage. Although the cocky nuances, wide gait and questionable grin pretty much mimic Piven's choices on the small screen, considering the similarities of the characters I don't fault him for aligning the two versions. If Gould and Gold aren't twins, they're at least brothers.

Elisabeth Moss' squeaky-voiced, hopeful Karen is a quality riff on the secretary. Mamet's been known to write less-than-layered ladies, and Moss does a fine job of coloring what could turn into a carbon-copy ditz. Although her plea to Gould teeters on cloying, her earnest attempt to do good is indeed intoxicating. When her motives are questioned in the end, Moss' portrayal of an unwavering stance digs into the generalizations that are tossed about concerning sex, money, power and the interplay between them.

But most impressive (as is usually the case when he's in the cast) is Esparza's sly Fox. Although he has plenty of pandering compliments for Gould, Esparza plays the producer with an enraged bubbling that lies just beneath a cool, stiff exterior. Embodying a character that's used to being screwed in the end, his depraved desperation is palpable but contained—at least for most of the play. Tip toeing between the extremes of blissful and enraged, Esparza shows us what happens when a man is faced with his very last chance at success. No prisoners. And somehow, he finds that nugget of likability and understanding, even in a shark out for blood.

Neil Pepe's direction uses all three actors to their best advantage and keeps the pace tight and the characters physically close--a true powder keg, where a secretary holds a match.

In the last scene Mamet dismembers the concepts of right and wrong until you feel silly to have ever had hope or good faith. But, he, the cast and Pepe also do well in also leaving a fair amount of uncertainty. And this is what I find most impressive: Even while snarkiness and cold opportunism seem to have won the day, the possibility of a better choice still stands—even if it didn't win this time.

Speed the Plow
Rating: Excellent

Boqueria

When I decided to go abroad the summer after my tumultuous freshman year of college, I tried to pick the most festive place I could imagine. I chose Barcelona, Spain, and the decision landed me right where I had hoped—in an endless fiesta. The seaside city is magical, sexy and filled with the adventures I craved as a 19-year-old. Humongous raves with throngs of strangers, hot men with long hair and ridiculous tans, a dizzying market on the hectic Las Ramblas called Boqueria, grilled octopus and tons of sangria on the side.

That summer I also ate one of the best—and simplest—meals of my life: One late afternoon I found myself still on the beach right before sunset. I was starving and couldn't fathom walking all the way back to my flat. When I saw a mid-beach shack/restaurant, I seriously considered the absinthe I had tried the night before; I've heard it causes hallucinations. But as I got closer and smelled the salty air mingle with grill smoke, I couldn't help but laugh and run toward it despite my broken flip flops wagging in the sand.

The friendly, lone waiter had exactly three teeth, and I almost got scared away by his scraggly smile. Good thing I'm a tough chick. He took a liking to me, grabbed my hand and plopped me down on a plastic, orange chair. At this point, I thought, awesome! Hellish year capped off! He disappeared behind a plastic curtain and as I was contemplating an overdue escape, he brought me the freshest, most succulent grilled, head-on shrimp. They were brushed with garlic and accompanied by a sugary Mango cocktail with contents unknown. As I bit down on the plump critter, I didn't even stop to wipe the juice streaking down my ridiculously-blissful face. And right there in that dirty hut, as the sun dipped down to the sea, I fell in love with Spain—its food, celebration and sultry attitude—and never missed a moment of the party the rest of my time there. I slept a total of three hours each night. Ah, being 19.

When I returned to the states, I gave up trying to find any approximation of my experience after eating a gummy take on paella in Florida: fiesta as a messa. So when I visited Boqueria in Chelsea for the first time, I was suspicious to say the least. I was probably even a little bitchy about it; a friend asked me to go with her three times before I obliged. (What? In Judaism, if someone asks for your forgiveness three times and you don't accept, the burden is on you, mister. I figured this might be the same type of situation, and I didn't want to mess with the big guy on high.) To my delight, owner Yann de Rochefort and chef Seamus Mullen's slim spot fiested me right out my mood. And even though nothing will ever match that evening on the beach, when I need some Spanish spice, Boqueria on 19th street does the trick.

The key for me here is the seamless mix of sexy and smiley. The bustling, tight hall of a restaurant is tolerable thanks to low lighting, tons of wine and a general grin—even on the waiters. And as someone who's served around NYC, this in itself is a gigantic deal. With this free-for-all attitude, it was initially easy for me to assume that the food would take on a similarly laid-back attitude. No, señor. It's all gourmet seriousness here, but with Spanish sass and saturated flavors bursting from many dishes.

Reminding me of the set up of alleyway joints in Barcelona, the menu is divided into tiny tapas plates (only 5 or 6 bites in true Catalan fashion, which I love. I'm a sampler.), raciones which are larger but not a deluge of food and embutidos, a lovely selection of meats and cheese.

Because of the crowded quarters, drinks are definitely in order to handle the rush of people: the fizzy Reymos Moscatel is the perfect start (or finish), with flirty, peachy notes. The rest of the wine list offers a reasonable selection of well-considered Spanish wines . And while the glass selection isn't enormous, daily specials help to supplement for those who want to try out new flavors. For heavy terrain, the Torres "Gran Sangre de Toro" is a bold mix of Garnacha, Cariñena and Syrah that can handle the spice of the food. For this richness the $39/bottle price seems tolerable. Or a glass of the snappy Verdejo is always just right for a Spanish sit-down.

Once well-hydrated, I head straight for the thinly sliced jamon serrano—slick and fatty with a unique flavor I crave. If you want to splurge, pony up for the luxurious Iberico ham. It's a pretty, posh pig with an equally impressive tag. But the pedigree comes through in powerful tang. The meats are served on snappy white toast that yields to the bite but not without a crunchy fight, and are complimented with subdued jams and preserves.

From the tapas list, a feast awaits in separate takes. First up, the pan con tomate has serious zip from basic garlic, olive oil and tomato. Skip over the classic but tame patatas bravas to the healthy-with-heft sauteed spinach, jazzed up with dense garbanzo beans, pine nuts and garlic. Unexpected raisins make this dish a surprise treat. Even a four-year-old would eat this soft spinach: it's nutritious and tastes heavenly. Next, the seared lamb chunks. While the squares of the sweet meat don't look like a huge amount, they actually do satisfy a carnivore craving, and the herbacious seasonings make it a killer choice. The txipirones, octopus with a tangy black-olive vinegarette, really take me back to my summer of craziness with a swift ring in the nose from the vinegar. A special twist on the traditional dish is octopus with cocoa nibs, a gentler, richer use of the seafood that balances right between fresh and filling.

Then, even though it's on the tapas list, the escudella is right for a a bigger appetite. The braised lamb shank is intense, while garbanzo, white beans and chard restore some amount of restraint to the dish. But, the meat's salty, fatty slink, matched by totally unnecessary (and thus more wonderful) sausage wins the battle between good and evil here. The carne asada is a more direct serving of meat that clearly asserts itself as an entree, but it's less impressive in effect and innovation.

However I create my Spanish smorgasbord here, I've noticed three things happen on each and every occasion. 1. I'm stuffed and satisfied in a way that often evades me at small-plates/tapas spots, both in quantity and flavor. 2. I am tipsy from a fine choice of friendly wines presented with thoughtful but down-to-earth explanations by cheerful waiters. 3. I am happier, more bubbly and more optimistic than when I arrived, similar to how I felt in Spain.

There are swerves and hiccups from the hustle and crowd, broken glasses from arms flung in wide hugs and dishes that aren't always astounding. But mostly, there are smiles and giggles and yums and can I have another. And as I learned to say in Spain for anything with which I heartily agree, when asked if I want to go to Boqueria, I now always say "Vale."

Boqueria
Rating: Excellent
Address: 53 West 19th Street
Phone:212.255.4160


Note: I'm looking forward to trying out the new Boqueria in Soho (on Spring and West Broadway) once they've gotten settled in. I'll report back soon about whether the team's started an equally boisterous fiesta at the branch downtown.

Gottino: The Great Taste of Tiny

Though I love wine and try to learn about it as much as possible, I also try equally hard not to turn into a wine snob in the process (or an obnoxious version of one, at least). I do try to pronounce the complicated French and Italian names for practice and out of respect for a language not my own, but I don't wince when someone corrects me. I also don't try to argue, as in, 'no, no it's Muller Thurgau with a soft "th" like "thought."' I'm malleable. I want to learn. I. Am. Not. Perfect.

At Jody William's Gottino sometimes I wish I was, for wine-brilliance finds a home here. Fortunately, it's snuck into a good-humored, country setting, along with a fantastic array of small plates with their own unpronounceable names (I tried, to the chagrin of my bartender Kevin).

Much of the spot's contrast is due to the daper bartenders who scuttle behind the long white and gray marble bar: Their recommendations are always spot on even if they raise an eyebrow here or there. A seesaw between comforting enclave and hectic hotspot is also created by the thin narrow space with a plain brick wall on one side facing the L-shape counter. It's perfect when you want to slide by that oh-so-hot lawyer doing his crossword puzzle, but not so much when a fourth-date twosome is eye-molesting your chairs in that crazy, hovering way only New Yorkers have perfected.

Soft, happy accordions chime in from above and mix with happy, tipsy talk and the festive farmhouse vibe is punctuated with bountiful baskets of pomegranates, apples and gleaming pears, jars of jam and bottles of olive oil—a veritable cornucopia. Smaller bowls of hazelnuts fill in the rest of the space, crackers at the ready, provoking my always-present 13-year-old humor. With this the place begins to lighten up and the grins start coming as you start cracking and perusing the ridiculously awesome wine list.

But before the wine, comes the food. While Gottino drifts away from the money-spot with a few plates, most of the miniatures are tasty treats. Separated into sections including salatini, verdure, crostini , pesce and carne, the dishes within each area are uniform in price, only hitting the $40 mark for a full plate of meat and cheese, and otherwise staying in the $5–8 range. This is clear comfort in a restaurant-sphere with menus that often provide two bites for 30 bucks.

Of the crositini, pesto di noci serves up a powerful and even nutritious (nuts are full of protein, yay!) punch. Crusty, crunchy toast is slathered with a layer of chunky walnuts, zesty from a shake of basil and garlic goodness. Although by the end of the dish dryness is an issue, the saturated flavor makes it worth the necessary few sips of water. The carciofi e mentuccia (can you pronounce that??) is an even lighter toast with artichokes, mint and pecorino. It's a thoughtful combination of flavors with a bright burst from the mint, but turns mediocre after just a few bites.

From the verdure category, the shaved brussel spouts in tiny strands are roughage with spice, but move on to the meat and fish for a better use of calories: save the salad for lunch. The crespelle, a slightly fried, very crunchy crepe is filled with a tiny bit of prosciutto and fontina. Unfortunately the meat and cheese are overpowered by the carb, but that's pretty good all on its own. If you want to create a heavier meal, try the luxurious prosciutto di parma. The dry speck wrapped around caramelized endive doesn't take advantage of the vegetable's snappy, sweet assets: perhaps use the prosciutto here as well?

If you’re feeling a bit more adventurous, the head-on sardine with crunchy fennel, pine nuts and raisins packs a salty/sweet delight. But the most impressive and inventive item tastes like a fantastic holiday meal mish mashed inside the mouth: Heirloom apples stuffed with sausage ooze a heavenly fruity/meat liquid. Eating these orbs, it's hard not to feel just the tiniest bit celebratory.

At Gottino, it's a flavorful, if at times uneven, course. All along though, it's fun and educational with a staggering wine list that will take you many visits to tackle. With choices from old standbys like Primitivo and Pinot Grigio, to knockouts like the intense Cannonau and a fragrant Mujas (at reasonable prices ranging from $9–18 per glass), the hiccups get swallowed down with way too many gulps of delectable tipple and finger food to even be noticed.

Gottino
Rating: Great
Address: 52 Greenwich Avenue
Phone: 212.633.2590

Smith's: Sidecar Boite

When I was 8, my Nanny showed me two of my now-favorite movie musicals: Gigi and Hello, Dolly. Yes, cliché. But yes, true. As she swanned around in her spotless white pantsuit in her spotless white apartment, she also tried to convince me to watch other classics like Casablanca and the Philadelphia Story. I resisted, thinking no dance, no deal.

Only when I was about 15, in my melancholy years of black turtlenecks and endless Ella Fitzgerald, did I take the time to follow her advice. After that...forget it. I couldn't get enough: fedoras, masculine pant suits on gorgeous women, Audrey OR Katherine Hepburn. And that's because there's nothing quite so glamorous or enthralling as that speak-easy vibe, especially to a 15-year-old who can do nothing but be awkward and well...15. Hidden nooks, chandeliers and velvet, beaded dresses and red lipstick, that whole idea of a femme fatale with cigarette smoke swirling overhead...hot.

No wonder I was instantly drawn to Smith’s. While you won’t always find a glitzy glamour puss there, you will find that same lively, sneaky vibe so reminiscent of the jazz age, with a layer of hospitable manners.

Like an actual (worthy) movie star that has the gift of effortless ease, the three rooms of this West Village haunt are a similar combination—studied shabbiness with sprinkles of class to remind us, this deb’s no dud. Mirrored tabletops in the front jewel-box room, a stark black and white palette and a red runner down the aisle of the railway-car middle room whisper cinematic sophistication. The hidden bar in the back is low-lit and outfitted with a tattered Persian rug and creaky stools for close chatting and sideways glances.The pedigree suggested by the décor is no coincidence. Smith’s is the newer baby of Danny Abrams of the successful Mermaid Inn, with partner Cindy Smith.

This legacy comes across intact as the gleaming white plates neatly reach the tiny tables. Although the space feels tight due to its design, Chef Justin Smilie's food is anything but, and it finds a friendly balance between haute-cuisine and haute down-home.

From the second category comes one of the spot’s best appetizers offered in the winter: A healthy portion of Anson Mills polenta is set atop gooey Gorgonzola, finished with a drippy sunny-side egg. Use a spoon to scoop up all of the components in one bite for a breakfast-turned-dinner dish you’ll never want to finish. Equally satisfying, if more standard dinner fare from that same season is the artichoke tagliatelle, with earthy black truffle, crunchy bits of prosciutto, slivers of salty parmigiano reggiano and a slick of olive oil and garlic that melts away with the al dente pasta.

From the summery menu, a jubilant heirloom salad is a seasonal luxury that lets the fruit's flavor do all the talking. Mussels with harisa, fennel and creme fraiche is zesty and soupy with just the right kick of heat. But the grilled quail is the tiny knockout of the bunch: Sweet meat from what I usually find to be a boring bird is spiked with pancetta and softened by peaches and a pecan pesto. All together, the dish hits every note of tasty...done and done.

When available, crisp sautéed brussel sprouts are a perfect side to any of the forthcoming entreés, but the shaved zucchini is a waste of the vegetable; the amount of oil adorning the poor strips makes the healthy option anything but.

Of the main courses, there are more wows than flops, and the food has a clear elegance that translates into flavor combinations that aren't extravagant. Instead, they're a nod to tried-and-true winners with a splash of pizazz.

For a special, succulent lobster was matched by a sweet, but not overpowering butternut squash puree and a few leaves of garlicky brussel sprouts—a blissful dish that left me wanting to lick the plate. Equally satisfying is the roast lamb saddle. Although the scarlet cut looked undercooked, one bite highlighted magnificently tender meat, with a tangy parmigiano purée served underside to reduce the fat's power. Less thrilling, the grilled dorade was uninspiring, with a simple vinaigrette for diners of the more conservative brand. The swordfish was an easy classic that my diet-conscious friend enjoyed, especially the zucchini and basil accessories that filled her green quota. The surprising, sleeper hit of the bunch, though, was the whole trout. The tender flesh was paired with killer friends, ham and pine nuts, that emboldened the purist dish in a more decadent approach than fish usually gets.

Desserts are a restrained but enjoyable affair. Old-school affogato makes an appearance for those ending on the classy note. But for those of us who want to dig in with nose in whip cream, the peach shortcake would make a girl from Georgia proud.

The wine list is inclusive and broad, with plenty of half-bottles (like the crisp Pouilly fume) for those not willing to dunk into pricier pools. If you are, check out the healthy choice of stunners like the velvety Kunin Zinfandel or Pape Star that the spot sometimes stocks.

For each part this balance is how Smith’s approaches your experience: Surprises if you’d like, simple pleasures if you don’t. Like an old black-and-white that makes you want to smoke a European cigarette as you watch it over and over, the young Smith’s makes it easy to return, and quickly becomes an old favorite.

Smith's
Rating: Excellent
Address: 79 MacDougal St.
Phone: 212.260.0100

Scarpetta

It's really my fault...I know. I scan for great spots and then try them on a regular, slightly-addicted basis. And as you'd imagine, while doing so it's not uncommon for my hopes to rise—way too high. Then, I'm often slightly, or very, disappointed by my experience at said spot. But every once in a while I find one that fulfills and even exceeds my optimism in decor, food and service. Scarpetta has proved time and again it's just this sort of place, and when I go there my happy anticipation's always rewarded in full form.

Not that my expectations were low to begin. I had tried chef Scott Conant's food while he cooked at L'Impero (now Convivio) and found his food thoughtful, filling and full of gusto. But when I first visited his new, sleek joint two weeks after opening, I wasn't sure if his presence would be a cure-all for the meat packing restaurant scene which is heavily inundated with over-hyped, under-enjoyable restaurants.

Upon first visit, before I had even tasted a bite I was hit with the contrast similar to other area restaurants like Spice Market: Outside at the sidewalk tables, thin models glared at pasta while older men gazed at their legs. Next to the hostess stand, a table overflowed with the chef's book. But when I looked at diners' faces at the bar, there was a ruddy grin on pretty much every single one: food euphoria is hard to disguise. An MP hot spot being one and the same as an actually worthy restaurant? Unusual, but this time, true.

The first sign of this actuality is the inviting, old-school cherry bar that balances the clean-lined cafe area at the restaurant's entrance. In the main dining room farther back, a similar seesaw between stylish and comforting matches Conant's approach to upscale, but approachable food. The room is softened by white and purple orchids and mirrors are anchored to the wall by bright orange straps. On balmy nights the glass roof retracts for a view of starry skies seen best with a red, like the raisiny Cannanou.

But before you start drinking, save your attention for the saliva-inducing menu. Instead of dealing in small plates as is the fashion, Conant goes old school with appetizers, pastas and entrees. In the former, you pretty much can't go wrong anywhere you turn. For fresh and light try the raw yellowtail with sea salt and oil for clean flavors and crisp contrast. The scallop tartare fares similarly well, with added zest from avocado and citrus chunks—a fun, colorful explosion of flavor for a diet-conscious customer...foodie lite. For heavier, heartier tastes, the braised short ribs with farro and vegetables is a sweet, beefy mouthful and the risotto has a satisfying, dense texture similar to tiny gnocchi. The stewy sauce is perfect when using an appetizer as a meal, without dipping into overwhelming. For a true taste of heaven that asks for every inch of scarpetta (heel of bread used to scoop up leftovers) head straight for the fluffy pillow of buratta. A mound of the highest quality of mozarella, it's intense and light at the same time, with a rich flavor that swaths your mouth in creamy but not cloying taste. It's accompanied by shoestrings of eggplant in a marinara sauce and super-buttery, crunchy toast. After this appetizer, and nibbles from the incredible bread basket—the stromboli with goat cheese and salumi wrapped in buttery dough is TDF on its own--you might just want to call it a night in stuffed bliss.

Instead, try to move on to the pasta for a Conant showcase. The spaghetti with tomato and basil has been all the talk of the town for its dense texture and velvety sauce with a real punch from simple ingredients. And while I agree with the buzz—the pasta's a purist's favorite—I like a little more pizazz for my money. The agnolotti with mixed beef has just the right amount. Sham-shaped rectangles are filled with doses of pork, chicken and beef and swim in a naughty bath of cream. But even with all the saturated fat(shhh don't tell), it's light and airy.

By now, you're eyes might be watering with indulgence realized, but the entrees aren't to be missed-fortunately or not. The flaky, skin-on black cod swims in a stock and tomato-jus and crunchy, caramelized fennel breaks through the soupy rest. The sliced sirloin of beef is a confident classic, with expertly cooked meat that yields to a surprising touch of parmesan and mushrooms—here Conant is able to combine his zealous talent with the ability to please grandparents visiting their youth in Manhattan.

Every time I ate at Scarpetta, by the time I got to dessert, I honestly wanted to say no (versus nights when I pretend to say no, only to push someone else to order something sinful. Don't lie ladies...you do it, too.), but gave in a couple of times. The Chocolate and Vanilla parfait is well worth the stretch, with a shooter of saturated hazelnut milkshake and snappy biscotti. And with servers swooping in when needed to clear or refill water (sometimes a bit too quickly), I had them remove the evidence of my debauchery asap.

What truly makes Scarpetta special to me (besides, obviously, the food) is its malleable nature. For a girls' night, five of us sat at the bar and enjoyed being hit on by handsome suits while drinking wine-list hits like a spicy Tempranillo and elegant Muller Thurgau. When my father was in town and wanted a post-show stuff-fest, we closed the restaurant with oohs and ahhs and my father's special smile that he only gets from truly great meals. For date night, the just-dim-enough lighting and friendly service made us feel romantic but comfortable, and when it was time for a special occasion—my best friend's birthday—the festive flavors and special attention paid to us for the evening amped up the spot's value. Light meal? Scarpetta. Celebration? Scarpetta. Fun? Scarpetta. So rare to find a place that fits the mold for many nights, all in its own specific, lip-smacking way. And it's TDF.

Scarpetta
Rating: To Die For
Address: 355 West 14th Street at 9th Avenue
Phone: 212.691.0555

Momofuku Ssam: Buns of Bliss

I've been converted. Not that I ever was a sacrilege, anti-Ssam heretic, I just simply had not taken the time to wait out the lines, the crowds and ever-buzzing, hard-slammed press of the spot. But now I will.

Especially since a fanatic hype swarmed over Momofuku Ko, I was literally scared to go near any of the restaurants in David Chang’s growing empire. But, on a random Saturday afternoon I was the victim of a hangover-induced cancellation. I found myself wandering around the East Village exhausted and nauseous from non-stop shopping (ahh…someone’s gotta do it). I lingered on the corner of 13th and 2nd, noticing the telltale, jubilantly hued peach on the front door of Momofuku Ssam. I peered inside, and at five o’clock the place was mostly empty. So I set aside my snarky, New York, “this can’t be as good as everyone says it is” attitude long enough to open the door and seat myself at the sleek, wooden-slab bar. And praise be the Lord, I’m glad I did.

Surrounded by tattooed, quasi-hipster/quasi-model-but-I-smile staff, the space has that truly cool cache that many other trendy spots only pretend to have. Aside from the adult slip and slide bar, the communal tables are sexy planks that lead to an open kitchen towards the back. Hip-hop mixes with hard rock and reggae overhead. But the impish vibe of the décor was balanced by the knowledgeable waitresses and bartenders who led me to food heaven.

That heaven is a place filled with Ssam steamed pork buns. One of many smaller plates on the menu, the dish was recommended by my personal angel, Stella, in the form of an ultimatum: the buns or a three-terrine sandwich, the bánh mi. I chose the first mostly out of shameful adolescent humor.

Thick slices of tender, luscious pork belly are packed in a bun with tangy hoisin sauce, refreshing cucumbers and tiny bits of sharp scallion—what could be bad. But the bun itself, the namesake of the dish was truly the transcendent star. A classic Korean item, the buns are smooth and slick on the outside. Essentially, they are a five-year-old’s dream come true—the sweet, spongy texture of good old Wonder Bread, the crusts nowhere in sight. Cake-like in both density and flavor, they not only highlighted the pork, but also were prey to my fingers pinching off bits to savor alone.

Although I was still in deep revere for said buns, the rest of the menu has treasures too, even if not quite as equal. The coconut milk stew with shrimp and calamari that was offered that day stood for an admirable battle. Upon first spoonful I got a swift wing in face, from the powerful, pungent Thai-Bird spice that heats up the creamy liquid. But the coconut flavor and tender seafood quickly calmed my shocked mouth and this balance remained throughout the rest of the bowl. And, the restaurant’s namesake, Ssam (meats to be rolled in lettuce, with ample condiments) was presented in three options. Most appealing is the beef ssam, with thick slabs of beef and sloppy, tangy sauces.

A terse list of desserts made the cut on the modified-daily menu, among them an orange and cream crumble cake and brownie pie. But with all that meaty goodness available, and a reasonable and even-sensed wine and saké list present, I might just go ahead and do the unthinkable. One more steamed bun, please.

Momofuku Ssam: Buns
Rating (of the buns that is): To Die For
Address: 207 2nd Avenue
Phone: 212.254.3500

Bar Milano

I want to like Bar Milano so badly. No, scratch that. I want to love Bar Milano. Fresh Italian ingredients, inventive combinations, a thoughtful wine list and unique cocktails always sound just right to me. Plus, adding a spot to the sporadic smatterings in the area makes a trip to see one my Gramercy friends that much less painful. But most importantly, I was instantly drawn to Bar Milano more by the lure of the Denton brothers’ other spots, Lupa and 'inoteca, than by the restaurant itself. If they can open those favorites, how could anything they do be bad? Both have always delivered that great warmth and conviviality that almost peaks above the vividly delicious flavors they serve up. Just almost, but not really.

But that’s why I was slightly disappointed with my time at the sleeker, stiffer Bar Milano. Like a dapper but slightly dour uncle of daring young bon vivants, the space is well designed and stylish, but almost to the point of a plastic parka where I had hoped for a down comforter. Marble counter tops, sparse white flowers and low lighting create a glamorous, cougar-sexy ambience, and the spot’s name is splashed in gold across glossed wood behind the bar like a swanky set from the 1970s. Beautiful, yes—it almost feels like Bianca Jagger might come out of the bathroom and sit down next to you in a fabulous, floor-length Halston. But inviting? Not quite.

The Denton warmth can be felt however in the friendly and knowledgeable staff, who are eager and happy to explain dishes, answer questions and tend to the diners’ needs. But it gets lost again in the tasty but sometimes overly-complex food and uber-mature atmosphere that appears slightly out of place with the younger neighborhood and vivacious proprietors. Truth be told, my let down was possibly more of my own fault than theirs: The brothers made it clear that they wanted to create a grown-up joint, and why wouldn’t they? Maybe they are growing up, too. But like that cousin you hope will never lose his impish bounce, the two seem to have replaced their joie de vivre with a streamlined taste of the high life.

That high life does its best in the bar. The cocktail list is creative and sophisticated. The 323 with rosemary-infused gin, balsamic vinegar, strawberries and basil is a snappy delight that’s refreshing but heady enough to last you until your entrée. The Muller Thurgau is spot on for any of the fish dishes, and whatever you choose, the bartenders are helpful but not pushy.

Once you sit down, an uneven, if at times exhilarating, ride awaits. The appetizers do their best in two seafood forms. The octopus soaked in Meyer lemon was eye-closing good, with crunchy fennel and treviso soaked in orange adding some sweetness to an often overly-salted item. A thin disk of scallop carpaccio was painted with nutty olive oil, sea salt and shards of Meyer lemon rind to create a fresh, summery bite even when the citrus flavor overpowered the meek mollusk.

The land items on the small plates are less inspiring: patata imbottita reminded me of a hot-pocket, with a skin of potato covering eggs and fontina cheese. It sounds delicious, but the sum of the parts was mushy and unctuous. Even the tiny dollop of caviar could not convince me that the indistinguishable flavors were anything other than a hangover breakfast bite.

Moving on to pastas is a similarly two-sided affair. Pinci with cuttlefish, calamari and squid was an elegant plate of luscious carbohydrates highlighted with well-cooked seafood. Garlic and a hint of heat from chili peppers enhanced their briny flavor. But, the Cuscini all Osso Busco was a meager showcase of the less-is-more slant. While the meat’s tenderness came through, its flavor was lost. The sprinkle of breadcrumbs did little to enhance any flavor, and I sat wondering what this dish’s highlight was intended to be.

The entreés offer more hearty compositions, with the exquisite monkfish one treat of the lot. The delicate, mild fish is accessorized with a luxurious medallion of foie gras plus crunchy pears to ensure that the richness is kept in check. A thick pork chop also does well with mustard fruit.

Truth be told, by dessert time at each meal, I was so baffled by the highs and lows that I opted out. And, with prices squeaking up into the $40s for some entreés, I felt it better to enjoy my wins and cut my losses.

On my most recent visit a popular buzz had firmly taken root in the restaurant, as patrons in the area were clearly relieved to have a gourmet option. Upon leaving, I looked back into the sexy enclave with slicked wooden panels and the happy faces so indicative of a Denton restaurant. I thought that like a luxurious but chilly hotel, I’d enjoyed my stay, but wouldn’t be there all the time; only on specific, adult occasions. Mostly, look for me at Lupa. But when my parents are in town, I’ll surely be in Milano, where I’m guessing the warmth of the family fire will soon heat up the chill.

Bar Milano
Rating: Great
Address: 323 Third Avenue
Phone: 212.683.3035

Morphoses at City Center: Program 1

Christopher Wheeldon returned with his new troupe to City Center in October and I was thrilled to see what the whiz kid of shape and grace would offer this time. Wheeldon is one of my favorites because I think of him as a writer and photographer's choreographer: Unlike many other dancemakers who seem to taunt the audience with a movement---here it is, did you miss it? too bad!--Wheeldon's work always seems to have a certain generous consciousness of watchers. Particularly beautiful poses or phrases are repeated just in case you were looking down the first time: While I'm usually nervous to take notes during a show for fear of missing the immediate experience, I always feel relaxed when I see Wheeldon. He presents his work as a gift without strings—for your pleasure and thought, and he doesn't mind making it approachable and comprehensible.

And he's said as much, too. In a pre-show short chat at the performance I saw, Wheeldon came onstage to explain his programming choices in his signature affable manner. His talk is an olive branch of sorts, a symbol that this is meant for you, and he doesn't want anyone to be left out. (I've noticed more and more artists taking this approach, possibly vying to become a personal reason to cough up dwindling patron and audience dollars).

For much of the program, his zeal is well-founded, for some, not so much. Unsurprisingly, a hit from 2001, Polyphonia, was dealt the king's ransom of my own applause. With dancers clad in deep purple leotards, in an elegant round of dips, stacatto shapes and feathery boureés, Wheeldon moves through various groupings for a piece that is delicate but emotionally compelling somehow. A repetition of a bend from the waist like a drunk flamingo into an elongated extension to the back adds that dash of humor and levity, along with new shapes that define Wheeldon to me. Yes, it's been compared to a Balanchine-style leotard ballet (along with many other ballets that focus on choreography not narrative, so who knows how valid that is). But whereas sometimes I'm left cold by a stark, even if outstanding Balanchine piece,Wheeldon sprinkles subtle emotion: In a hand gesture, a slow tip from a straight and narrow relevé into a walk tilted forward, a slow brush from a battement forward and back while partnering in the most tender way.

While the entire team glowed in this piece, all the talk of the town was Beatrix Stix-Brunnel, and it was well-merited. Although when she first came onstage, I wasn't yet convinced, and her understandable shakiness at 15 years old made me worry for those malleable feet and ridiculously lithe body. But as the piece continued, she strengthened her stance. And when she came to her solo, a faint shimmer shone on her and she stepped into the praise that's been given to her. Light and airy but regal with a quiet smile, she skimmed the stage in the simplest, but most breathtaking boureés. Her willowy arms and legs leave traces of the shapes she draws on the air, but her turns are razor sharp: There's power beneath her pretty. As she reached into her glide offstage, a slow, confident walk, I found myself looking forward to more from this phenom. Regal at 15. Icon at 18?

While the work found me intrigued by Stix-Brunnel, I was even more mesmerized by the true queen of the night(and any Wheeldon night for that matter), Wendy Whelan. Although she hadn't been a particular favorite of mine at NYCB, Wheeldon's movement fits on her like the perfectly draped evening gown of silk. Whelan's power, integrity of movement and unshakable precision is a true joy to watch. And somehow, even in the safety of her grace her daring spirit breaks through in moments of nymph-like merriment; a queen with a hearty laugh. When she finished a pas de deux with elegant partner Tyler Angle I tried to will more time from them.

With Polyphonia's glorious start—equal thanks to the movement and movers—Emily Molnar's jarring, brash and at moments exhilarating and at moments problematic Six Fold Illuminate shook me out of my reverie. Set to multi-rhythm, cacophonous tunes by famed composer Steve Reich, I got the feeling Wheeldon chose this piece to make the troupe a bit edgier. Point taken. Molnar's aggressive splices, unapologetic dips and swirls, compass-point foot work, gun-shot jumps and fierce stylistic undertones were even more hyperbolic on the force that is Drew Jacoby. Tiny Celine Cassone from the Ballet du Grande Theatre looked equally fearless and fiery. But in the end, all that talent from choreographer and dancer alike didn't amount to a comprehensible sum. Then again, this in itself is sometimes the point.

The last piece, Commedia by Wheeldon and with music by Stravinsky, swung the pendulum the farthest into narrative territory. With a backdrop of masks from the era of farce, Wheeldon creates a fun romp with flex-footed lifts, fanciful twirls and mischievous partnering. Leanne Benjamin of the Royal Ballet stood out for her joyous quality: bounding jumps, endless stamina and precision of footwork. The piece ended enjoyably with clever twists and turns, but the genius I had craved, and was teased with in Polyphonia was not all there.

And maybe that's ok. Along the rocky climb to idol status, there are moments of glory and moments of good. Wheeldon's program that night exhibited a steady rate of ascent, even if not a rocket shot.

Morphoses at City Center, NYC
Rating:To Die For for Polyphonia and Great for the evening in total.

Allen & Delancey

Growing up in Florida, things like basements, cabins, chunky sweaters and chilly fall evenings made me literally gaga. I'd watch movies with summer camps in the Berkshires or romantic getaways at a lakeside house and think...Why is it so damn hot here? Why are there mosquitoes the size of my dog? New England looks cozy, cool...and sexy. All that candlelight. All that snuggling. All that red wine.

Once while I was in college, a friend of mine spent a phenomenal and secret weekend with her boyfriend at her aunt's lakeside cabin in Upstate New York—obviously I was ridiculously jealous. When she returned, she showed me all her (appropriate) pictures as a lame consolation prize. They were filled with brick-a-brack, wood plank ceilings and tons of velvet. I couldn't get enough.

So every time I visit Allen & Delancey in the Lower East Side, I have a strange, fantastic feeling that I'm in her photos. After sweeping through velvet curtains, my eyes need a moment to adjust to the dimly lit, narrow hallway of a bar. Beamed ceilings have that shabby-chic, not-quite-finished-but-who-cares feel and bulbs twinkle in a neat row above the dark bar. Behind the bartenders, shelves are filled with makings for cocktails galore—and porcelain dolls, art-class successes (and failures) and tzatchchis picked up on road trips somewhere in the Midwest, or maybe Provence. The same is sprinkled through the two main dining rooms, contrasting brassy chandeliers, opulent rugs, slick tables and luxurious booths. If I had a rich, wacky aunt myself (I've named her Aunt Zelda in my imagination for some reason) and threw a Jay-Z-style sexy/grown party at her vacation pad it would look like this—mischievous and playful but luxurious nonetheless. Aunt Zelda may paint with water colors, but you can tell from looking around she's got diamonds somewhere, too.

Through the seasons, Chef Neil Ferguson flits from menu to menu as market-ready produce cycles through. He keeps a few signatures throughout, though. From this bunch, is the hamachi with grapefruit beads. It's sleek and neat, a proficient palate opener, with all the zing you want without any superfluous decoration. Another perennial favorite is caramelized bone marrow. While the dollop of caviar is pretty ostentatious (and unnecessary in my mind), the sweet shallot puree and drippy succulence get me every time. Too bad a choice from the seasonal menu doesn't equal the two mainstays: Peeky toe crab ravioli lacks punch, and is swallowed in a salty crunch from pistachios and a too-thick green foam. The crab meat gets overpowered, even though underneath it all, it's sweet and lush with a tasty pasta wrapping.

To find Ferguson's real talents, the entreé section is where his heat hits the top. Although last time I visited it wasn't on the menu, when it is, the tersely and aptly titled "cabbage beef and onion" fills that hearty need the wintry digs call for. A huge chunk of tender beef sits beside its condiments, each requiring equal, quiet attention, but still a no-muss-no-fuss meal. The lamb chop is a more festive dish, with salty, tender meat dressed up in olives and eggplants for an unusual snap. For a real treat (again when/if they put it back on the menu), the lamb chop and neck is succulent with a potato puree to highlight the rosy meat's perfection. Surprising for a hibernation-inducing ambience, the real flavor explosion comes from a lighter dish: the snapper with braised celery is elegant and flaky, with a sultry whip of sugar from the wilted vegetable. A fork-licker for sure.

Dessert is relegated to the after-party and doesn't share the sparkle of the rest of the meal. Only a devilish take on snickers is chewy and intoxicating—honey ice cream seals the deal with a swath of freshness. For a more adult end, check out the diverse selection of cheese.

Sometimes I wonder if I like Allen and Delancey even more for the grown-up treehouse vibe than the savory, hearty food. Either way, I go back time and again, and I always love the feeling that at any moment I might have to pull out a lantern and long-lost fake ID to get in. Bring on the candles, vino and tight cardigans.

Allen & Delancey
Rating: Excellent
Address: 115 Allen Street at Delancey
Phone: 212.253.5400

Fall for Dance; Program 1

Dance, theater and food are my holy trinity of things for which I'll shell out money...even though sky-rocketing prices and my light pockets make me do so begrudgingly sometimes. Regardless, I find a memorable, thoughtful, knock-my-ass-off-the-seat night worth way more than a new pair of shoes (though when I'm rich I'll have both). But that's why I—and every other artist in the city—run wildly to the box office or online page to try and get tickets to Fall for Dance, a fantastic New York dance festival held...well...every fall. While there are festivals all over the place, and you can get me to go to pretty much anything for $10 dollars, the quality and breadth of companies, artists and genres is what makes these shows a true steal.

Unfortunately everyone in the arts world knows it—and tickets are hard to come by. This year I was at least able to snag seats to one program, and every diverse minute made me wish I could see all the rest, too.

But since regret isn't helpful, I sat back and tried to digest every bit I did get for my ten bucks. First up was the slamming powerhouse Ballet Jazz de Montreal, now known as [bjm_danse]. When I was training at Ballet Florida as a teenager, one of my jazz teachers was a former dancer with this company: She was all legs, ridiculously strong and sassy. I found out this was a pretty good estimation of the company as a whole—a fierce, jazzy group full of unique flavors with a similar vibe as Hubbard Street Dance Chicago (a high compliment in my mind). The talented troupe performed Les Chambres des Jacques, a two-year-old piece by innovator Aszure Barton, set to a huge range of music including Antonio Vivaldi and Alberto Iglesias. It fit neatly into the jazz/contemporary category with an edge of animalistic quirkiness in a more conventional way than I've seen Barton's work be. As a row of dancers stood in the back in pedestrian-on-crack poses with angular arms and twitchy leg, one dancer took a downstage spotlight to writhe, wiggle and essentially krump. As the others joined in, Barton weaved regular gestures between whacked-out versions of the same moments, full on dance explosions and impressive floor work with Russian-like heel walks done in a squatted position. On the whole, the piece is entertaining and energetic, but I also found it to be a typical offering versus Barton's more intriguing challenges.

With a great stroke of programming, Rush by Christopher Wheeldon was next, taking the frantic tone down to tranquil. Oregon Ballet Theater's delightful Alison Roper danced with knightly Artur Sultanov with delicacy and humility. A breather for the audience, the piece's classical undertones and subdued but lovely lifts stood to affirm ballet's presence on the Festival's increasingly contemporary roster.

Swirling the audience across the world (one of my favorite aspects of the festival which continues to include many traditional, ethnic varieties and styles of dance), Odissi: PRAVAHA was then performed by mother and daughter, Madhavi and Arushi Mudgal. Their obvious family connection made the piece mesmerizing in it's offering nature: Yes, they danced for us, the audience, but an offering pyre at the front of the stage also made it clear there were greater recipients in mind, too. This is always the case with spiritually based Indian dance and I find this important aspect one of the most fulfilling; true rapture shone on the dancers' faces as they twirled into exaggerated poses, rhythmic foot stomps and indicative face/eye and hand sequences. The accompanying sitar and singers added extra spice of exotic lands.

Jane Dudley's Harmonica Breakdown was another ritual piece of a far different genre. To the sounds of banjos and harmonicas, Sheron Wray flew around the stage in a long blue dress, her arms reaching toward the heavens. Short and brief, the interlude wasn't startling in the moment, but left a lingering trace of humility and thanks after swan like arm movements and skyward glances.

For dessert, the programming left the best for last, well knowing that once the audience devoured Hofesh Shechter's Uprising they would neither want more, nor be able to handle anything else. Point being...I was left panting, even salivating, for seven of the hottest and strongest male dancers I have ever seen command attention onstage. It was if Fight Club had been remade into a dance-only event. Aggressive and daring, humongous jumps, flying-into-floor work and wrestling with each other, the guys made machisimo and testosterone something I actually wanted to watch. Their palpable commitment to just those twenty minutes or so—and each other—was a comraderie I've never seen before.

Once, in a dance class I took from master teacher David Marquez, he mentioned a strange difference when he separated groups into men and women: Women seemed to compete with each other, even just in a dance class, while the men seemed to cheer each other on through their rousing energy. In class, I wasn't sure if it all was true. But onstage, I could see the latter part in clear light. One particularly emotional moment was one I'd seen many times while watching boys play on a field: After an exhausting group sequence, lunging and flinging themselves, the dancers met in a circle in the back of the stage. Each one patted the next on the back...until it rapidly deteriorated into a full-on slapfest, the way that all boys' harmless rumbles start. To see the manly, or actually boyish, energy build into a good-attitude explosion was incredible.

While I'd never seen the newly formed Hofesh Schechter company perform, or even heard of its namesake founder, FfD did what it intended: It made me fall in love with a new artist, one I'm sure to follow and patronize again. And all just for 10 bucks. Amen.

Fall for Dance
Rating: Excellent
New York City Center

Mia Dona

After a delicious and simple dinner at Kefi two years ago, I admired Michael Psilakis and his crystal-clear flavors and obvious food-joy. So, after reading about his other ventures, I thought it wise to find out firsthand what all the newer fuss was about, despite recent unappealing/hunky photos of the chef floating around online. I chose his more casual, Italian-based restaurant, Mia Dona, where he partners with constant chum Donatella Arpaia, as my initial expedition.

My first try was a pre-theater dinner, and walking into the fairly empty, dim restaurant during the no-mans land of six pm felt odd and lonely, especially in the nether dining region of the east 60s. The low lighting eerily reminded me of cocktail waitressing with a shift starting at four pm—getting to a place of nighttime pleasures while the sun was still blazing always felt awkward. Without the booze and lust it all just seemed so… wrong. Sort of like seeing a distant aunt in huge panties and a girdle by mistake—disrobed.

Despite the perplexing anxiety this produced, once I sat down and looked at the mouth-watering menu with comforting prices (appetizers between $9–$16, pastas between $11–$18 and entrees between $19–$25), I felt better. And while the meal that followed that night and one other didn’t quite summon up the smile that Kefi did, the food and ambience did provide homey and stylish comfort suggested by the laid-back atmosphere.

Although the wine list is a terse affair (but reasonably priced to match with glasses between $9–$16), a crisp, tangy Ferrari-Carrano Fumé Blanc was the right start to my early evening, and the lights started to seem more appropriate as I gulped it down. Plus the artfully displayed black and white plates on whitewashed brick, and Palm Beach-inspired wallpaper took me home to the balmy beaches of Florida.

Looking over the menu, my friend and I decided to dabble in all of the sections, starting with the diverse appetizers. We chose well. The octopus was tender and sweet, an anchovy vinaigrette laced under the tentacles with salty feta and olives served as obvious but tasty accessories.

Crispy fried rabbit with translucent fingerling potato chips was the star of the small plates list though. The slivers of starch had me at first salty bite. Before I even glanced at the hunks of rabbit breaded with crumbs and hints of parmagiano-reggiano, I instantly dug into the shimmering take on good old Lays. The vinegar, hidden in a thin slick on the chips, rang sharply in my nose, and the flash-fried parsley mingled with the basket of crunchers made them more than irresistible—they were addictive. Add a creamy cucumber remoulade (which was probably more for the rabbit, but who’s checking), and you’ve got something deadly here.

Thankfully I was able to rip myself away to concentrate on the worthy main component. I’m not always a fan of rabbit, the gamey meat often curling my tongue back. But this rendition was sweet and crunchy without being overly fried, and the game quotient was somehow subdued and delicate. After polishing off the tasty starters, we moved on to a delicious skate dish, the stringy fish gently holding to a thin pan-fry, crunchy ramps and surprisingly crisp (in a fantastic way) escarole—an unexpected plate-licker.

My second visit didn’t fare quite as well. The pasta I chose from the well-edited list, chitarra with clams, was gloppy with sticky cheese and too much oil, making the starch overwhelm the hidden, tiny clams. Only a blast of garlic and chile heat made its way through the mess.

The Spiedini from the starter list served as a mildly pleasing, filling entrée. On a gleaming white rectangle, five tiny bites were presented like gifts for a newborn…on skewers: a well spiced but severely undercooked lamb polpetti (meatball), mushy sweetbreads with too-little crunch, a tender but boring tiny quail, a classic bite of merguez sausage and the one prize of the dish—pork involtini made of sweet pork meat wrapped around dripping mozzarella. Although the dish packed a stuffing wallop for a small plate, I would have preferred more flavor, less meat.

While the décor and food whisper comfort—if not excitement or seduction— I did find the service almost rude and certainly haphazard. When I sat at a table, the waiter kept insisting I was done with my wine despite a couple of sips left. At prime time, I can understand the need for a table, but so early (and with nobody waiting in the wings up front), it seemed not only inappropriate, but also amateurish for the pedigree of a restaurant run by Psilakis. While the bar fared better, with an affable bartender, many questions I asked went unanswered, usually with a friendly shrug.

But you don’t come to Mia Dona for those points—you got to Anthos apparently. Instead, you visit this spot for an amiable vibe, tasty if not mind-blowing food, more than decent prices and a haven where you can wow yourself with a few favorites or simply enjoy your time with wine, pitchers of beer and the rest of the middle ground.


Follow Up: Mia Dona is no longer serving the fried rabbit starter to rotate more seasonal dishes. I’ll keep you posted if something can match the crunchy delight.

Mia Dona
Rating: Good
Address: 206 East 58th Street
Phone: 212.750.8170

A Perfect Couple, by Brooke Berman

If “Sex and the City” was sourced for its tastiest nuggets, Brooke Berman’s A Perfect Couple might be the outcome. Like an over-stuffed closet, it’s jam-packed with pat romantic philosophies that promptly explode all over the well-versed characters for juicy—and verbose—drama.

In this episode, uptight Amy (sympathetically played by Dana Eskelson), fiancée Isaac (James Waterston) and mutual best friend Emma (Annie McNamara) retreat to the couple’s countryside house for the weekend. A journal belonging to Isaac’s observant grandmother resurfaces, unhinging the wobbly relationship between the oddly matched lovers and their constant compadré.

Throughout, similarity to SATC makes the piece a bit too familiar: Amy’s stringent approach to love is Charlotte’s battle call with a snap of erudite Miranda. And as she beds everything in Vans, Emma’s cocky but transparent outlook is a tart mixture of Samantha’s sexual politics with Carrie’s quirks. Scene titles projected on a blue housefront and emo/strummy music finishes it off. While the ingredients are integrated, the girls are still in the gaggle—and oddly so. McNamara’s serious diction and maneuverings are better suited for a more esoteric piece, and the only meaty chemistry lies between the two ladies in their overly involved friendship.

But, this dejá vu is also what works for the piece. The topics and tone that nabbed worship for the series still hold pertinent and witty here. With an ear for zingers and moments of grace, Berman presents an enjoyable, if uneven, show investigating perennial subjects: relationships in all messy forms, and the ideas that get us stuck, unstuck and altogether befuddled as we try like hell to navigate them. A good show. Just not perfect.

A Perfect Couple
Rating: Great
At DR2
By Brooke Berman. Dir. Maria Mileaf. With Dana Eskelson, Annie McNamara, Elan Moss-Bachrach and James Waterston. 75 minutes. No intermission.

In the Heights

In the Heights
Review

Audiences love a good musical—they just do. To begin with, musicals are fun, and unabashedly so. Then there’s the dancing, the singing and physical feats that accompany any musical worth its salt. But regardless, a musical is truly at its best when it follows the cardinal rule: Only use music and dance when simple spoken word cannot match the intensity of emotion. When a show veers from this formula, endless, pointless songs parade onstage while onlookers want to throw themselves off any close balcony. But, when it is, tingles ripple through the audience as it feels what can’t be described in regular conversation. The music surges into emotion, and sentimental or not, that can’t be denied by any snarky comments in our cynical world. Essentially then, hope is the third gift offered by the best musicals and sought out by theater goers whether they realize it or not.

And this full-fledged, wide grinning, heart pounding hope is exactly what In the Heights brings with its sexy salsa strut. A gutsy bite and heartfelt underpinning are the staples in Lin Manuel Miranda’s tale of Washington Heights in modern day New York. Usnavi, the bodega owner (perfectly played by Lin himself), raps his way through the hilarities, anecdotes and struggles of el barrio, introducing a troupe of colorful characters along the way. When an unexpected lottery win forces the entire hood to reconsider goals, they must decide whether to follow new dreams or stick to the old. In its immigrant roots, the show touches upon ethnic specificity while retaining a universal truth—without a home and family, what will dreams-come-true really mean? The writer’s voice rings sharp and precise, gathering the particulars of a people and place that are clearly so dear to him, without masking them in rose colors—an impressive new kid on the block for sure.

The cast magnificently fills out characters that could easily become caricatures. Most impressive is Robin De Jesus as Sonny, the insecure but adorable sidekick who always says the wrong thing but means well. His voice is strong, with aptly-twitchy movements and puppy eyes—casting at its best. The voices that blow out of young lovers Nina and Benny played by Mandy Gonzalez and Christopher Jackson, are show-stopping tear-jerkers, and while some of the love moments can seem canned (there are kids in the audience mind you), by the end of the show the two have fully grown the relationship. Olga Merediz as Abuela Claudia has now been nominated for a TONY and rightly so. Shifting between a supporter of the blooming youngsters around her, to a woman with her own fears and dreams, Abuela is the unsung glue that holds the barrio together. And Merediz herself, seems to play the same role in the cast.

The ensemble steps up to the main players’ standards, vividly depicting the gang of spunky New Yorkers. Although their roles border on sentimental at times (they smile for the most part and the poverty that resides in the area is only touched upon), there is real work being done to flesh out each individual onstage. Andy Blankenbeuhler’s choreography, a blend of Latino slink, fluid contemporary and hip hop funk offers the entire cast moments to melt and pop, and the area’s joyous quality is lived most fully in his dance sequences.
With the show’s finale, “Home,” it’s impossible not to get swept up in the genuine voice set forth by Miranda. A new talent with wild potential, he brings a fresh perspective to the melting-pot stance and offers hope that a chile-hot kick is still available on the Great White Way.

In the Heights
Rating: To Die For

Michael Clarke Redux

If there is a John Paul Gaultier of the dance world, his name is Michael Clark. Stylish and badass, the 46-year-old Scott has made the rounds choreographing masterpieces onstage, as well as in a dramatic soap opera offstage.

After training at the Royal Ballet and being touted on the 1980s dance scene, Clark was swept away by a nasty little habit known as heroin addiction. Since kicking it, he's set off to reclaim his creative edge and made his American re-debut on June 4th at the Rose Theater in New York City.

The anticipation in the audience pre-show mirrored a strange duality of the paparazzi age: Show-goers seemed equally interested in the possibility that Clark would a) fail miserably like many post-glory boat-rockers or b) climb to new heights with a fresh, more mature perspective. Any schaudenfreude was mostly squashed: Clarke’s work on program A was captivating and unique. A win for the boy back in town.

The evening consisted of two U.S premiers under the title of Stravinsky Project: OO, the music a deluge of punk anthems and a surprising Barbara Streisand ballad, was first, followed by O, Clark’s rendition of Apollo to Stravinsky’s landmark score. Throughout both, Clark’s interest in a ballet bottom and modern top played out in classical ballet steps like echapes and chennes, juxtaposed with angular, jutting, tilting, twirling arms and torsos. In O, this duality was further echoed by the trappings: a black stage was lined in white labyrinth patterns and the dancers were outfitted for much of it in variations of stark unitards with a black back and tan front—a dancer split both by different styles on top and bottom, plus front to back with a thin line of light and dark.
The sleek costume also established a trippy visual effect of halves—legs and arms disappearing, or appearing in odd ways as the two dimensional robot dancers scooped and staggered: When the dancers first slid on to the stage, stepping slowly into an attitude, they then curled their backs towards their outstretched toe like a piece of plastic being burned by the sun, furling backwards into an inside-out standing circle. The tan of the bodysuit made half of the body disappear—Jim Morrison reality.

Throughout the challenging work filled with difficult extensions and yoga- handstands of all sorts, Clark also went against the grain in a gentler way: Although the music was blaring and frantic at times (Sex Pistols and Iggy Pop are the anthems of angst), much of the movement was languid—he is no conformist, even to the music’s whims. The sharp upper body and flexible legs made the dancers look like odd dolls, robotic and inviting at the same time, with a 2-D quality highlighted by the sleek outfits.

Third in the line up of O was Streisand’s rendition of the melancholy Sondheim tune, “Send in the Clowns,” a tongue and cheek choice paired with the only naked work of the evening (listed on the program, of course). Often, when choreography is shown without clothing, one has to wonder—why? Does this piece benefit from nudity, or is merely shock value? Here, the slow undulations were enhanced by the nudity (well half really- feather and fur boas were held over genitalia in a burlesque type way that was almost asexual). And if perhaps one ever got too serious, then Streisand’s crooning in the back would pop in for ironic relief.

In the last section to "Submission" by the Sex Pistols, more anger and passion came to the surface, as popping knees, splicing arms and dervish twirling filled the stage and Clark’s investigation of the extreme took center stage. Like very young children who are fascinated with their own abilities and exploring just how far each bone can move, steps were dissected until a simple knee bend was broken into four movements—a twisted technician’s parade.

After the blaring opening (appreciated by the younger of the crowd, but disdained—vocally—by some of the older patrons), O seemed tame, and not quite as exciting, if still well done. In Clark’s retelling, Apollo is trapped in a giant, clear jewel box that later opens to become a mirror of doors. Classical floor patterns and port de bras are showcased here, still partnered with odd, forceful upper body contortions, but less so than his first piece. A lovely pas de deux between Terpsichore and Apollo was the highlight—soft feminity and classical masculine strength combined gently to an effect striking in its repose against the earlier fire.

The program in its entirety may not have seemed thrilling to those old enough to have seen shows at the Judson Church or impromptu performances at Studio 54. But for those of us who missed our chance to meet Leigh Bowery, Clark’s second coming is welcome in its force—a middle finger clearly sticking up in front of a face that is smiling sweetly.

Cedar Lake Ballet: Winter Program 2008

In the January 2008 issue of Dance Magazine, I nominated Cedar Lake Contemporary Ballet as one of 25 to Watch. Attending last week’s performance of their winter season, I feel not only justified, but also overjoyed that I went with my gut to advocate for them amidst long-standing criticism. Another two hours of powerful, inspired dancing by an all-star cast made the night as memorable, even if not quite as innovative, as Ohad Naharin’s Decadance.

The evening started with the intensely dramatic and dark “Symptoms of Development.” With anenomie-like, swooshing and swerving arms juxtaposed with stomps and battements, the entire piece was unavoidably harsh. Choreographer Jacopo Godani noted in the program that the work “explores my belief that as a society we have gone astray in our humanistic progress. We are losing the abilities to connect with each other.” With computer-based graphics showing the evolution of man, and dancers speaking monotonically into microphones, the apocalyptic warning was completely effective. Only at the end, with the stunning Ebony Williams walking toward a darkening scrim and Herculean Nickemil Concepcion injuring himself with a blunted object, did the piece seem a bit indulgent in its doomsday theory. The composition, moving between leg flinging, body-roll solos and crisp group sections, was otherwise enthralling and moving. And, the dancers’ ability to shift between modern fluidity and hip-hop pop and lock fit perfectly with the choreographer’s intention. Heather Hamilton’s oddly intriguing, masculine yet sexy energy makes her particularly right for the dance.

The second piece, Crystal Pite’s “Ten Duets on a Theme of Rescue” was the obvious and deserving audience favorite; the palpable, collective held breath signified that not one of us wanted the piece to end. We’d rather sit wrapped in the warm and lovely blanket of the piece which reflected the common human power to help others. Surrounded by a semi-circle of lights that the dancers moved occasionally, duets, both male/female and same sex, exemplified how as humans, we lean (literally) on each other even after we have just fought with clawed nails. Heads tucked into neck crevices and slicing arms that were then wrapped around a partner highlighted the strange human condition: Love and hate, need and independence are different sides of the same coin. In one section, Jessica Coleman Scott lunges forward, arm stretched out behind her back to link to Jon Bond, even though she faces away. He runs, arms slicing, face fervent, toward her in large leaps. But the moment he attaches to her hand, he convulses, flying back. How often have we all felt that we are trying desperately to catch up and connect, but the moment we do, we disengage?

Finally, as the audience leans forward, he's able to hold hands with Jessica, controlling his convulsions enough to keep his hand linked. As he quiets and slumps to the floor, she leads him; he has finally surrendered himself to aid. Often, it is harder to force ourselves to get help, to reach out, than it is to find someone willing to help us. The visual manifestation of this emotion was so pristine, a task difficult in dance—to embody a feeling without sentimentalizing it.

Switching gears completely, Stign Celis’ “Rite of Spring” was a modern, sterile take on Stravinsky’s cacophonous score. In it, androgynous, mannequin-like creatures scurry, chase and vibrate as if they had just awakened into human beings through a healthy volt of electricity. Beginning and ending with the sinewy Acacia Schachte crouched in a feline position, trembling with painful growth, the work captures that odd and terrifying beauty of development. Less enjoyable than the others, the piece was still satisfying in intrigue including kimono-like, gold-embellished wraps, smoky eye-shadow and fearless leaps. However, the movable green pieces used as runways, obstacles and benches were more of a distraction than addition.

Regardless of work, it's undeniable that the company’s true strength lies in the unbelievable talent of each and every dancer. In many companies, there is a clear demarcation between stars, supporting cast and characters; in Cedar Lake each and every dancer (without fail) could be called a true star. While his repertoire taste may be questioned at times, artistic director Benoit-Swan Pouffer has proven himself a true arbiter of talent; his casting and cast are impeccable in training, sensitivity, technique and style. Jessica Coleman Scott was this season’s stunner, malleable to every role’s specificity without losing her dynamic technique, gorgeous lines and emotional force.

25 to Watch in 07. 25 to reckon with in 08.