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
Monday, September 29, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
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
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
Monday, September 1, 2008
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
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
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