love.life.eat
a relentless pursuit of the perfect home + dish
best eats in monterosso, italy: barabba bianca
Posted on April 18, 2013
Can we rewind the clock a few days? Back to a time when I was speaking Spanish and dodging careening cars on the streets of Paris was not the norm? A few short days ago I was standing in front of an ocean scaffolded by the sun. The rocks were stalwart, marble and covered in moss, and the waves were azure, frothy and sometimes translucent. Dipping a toe into the cool water, part of me wanted to dive in. Make a blanket of the ocean. But someone, specifically my tour guide, Enrique, called to me. Feeding time, apparently.
What a joy, what a privilege to spend two hours at Barabba Bianca in Monterosso. Located directly in front of the sea, I spent time in these sun-drenched eatery with new friends and plates of hearty cheeses, perfectly-cooked pastas and cool gelato. The mussels were steeped in a local wine and butter, so my compadres said, and it was possibly the finest fish they’ve ever had. The focaccia was other-worldly, dressed in rosemary and local olive oil, and pared with sparkling water, I felt very much like a character in a Fitzgerald novel.
After, I planted myself on a rock and read until my skin turned a bright pink.
dispatches from firenze: the finest chicken you’ll ever eat in your life
Posted on April 12, 2013
We tell ourselves stories in order to live…We look for the sermon in the suicide, for the social or moral lesson in the murder of five. We interpret what we see, select the most workable of the multiple choices. We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the “ideas” with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience. ― Joan Didion, The White Album
Last night I slept on pavement, a sliver of concrete that is a terrace that overlooks the Ponte Vecchio. My journey started one way and ended in another. I tossed. I turned. I fluffed and punched pillows. I read Susan Faludi’s searing profile of the radical feminist, Shulamith Firestone, a woman who sought an unimpeded love but would never find it. I tongued pills and spit them out again. Until finally, I made a makeshift bed on my postage stamp of a terrace and fell asleep.
This is what happens when you allow things to consume you. All this anxiety over two bags making their way, albeit at a snail’s pace, to my hotel in Florence. All the while I convinced myself I was fine, just fine, and I’d prove it by going manic on social media. The equivalent of throwing a blanket over a fire, who knew my thumping heart would be composed of kindling? Who knew I’d burn from the inside out? Who knew the whole of the past two months would plague me, like swallows, and I’d drown in the swarm. Water. Fire. One tends to oscillate between the extremes.
But. But. I refuse to let this happen when I’ve made this brave decision to leave a job that was killing me, when I finally pried open my eyes and mouth, and let all the moth balls flutter out. Then I let all the right people in. No way will I be my own ruin. So I did what I know best to do and took some time, and will continue taking it. We often want to create tremendous noise — a holocaust of sound — all because we’re frightened to hear our own voice. We’re terrified of the words we might say, thoughts that give shape and form to our singular experience. When we say it out loud it suddenly becomes real, and can we bear it out? Can we endure the hours after?
So this is what I tried to do. I spent the early morning hours in the Uffizi, wandering the galleries. What a joy it was to ghost the rooms of a near-empty museum, a place free of phones, cameras and the hoards of chattering groups. It was just me, my own footfalls, and a considerable amount of Botticellis.
Later, tipped off by Lauren, I checked out Trattoria Sostanza (read Elizabeth Minchilli’s astute review). Tucked away on a side street, the eatery is nondescript, homely even, but the word-of-mouth on the pollo al burro was too formidable to dismiss.
I NEED TO PAUSE HERE AND SIMPLY STATE THAT TODAY I’VE EATEN THE BEST CHICKEN I WILL LIKELY EVER EAT. IN. MY. LIFE.
Two breasts are charred while butter browns. The meat is dredged in egg and flour and cooks in cast-iron pan in a pool of sweet butter. The result are tender breasts steeped in butter and thawing the iceberg that is my heart. One would think that the dish would be heavy, fatty, but this is not the case. The technique locks in the flavor, and the chicken is neither greasy or heavy, but rather tender and yielding. OBVIOUSLY I DIPPED EACH PIECE OF MEAT INTO BUTTER. OBVIOUSLY.
And can we talk about the butter lettuce salad? Normally, I’m all blase about an appetizer, but the leaves were so fresh and the oil so perfect I nearly cried eating my salad.
The seating is communal, so I queried folks around me and everyone was thick in the business of cleaning their plate. From thick slabs of beef steak to stuffed tortellini to rich soups, everyone was lapping it up with the fresh ciabatta.
I left, satiated and calmer than I was the following evening. The rest of the day was spent napping, walking, climbing 436 steps to the Duomo cupola and reading Joan Didion.
dispatches from florence: food in firenze {1}
Posted on April 11, 2013
Would you believe that as soon as I dumped my bags at the hotel and yelled at Alitalia, I ran out into the streets of Florence determined to eat. Typing this now, I’m pining for a green juice as I’ve never eaten so much pasta, focaccia, gelato, and parma ham in a span of three days. Imagine the moment when I set eyes on a chicken breast — I nearly cried. Don’t get me wrong, a woman loves her crudo with the best of them, but I am longing for some virtue. Or for my Tracy Anderson DVDs to arrive in Florence. THANKS, ALITALIA!
But onward! When traveling to Florence, elastic is highly recommended. Leggings, yoga pants, anything that will refrain from reminding you that no sane person should be eating gelato at EVERY. SINGLE. MEAL. or BEFORE. AND. AFTER. MEALS. (read: me). I first hit up Venchi, home to artisanal chocolate since 1878. From the cocoa-topped, feather-light cappuccinos to the whipped dark chocolate gelatos to the rows of wrap individual chocolates, you will want to bathe in nougat. Spy on the robust outdoor leather market from the upstairs nook, whilst sipping your coffee.
Since it was a few scant hours since my last gelato fix, I decided to hop into Coronas Cafe. Located near the Duomo, you’ll find unexpected flavors (figs, passionfruit, coconut creme, mandarine, meringue) along with the usual suspects, and the price is pretty favorable for an ice cream that was creamy, light, luscious and flavorful. The space is open + colorful, and if you’re not keen on cones and sweets, swing by the other side for a bevy of mortadella sarnis, crudos, sandwiches, cookies, cornettos and other Florentine delights. You won’t be disappointed, and since it’s been a few hours since my last gelato, I might slip out after writing this post and tuck myself in an alleyway with some passionfruit. Consider me addicted.
Usually I eschew all eateries recommended by hotels, as they’re often in financial cahoots, leaving me with tepid greens, suspicious lighting, and an outrageous bill. However, everyone in the free world has raved about my hotel, which I quite like save for the odd smell in the lobby (for another time, friends), so I decided to break my cardinal rule and ferret out recommendations from the concierge. And I’m glad I did, for Caffe Pitti was an exquisite pick. Steps away from the Ponte Vecchio and located on the Palazzo Pitti, the restaurant offers traditional Florentine dishes with a touch of creativity. Their quite known for their truffles from the natural reserve of San Miniato, a true rarity which highlights Pitti as the one and only place where each dish assumes an extraordinary depth. For fifteen euros, I enjoyed a delicious primi of pesto and perhaps the best chicken I’ve had in years. Soaked in lemon and butter, the breast was tender, falling apart, and begged to be consumed, voraciously. And if you’re not keen on a full-on meal, you can opt to order a DIY sandwich from Botteghina, where you can sample local cheeses and meats from the region — all on fresh focaccia.
Are you surprised that I found a cookie? I stumbled upon Migone, an old-school sweets shop located near the Duomo. Although the prices are steep (I spent $40 for these cookies + a few packages of homemade chocolates), the confections are decadent. You’ll find traditional Florentine sweets including panforte, ricciarelli and cantuccini, as well as delightfully packaged chocolates and candied sweets. Well worth a visit, albeit an expensive one.
Finally, a former coworker informed me of a sandwich spot I would’ve surely missed: All’Antico Vinaio. If you’re aching for a spot that is purely patroned by the locals, this is it. It’s a proverbial shoebox joint, with a great wine list and a terrific selection of fresh meats and local cheeses. The bread, my friends, is FUCKING OUTSTANDING. I stood outside the eatery and devoured my sandwich. Did I mention that the bread was WARM and YIELDING. I will definitely be back for more.
Would you believe this is only my first day? Clearly I’ll need some Crisco to make it through customs at JFK.
dispatches from rome: you can never have enough carbs
Posted on April 10, 2013
Believe me when I say that I worship at the altar that is the CARBOHYDRATE. I light candles, mumble prayers, and hope for a day when my doctor tells me that I can eat carbs to my heart’s content. Lying on my couch, I am free to mainline paninis as I please and gorge on bottomless bowls of pesto. What dreams I’d have! What I revere most about Italian fare is its unapologetic simplicity. You combine the simplest, freshest ingredients, and tend to it as if each dish were your own personal harvest. Every meal is a bloodletting of sorts, where part of you melds into the food that you’re making. This connection is symbiotic, visceral, emotional, and I prefer it over the cold, austere complexity that is the French and Japanese cuisine. Don’t get me wrong, I love French + Japanese food, but I want my meals to feel like home, not mathematics, so I tend to cleave to dishes that are simple and comforting. Perhaps this is why I never went in for the fanfare of patisserie, rather I cloak myself in yeast and bake the warmest of loaves, the sweetest of cakes.
Call it serendipity when I met up with Arlene + Erica, two great, shining lights, and conversation quickly turned to Italian food. After a few hours I felt a kinship with them because we’d always fall rapturously in love with the cacio e pepes of the world and shirk away from the nine-course meals whose ingredients might very well include foam.
Rome was meant to be a quickie, a layover to the glory that is Florence, but I made a point of hoovering pasta at every single meal, and save for one horrific encounter with raw sausage — the smell of which still has me reeling — every dish was exquisite from presentation to taste. For lunch I stumbled upon di qua, located on Via delle Carrozze 85/B. Oddly, I can’t find a single listing for the restaurant online, but I assure you, it’s good. Tucked away from the busy Plaza de Espagna, you’ll not only fawn over the pasta and greens, you’ll also swoon over the rustic interiors. When someone serves me bread in a leather basket and the dishes are charming, I have to believe a lot of love goes into cultivating a sweet dining experience. The staff were so hospitable and took care with inquiring about my satisfaction that I didn’t want to leave. And the pasta? DIE.
Can we talk about Pierluigi, please? The very charming brother to New York’s Antica Pesa, I loved everything about this eatery. Perhaps I’m biased as my sweet friend Arlene is a frequent patron, but I honestly felt a bit like a celebrity. The staff are attentive, effusive and passionate about food. My homemade ravioli was stuffed with pumpkin and dressed in a light sauce and amaretti cookies. After the prosciutto pile-up, I honestly felt I couldn’t consume one more bite, but I gathered all my strength to make a clean sweep of every plate. And while I’m not fond of fish, I was impressed by the handsome display of fresh catch that is presented to patrons before their dishes are cooked. If you ever find yourself in Rome, I implore you to drop your bags and RUN TO PIERLUIGI.
I firmly believe in the power of the leisurely breakfast, the kind where you feast from a succession of thin, delicate plates and conversations ebb and flow. After a magical dinner, I met up with Erica. From barking in Italian to Alitalia to discussing what it means to mother to shifts in Italian politics, we dined and dished for hours at Ciampini, whilst savoring hot cappuccinos, fresh yoghurt and granola and tasty mini-donuts. I was going to opt for the cornetto, which bears a striking resemblance to my beloved croissant, but Arlene wisely relayed that cornettos are made sans butter (quel horror! que lastima!). PASS.
After a long day of walking, I was set on returning to Pierluigi, when I discovered RJ Numbs Campo De Fiori on a lark. Everything about this spot was perfection. Lots of Italian to be heard so I knew that amidst all the tourist traps, this is a spot that the locals still patron. I opted for the prix-fix menu, which included buffalo mozzarella in a bed of prosciutto, my beloved cacio e pepe and a feather-light tiramisu. To say that my meal was exquisite would be an understatement. Terrific service + a bevy of people-watching made this a delightful afternoon spot.
As I walked home, I received a text that my luggage had been found. Naturally, I stopped for gelato.
Tomorrow, I’m off to Florence!
welcome to your life, day one
Posted on March 19, 2013
I wanted to be a writer, that’s all. I wanted to write about it all. Everything that happens in a moment. The way the flowers looked when you carried them in your arms. This towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread. All our feelings, yours and mine. The history of it, who we once were. Everything in the world. Everything all mixed up, like it’s all mixed up now. And I failed. I failed. No matter what you start with it ends up being so much less. — Ed Harris, “The Hours”
A few hours ago, a dear friend sent me a text message which read, What’s the first day of freedom like? What’s left to say after three years of enduring a great love that turned into your greatest heartbreak? It was an autumn three years ago, the warmest we’d known, and I spent a day with scrappy misfits, kids on the verge. Kids hacked away on laptops in the dark. Blasted music and complained about Fresh Direct deliverables. Created memes and raged rap battles on Twitter. I remember leaving a small office in Soho, a place where the doll-sized elevator never worked and the receptionist was whoever was on their way out to lunch, and I remembered feeling something, and that something was possibility. And it was all because of a man who knew how to weave the kind of stories you’d stay up all night listening to. Stories that consumed you, came like swallows. Leaving the office that day I kept murmuring, take me with you.
I spent the next three and a half years telling stories until my voice was hoarse and I could speak no more. Out of respect for a great man and mentor, I’ll never talk about the innards of that time beyond my farewell song, but I’m heartbroken. It’s as if someone carved out my still-beating heart and left it on the carpet to gather lint and pulse out until the dust inevitably covered it whole. And even though I left on my own terms, armed with so much, part of me feels like no matter what you start with it ends up being so much less.
And I’ll leave it at that.
So permit me my mourning. Today I spent time with my champions, old friends, new ones, and myself. From almond croissants in Union Square to carb-loading all things citrus to my heart’s content at Rosemary’s, to pedaling through the dark at Soul Cycle, to thinking about what it means to pray, to listening to boys playing out their hearts, to clinking glasses at Antica Pesa, I needed to be with people I admired, adored and respected. I needed to get past this dark moment. I needed to feel like I felt that autumn, when there was so much possibility.
It’s there, I know. Just give me time and some quiet to see it.
seeking comfort from arugula pesto
Posted on February 28, 2013
When you’re under the weather {I’ve always wondered about this term and its origin. Could someone possibly be over the weather? I digress}, the only thing that’s not cumbersome is simple comfort food. For the past two days I’ve succumbed to the infectious plague that has become New York, and I’ve taken to my apartment, sustaining on green juices, tea and fresh pasta — in between chugs of DayQuil, naturally. Because, quite frankly, the idea of cooking anything complicated is inconceivable.
So I invite you to serve up this peppery version of the basil classic, and hope that I’ll be soaring over the weather come this weekend.
INGREDIENTS
8 oz fresh pasta (I oped for a tagliatelle, but you can use fettucini, linguine, etc)
3 oz washed + dried arugula leaves
1 large clove garlic
2 tbsp pecorino romano cheese
1 1/2 tbsp toasted pine nuts
1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp cracked black pepper
1-2 tsp of the reserve pasta water
DIRECTIONS
Bring a medium pot of water to a boil. Your pasta water should be briny, much like the ocean, but don’t overdue it as fresh pasta absorbs more salt than dried. I tend to put 1-2 tsp of salt into my water. While the water is coming to a boil, blitz the arugula, garlic, cheese, toasted pine nuts, salt and pepper until it’s a thick, chunky paste and then stream in the olive oil until satiny-smooth. Scrape out the pesto and add to a large serving bowl.
Once the water has come to a boil, add in the pasta and cook to al dente, 2 minutes. Reserve 2 tsp of the pasta water and drain the pasta. Add the pasta to your pesto and mix to combine. Add in the pasta water to thicken the sauce.
This dish serves two, so dig in or reserve for lunch the next day!
prepare yourself for the giant…
Posted on February 16, 2013
Do you know who I am? I’m alive you understand, the life, the life, the life…Are you prepared for the atom bomb, are you prepared for my aching arms? Are you prepared, are you prepared? Are you prepared for serenity, are you prepared to disagree? Are you prepared, are you prepared for me — The Bird and the Bee’s “Preparedness”
We were a family of lottery players. We sharpened our pencils, selected numbers at random, and stood on a line that snaked the length of a city block, because we believed that all we needed was a dollar and a dream. Come nightfall we’d sit on the stoop, still wet from the johnny pump and the spray of Colt 45 that matted our hair to the backs of our necks, listening to the elders trade stories of what they’d do if they hit it big. Sadie said she was going to buy me a house where all the white people lived. Promising us that she’d stand on her lawn, defiant, knowing that they couldn’t get rid of me, even if they tried. Some mused about giant boats settling sail in a blue ocean. No one had ever seen waves swell, seen the beauty of them rise up and warble like a long note held. No one bore witness to the descent, to the waves crashing onto the shoreline. Back then the only water we’d seen poured out of spigots and sprayed out of pumps on the street.
Others hatched plans about taking a trip around the world although they secretly knew that the whole of their world would always be Brooklyn. Their prison was a ten-block radius, yet once a week they’d shuffle to the market with their dollar in tow, plotting escape.
Back then we were naive to believe that money bought you freedom. Back then we wanted the life we saw on our black and white television sets; we raged war with the wire rabbit ears to bring this life into focus. Back then we wanted the giant.
Recently, someone upbraided me for my decision to abandon a comfortable life. Think of all the money. Think about what you’re walking away from, she warned. Shaking my head I sighed and said that what I was running toward was infinitely richer. It was the ticking that was the bomb. Granted, I’m being smart about things. I’m squirreling away as much money as I can. I’m buying only what I need. I’m ridding myself of the unnecessary, the things that only bring me anxiety rather than sustenance. I’m making my preparations for the day when I’ll walk away from security to something other. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t worry about it, fret over my decision, a little. I’m pragmatic, cautious, but then I recall a conversation I had with my friend Kate a few years back. I considered renting a more expensive apartment than the one in which I’d lived, but worried that I wouldn’t have the money to pay for it in the long run. Kate told me that I should always bet on myself. I was my biggest investment and that I should nurture myself. The rent line would be stable and my potential could only grow — all things being equal, of course.
Ever since then I try to remind myself to bet on myself. To believe in myself. To know that I am the ticking that is the bomb. To know that money is actually the prison, not the thing that sets you free. To believe that I can break from third person and rush to first. That I can be the giant.
All this while having lunch at Campo de Fiori.
when your food options are dunkin donuts + pizza hut, you want to come home to old school cacio e pepe
Posted on February 14, 2013
Click here for the recipe.
local eats: franny’s, brooklyn, new york
Posted on January 28, 2013
Part of me is nervous {translation: downright petrified} about even writing about Franny’s. Truth be told this is my work colleague, Vivek’s, spot. Vivek has invested hours in sitting at the bar pontificating over Italian wines and the virtues of duck confit. His presence, and the way in which the staff treat him, puts me to thinking of Cheers in the 1980s, where everyone knows his name while I’m a blubbering tourist. However, I will make a futile attempt to shine a necessary light on this extraordinary eatery.
Luckily, my colleague has no interest in reading my blog or I’d be kaput, done for.
While you’ll find scores of articles, blog posts and tweets rhapsodizing on the rising {or failing, depending upon to whom you speak} food renaissance in Brooklyn. Foodies will talk about succulent barbecue on the Gowanus or fragrant hummus on Cortelyou Road. Dozens of smart, Instagram-friendly restaurants dot Brooklyn Heights, Bed Sty, Fort Greene, Carroll Gardens, that it’s hard to keep up. Add in the fact that I’m frightened of failed meals, and cue the vertigo, kids.
Luckily, Franny’s is conveniently located and insanely good. Grab a seat at the bar {good luck getting a table} and you’re greeted with a menu that will make any dead heart beat. From their paper-thin uncut pizzas slathered in luscious olive oil {sausage, meatball and prosciutto can’t be beat} to their perfectly al dente Meyer-lemon cacio e pepe to their slightly briny kale salad to the cool, clean gelatos, you will devour the menu and have, as Edith Piaf so sagely sang, NO REGRETS.
the gathering kind {part 5}: the things we carry
Posted on January 26, 2013
They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried. And in the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It’s about sunlight. It’s about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It’s about love and memory. It’s about sorrow. It’s about sisters who never write back and people who never listen. ― Tim O’Brien
In the summer we’d race up the stairs, taking them two by two. Back then we were fearless; we never held on to the railing and our feet rarely touched the ground. They called us sisters, told me always that I was a photocopy of you — down to the bone-white skin and the thicket that was your hair. When we cried, which was never, our lips paled down to blue. When we shouted, which was often, our face was flush and hot. I wrote my first poem, a haiku, when I was seven, and in it I likened your voice to thunder. Women on the verge, we colored outside the lines, ripped up the book and made new ones. We were of the difficult variety, our stock and trade were words and how we could use them. Who needed a scalpel? Give us a book and we’d carve out your still-beating heart. Deliver us a pencil and we’d burn your house to the ground. You spoke, I wrote, we ruined.
They tell us we’re strong. Our words made us a fortress and we spent the great part of our lives in construction for we had a lot to protect. But in the end it was me who realized that while we conquered and vanquished, while we were women people always remembered because we shone perhaps too bright, we were always alone. And what we carried was the massacre that we’d left behind. Dragging the carcasses of our former lives behind us. Bearing the burden of those we tried to love on our backs.
Sometimes I want to go back. All the way. Back to when my knees knocked and I wrote about a sky that would never be blue.
Fast forward to another sun, another beach, another year in passing. A storm threatened, and the sun plunged into the waves which had begun to blacken. You asked me if I wanted to leave, to go back inside, into the hotel, back to New York and I said, not yet. In a small voice I wondered why we were always in the business of leaving. In my head I wondered if I drank too much. A week later you drove cross-country and years later you became a woman who impressively lunched, while I gave up the sauce, preferring the desert. We’re from the desert, you see. We like the heat. We carried the memories of all that had come before. The bricks of our fortress encased our ankles like shackles.
Sometimes I wonder if you think about going back. Or whether you regret any of it. Do you think about it at all? Or is the weight of what you’d done too much to bear?
Years later in Malibu we sped through all the flashing lights because the power had gone out. I took a photo of you standing on a pile of wet rocks and you asked that I delete it because you lead an edited life. You asked me what I wanted to do next — because you can do anything, that’s the strange thing about you — and I said I didn’t know. Both of us carried the weight of our options.
This time it’s winter. The bone-white skin becomes a body chilled down to bone. In front of a fire we speak in half sentences, knowing that the other could easily fill in the blanks. You tell me that we’re going to have a time. Quietly I laugh and consider the word time, how it’s something that we never gain, only lose, and I think to myself that we had our time. Both of us now have to carry the weight of the hours that follow.
Today, I sit in Frankie’s 457, quietly savoring a lunch alone. I wonder if you could see me now. If you could see how I’m using words to build a kingdom where everyone could gather. And all we’d care about is the here, the now, and the love behind the words we share. And the fact that the only weight is from one another as we buoy ourselves up, carry us to our new home, our new life.
bottom image credit
quick eats: whole wheat pasta + kale walnut pesto
Posted on January 10, 2013
This week amidst one of many conference calls I took in a remote hotel room I found myself uttering the words, I need to think about my life. I didn’t realize that I’d said this out loud, but I did, and I’m realizing saying this right now means something. Because everything means something even if we don’t know it. Even if we’re trying to deny it. Part of me is battling a tension between my life now and where it could be in a year or two year’s time, and right now, at this moment, I feel very much stuck in the betweens.
So while I sort out all this mess, I’m taking comfort in keeping the rest of my world simple. Easy eats, quiet nights, close friends…
INGREDIENTS
2 cups baby kale, packed
1 cup basil leaves, packed
2 cloves garlic
1/4 cup walnuts, toasted
1/4 cup + 2 tbsp olive oil
2 tbsp panko (or bread crumbs)
Salt/pepper to taste
Optional: 1/4 cup grated gruyere cheese
1 lb whole wheat penne or rotini
DIRECTIONS:
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. While your water is coming to a boil, blitz in a food processor the kale, basil, garlic, and walnuts until it’s a thick, clumpy paste. Stream in the olive oil and add salt/pepper to taste. Set aside.
Once the water is bubbling, add in a handful of kosher salt. Add the pasta and stir and cook until al dente (1-2 minutes under your package instructions. Once the pasta is done, drain and toss in with the pesto and panko, and add grated cheese or additional walnuts if you’re keen on more flavor.
Enjoy!
