The Chic-Cheap Showdown: Italian

A Voce

41 Madison Ave. (at 26th St.)
212-545-8555

Subway: R, W to 28th St

For my first installment, I have chosen a fairly impossible task: choose one location for a splurge and one for a bargain on Italian food. In this city, everyone has a favorite neighborhood Italian and a favorite fancy pasta purveyor, so I have decided to narrow my field slightly. I have chosen my two favorite romantic, modern Italian eateries: in the splurge corner, A Voce, in the bargain corner, Max SoHa .

First the splurge: A Voce, located on 26th St at Madison Ave, has appeared on virtually every list of the hottest and/or best new restaurants of the year, from New York magazine to Conde Nast Traveler. You might describe the room as British luxury meets Scandinavian chic—swiveling Eames chairs in beige leather, large, spherical lamps over the bar, cool, orange lighting, and dark-wood tables with bottle green, leather tops. It’s a beauty of a room, but nothing in it so much as hints at Italy. That is, until the menu arrives. From the appetizers, my table chose the duck meatballs with dried cherry mostarda, and Sardinian Sheep’s Milk Ricotta with sea salt, herbs, and olive oil. Neither of these starters was a showstopper. Instead, the flavors of these sensational dishes were so subtle, soft, and disarmingly rich that they acted as a sort of comfort blanket, breaking down all possible resistance. The ricotta especially, whipped to a mouse-like consistency and served with grilled and seasoned bread, tasted at first like pure air. Not until a few bites in did the soft flavor of the cheese creep up on me, followed by the gentle bite of the sea salt and the supple sweetness of the olive oil. I moaned aloud.

The main courses continued in the vein of Italian comfort foods. For our main courses we ordered the gnocchi with lamb ragu and ricotta, and the jumbo prawns, one of the daily, market-driven specials. The gnocchi literally melted in my mouth, and the shrimp were tender and fresh, served over a mixed bean salad so rich and flavorful that it could have made a sufficiently delicious appetizer. On the side we ordered wild mushroom orso with truffle oil and white string beans with parmigian, pine nuts, and onion, both outrageously good.

The desserts at A Voce surprised and delighted me. We ordered a peach tart, an olive oil cake, and bomboloni, cream-filled Italian doughnuts with dark chocolate dipping sauce. Though all three were delicious, the olive oil cake was absolutely my favorite.

Max SoHa

1274 Amsterdam Ave. (at 123rd St.)
212-531-2221

Subway: 1 to 125th St.

If A Voce presents you with the kind of Italian home cooking that you could never really cook at home, Max SoHa, on Amsterdam Ave at 123rd St, serves a meal that feels like the first meal you cook for a date that you really want to impress, except in this scenario you actually do manage to impress said date. Instead of A Voce’s confident swankness, Max SoHa trades in casual, neighborhood charm—exposed brick walls, about 10 tiny tables, mismatched chairs, chalkboard specials, walls decorated in wine bottles (still my favorite aesthetic statement), and ample amounts of candlelight. Actually, for my money—and quite a bit less of it at that—Max SoHa is far more romantic than A Voce, if less sexy.

I have less to say about individual dishes at Max SoHa mostly because, as my neighborhood Italian place, it’s enough for me to know that anything I order will be delicious. I have ordered pasta, meat, and fish from the regular menu and the specials and have found myself neither disappointed nor blown away; I invariably leave Max SoHa happy and content, with a smile on my face, and a widespread hand on my belly. And generally I can leave with around $15 dollars missing from my wallet.

Okay, so this isn’t really a showdown, because there’s no winner (except me, because I’ve eaten at both places). The food at A Voce is more impressive, certainly, but then so is the bill (thank God for visiting parents); the room may be sleeker, but the intimate charm of Max SoHa never fails to loosen the knots in my shoulders. Ultimately, A Voce and Max SoHa are kindred spirits separated only by cool and cost…oh, and about 100 blocks.

Sonic Vision

The American Museum of Natural History no doubt has a magnificent variety of exhibits. I've heard of the famous dinosaur skeletons, for instance, reminding us of the smallness of our human frames and the brevity of our history on Earth. At present, the museum boasts a special exhibit entitled "Mythic Creatures" that invites guests to "track the origins of legendary creatures including dragons, unicorns, mermaids, and sea serpents," which, I must say, sounds pretty cool.

But I'm willing to bet that my excursion in to the Museum of Natural History this weekend tops dinosaurs and mermaids alike.

It's called "Sonic Vision," and it's the result of a collaboration with MTV2. As the planetarium goes dark, you're invited to recline in your chair and "enjoy your journey." What follows is a dazzling visual cornucopia that cannot possibly be described in textual form. These images are accompanied by the music of Coldplay, Radiohead, Moby, Bowie, and Prodigy (remember Prodigy? sort of?), to name just a few. Seriously, it's breathtaking. You leave with at least a vague sense that your mind has been blown, or if you're as lucky as I was, a new outlook on the world.

To the best of my knowledge, GraightNYC does not endorse illegal drug use (openly). But let me throw a wink, wink, nudge, nudge your way and say that this experience was clearly designed with a certain demographic in mind.


Sonic Vision
American Museum of Natural History
Central Park West at 79th Street
$15 admission
Shows on Friday and Saturday, 7:30 and 8:30 PM
http://www.amnh.org/rose/dome/

Heaven on the Upper East Side

Daniel

60 E 65th St. (Between Madison and Park)
212-288-0033

Subway: F to Lexington Ave.-63rd St
6 to 68th St.-Hunter College

www.danielnyc.com/daniel

Free meals don't come along every day. A free meal at Daniel, one of New York's proudest bastion's of fine French cuisine? That's extraordinary. And to have the meal cooked by chef Daniel Boulud himself? Too good to be true. But true it is, friends, true it is. Last week I was lucky enough to attend a publicity luncheon for a new advertising campaign being launched by an organization called Cheeses of France, which is precisely what it sounds like.

Daniel is exactly the restaurant you would expect to find serving haute cuisine on the Upper East Side. You enter through a huge revolving door into a sumptuously appointed anteroom where hor'dourves and wine were passed around like wafers at church (just as reverent, just as free). Passing through a set of massive wooden doors, you enter the main room, redolent of those pleasure domes in 1940s hollywood films. They just don't make 'em like this anymore. Decorated in Venetian Renaissance style, the sunken dining room sits within a white collonade, making the arrivals and departures of servers with food both less conspicuous and more theatrical. This is a temple to fine food.

And oh how fine it was. First course: three preparations of organic heirloom tomatoes paired with a beautiful 2004 Sancerre. Second course: Chicken with morel and potato gratin and a fava bean puree paired with a magnificent 2003 Burgundy. Third course: three tables of unlimited French cheeses, each selection hand picked by one of the city's top maîtres fromager paired with a 2001 Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Finally, plates of miniature chocolates and petit fours as well as a basket of madeleines so perfect they sent me into Proustian ecstasies (this is only a very slight exaggeration.)

Perhaps my favorite part of the afternoon--and certainly the most amusing--was the manner of the other attendees. I was by far the youngest person in the room, the lowest of the low at Men's Vogue, the publication that had sent me specifically because it cared so little about this Cheeses of France campaign. My name tag, however, said nothing of the sort, and it was assumed that I was someone of significance. I received endless complements on my 'exciting new publication' and fielded innumerable questions about the magazine, questions that I answered with considerable aplomb given that I've only worked with the magazine for about two months. It is a testament to the power of Chef Boulud's cooking that the sheer density of solicitude in the room (or might I call it obsequiousness?) failed to overwhelm the food.

By the time Chef Boulud made his rounds in the dining room four sumptuous courses, four glasses of wine, and $0 later, I had finally found religion. Heaven, as it turns out, looks an awful lot like a French restaurant.

leaning, [post] tower

freshman year of college makes drinking beer feel like a chore, so it took me a while to recover and start to appreciate that there is a purpose to knocking back a cold one other than proving to all the frat brother crushing cans on their heads and doing shirtless kegstands that you’re the beer pong partner they didn’t know they were looking for. but by the time i traveled in Europe junior year, i had distanced myself far enough from cases of natty ice and pitchers of bud light to give the brewskie a second chance. i drank beers all the places you’re supposed to drink beers: guiness in dublin. heineken in amsterdam. pints of everything in london (okay blah blah blah it was mostly pints of cider. pub culture! it was still pub culture! cider or beer, it all still makes you start to think that sign hanging over the bar advertising bangers and mash sounds like a great idea.) so even though i still usually pick a glass of white over a pale ale, the fact that i can write usually instead of always is an improvement!

all of this is a very fancy way of saying: lansdowne bar. 44th and 10th.

what, you didn’t get that by reading between the lines of a paragraph about college and europe?
the point is that at this pub-y watering hole, far enough west that it’s more of a destination than a home base, you can order a beer tower. (when i first heard that, i pictured a pile of pints, stacked in a pyramid, a la soup cans in a grocery store. well… i say grocery store, rob trump says hilarious foil of a bowling alley.) what it actually means is only slightly less surreal: for thirty bucks they deliver to your table this six foot clear tube, which holds 120 ounces of beer. before you freak out, that only the equivalent of two pitchers.

okay, freak out now. I DIDN’T KNOW A PITCHER WAS 60 OUNCES EITHER!

there’s a tap at the bottom and that’s basically that. and you can fill it with any beer they have on tap. i would have remembered to ask which ones they had, but we had twin towers (too soon?).

The Rock Musical Comes of Age

"Passing Strange is a beautiful post-modern love song to my soul"
-GraightNYC's Lindsay

The idea of ‘The Real’ crops up all over the place in Passing Strange, an aptly ‘strange’ motif to stress in the most artificial of dramatic forms, the musical. This formal and aesthetic paradox, expressed plainly throughout the Public Theater’s bold production, ultimately becomes the backbone of this remarkable new show.

Passing Strange is the work of Heidi Rodewald and Stew (yes, that’s one name only), and tells the story of Stew’s coming of age as a young musician searching for his artistic identity in the avant-garde art scenes of Amsterdam and Berlin. Both Stew and Ms. Rodewald perform from onstage as part of a five piece band, with Stew himself serving as an almost Wilder-esque narrator, occasionally interacting with the characters and relaying much of the story to the audience in a series of recitative-like songs. These semi-sung monologues occasionally bleed into full-fledged songs, featuring lyrics that fall somewhere between Sondheim and slam poetry. Rock music—in this case a blend of blues, jazz, gospel, rock, etc.—has never felt so effortless or natural on stage.

Often Passing Strange has the feeling of an amazing concert with a phenomenal narrative, as when techies, cast, and band members chat during scene changes and applause breaks; think The Who’s Tommy…except emotionally and dramatically believable. At other times, Passing Strange becomes a marvelous pastiche, with sections skewering European Art House cinema, avant-garde performance art, and even a minstrel number, easily the funniest, most disturbing, and most daring number in the entire show; this is a study in the forms of artifice.

The show’s wit fails, though, when the actors start to sing, at which point Passing Strange becomes depressingly conventional. I do not doubt the vocal abilities of the supremely talented cast—the fault here does not lie with them but with the show itself. Passing Strange owes its success to being aware of the other ‘rock musicals’ out there without paying them much heed, that is to say it neither embraces nor rejects the conventions of the other rock musicals. When the protagonist touches down in Amsterdam and the characters begin to sing, Passing Strange suddenly becomes a silly, two-bit rehashing of Rent.

Fortunately, these moments of eye-rolling conventionality are fairly brief, mostly concentrated in the part of the show that takes place in Amsterdam, which features a song that I would swear sounds like a reprise of “Light my Candle” (as though we needed to hear that song again), as well as the obligatory explicit sex scene. In spite of these lapses in taste, judgement, or whatever you might call it, Passing Strange has moments of such clarity and incandescent energy, and a cast of such remarkable talent (Daniel Breaker as the Youth and Eisa Davis as the Mother in particular give stunning performances), as to make its weaker moments forgivable.

Passing Strange does not prove that there are new frontiers in musical theater so much as it proves that new kinds of theater remain for exploration, that a good play can feature good music…or is it the other way around? A show can be meta and still take itself seriously, can be ironic and still have meaning beyond irony itself, can break the fourth wall without winking and nudging, accomplished here by not acknowledging a fourth wall in the first place. In a time when theater, and particularly musical theater, only seems capable of wittily skewering itself while smothered by layers of self-awareness (or should we call it self-hatred?), Passing Strange has the guts to say something meaningful, and does so by suggesting that we might best seek out the ‘The Real’ in artifice itself. A post-modern love song indeed.

Passing Strange played for a limited engagement and closed earlier this month.

starbucks roundup, part uno

i spend a whole lot of time in starbuckes. so i had this idea for a new gimmick. and this is it. the starbucks roundup.

at first you might think "that is not a very clever name. there is not even any alliteration or pun or humor or originality or... etc etc" to which i say "i get it i get it, and i considered 'starbuck spotlight' or even 'starbuXmarksthespot' which is pretty clever but reminds me of the logo for Xanadu! On Broadway! but at the end of the day, i have always been partial to the idea of roundups, and the visual image of lassoing the herd of starbucks is both humorous and metaphoric.

so what i am going to do is write a little blurb about notable starbuX in the manhattan area. i will do this whenever i visit a new starbucks and remember to write about it, so you can be assured that there is absolutely no schedule and a very good chance that this could be the only entry ever. who says college grads arent dependable?

today i will highlight the three starbucks from whence my most recent iced venti sugar free vanilla americano with soy milk have come. PLEASE TRY TO CONTAIN YOUR EXCITEMENT!

1. west broadway and fourth.
this joint is a long skinny rectangle that is pretty unremarkable as far as starbucks go. however, it sits on the corner of that trendy maze that is tribeca and soho and whatever the heck else is down there, so take your coffee to go and then wander through the streets exclaiming, "this place looks so cute!" and "we have to come back here!" every three seconds. also, remember: WEST broadway, not regular broadway. if you forget and dont have a cell phone and are meeting someone there, you too may have to use a payphone to correct the address. this recently happened to one of my dear friends. A PAYPHONE!

2. 39th and 8th.
this is the starbucks grotto. as in it's enormous, not as in there are playboy bunnies in waterfalls (sorry). people. it has a LOFT. and a really cool study table with its own private balcony and hanging lamps that would be prime real estate in any college library. there are couches. and a balcony thing where you can spy on everyone ordering their drinks below you. their airconditionning is also really efficient. (read: brrrrr.) also: bankers on coffee breaks. galore.

3. the old standby! 114th and broadway.
the columbia starbucks. also rather unremarkable, save four things, which i will delineate with bullets (fancy!) so as not to confuse the list already begun:

• the seats in the window where i am sitting RIGHT NOW!


• they are filming a movie in front of me. not really cool, but the reason this post sounds like it was written by an ADHD sloth without a spell check (it was)


• you can steal columbia's wireless from said window seat and it's usually quite dependable.


• whenever someone opens the right-side door, paul mccartney's interpretation of blue steel comes frighteningly close to my face. if you snag this seat, you also can pretend that sir mccartney is hitting on you. (why doesnt anyone use the left side door? this is a trend, and weird.)

THANKS FOR JOINING US SEE YOU NEXT TIME ON... THE STARBUCKS ROUNDUP!

Sunday Smiles

What do you do with a Sunday night? It's part of the weekend, so you want to have some fun, but if you have too much fun, your case-of-the-Mondays might be fatal.
In the past year, I have discovered a Sunday night habit that is a near-perfect solution: ASSCAT. Those of you who are unfamiliar with the show likely think that a strange title. Allow me to explain:
ASSCAT is a show at the UCB theatre. It is improvisational comedy. It performs every Sunday at 7:30 and 9:30pm. Amazing component #1-- The best of the best perform (cast members from SNL & 30 Rock are regulars). Amazing component #2-- The 9:30 show is free. The catch: If you want the free tickets, you have to wait in line.
I like the show enough that I have sat through my fair share of freezing sunday nights to catch it. But in the summer, when there's nothing else to do and it's beautiful outside... why not?
This week TK accompanied me. We arrived at the theater at around 7:30, bought a 6-pack and proceeded to play games. Botticelli has become a favorite of my Graight associates. I mentioned the game in a previous post, noting how bad I was at it. But this week I surprised even myself with my lack of talent. Really Artesia? You can't get Julius Caesar? That's just plain sad. Despite my perpetual failure at said game, I had a great time waiting in line. It was fun, relaxing, and involved 3.5 beers-- a nice amount for a Sunday.
And then there was the show. Amy Poehler and Horatio Sans opened things up, so already I knew it was going to be a good show. The guess monologist was a guy I had never heard of, but was really funny and really cute...and gay? Not sure. TK and I tried to figure it out throughout the course of the show but didn't come to a definitive conclusion. The show, as usual, was very very funny-- I particularly enjoyed a recurring bit in which middle-schoolers watched the Miracle of Life video, repeatedly fainting.
As someone who used to do comedy, I am very picky about what I like. I've seen few stand-up comedians in my life who I think are worth the 2 drink minimum. I've seen improv so uncomfortably bad that I had to leave. Yet, ASSCAT rarely disappoints.
After the show, TK and I walked home and enjoyed the summer night. Full of laughs and some coors light, I was ready to embrace the week...or at least the 2 days of week I had until the 4th.



UCB Theater:
307 W 26th StNew York, NY10001
Phone: (212) 366-9176 . C, E at 23rd.

ASSCAT:
Sunday @ 7:30-- $8 (still cheaper than a movie and no waiting in line for this show)
Sunday @ 9:30-- Freeeeeee! But be willing to wait 2-3 hours

http://www.ucbtheatre.com/schedule/

you're invited to my tarty

i have a penchant for baked goods and puns, so when i was in dublin i made my travel companion march all over temple bar looking for a little cafe called the queen of tarts. my big fat THEENTIRETYOFEUROPEINONEBOOKHOWCONVENIENT travel guide told me to, and while i was in europe i was really into highlighting everything that my travel guide told me to do and actually did, so now if you borrow my book (i really dont know why you would, seeing as how it's the 2006 edition, but if you do, for some reason, borrow it) you can see that i went almost everywhere in paris that it told me to, and i also went to all the places that served word play with their pastries.

so queen of tarts was very cute and i think i had an apple scone and perhaps a cappuccino. and when i was in soho visiting "lindsay" at her job today, and she told me to go to a little place around the corner called once upon a tart, i said great! another whimsically punny bakery! in the city!

















it took me a minute to realize that once upon a tart is not actually a pun at all, and that while i would be willing to be queen of a court of tarts (pies, not sluts), i hope i never find myself actually upon a tart, because it would get squished and afterward i most likely would not be able to eat it.

that being said, however, my mozzarella sandwich with artichoke and roast tomatoes was a tasty little lunchie (even though I WANTED THE ROAST TURKEY WITH BRIE AND CRANBERRIES why were they out why were they out!) and there were lots of scones with flavors that sounded intriguing and i will most definitely go back to try and desert-y tarts that looked like i would like them if i were a dessert person. i am not.

however, "artesia," who shares my penchant for all things savory, so please pass the salt, proposed a difficult question to me the other day: would you rather everything be too sweet or too salty? this is very hard for me to stomach, but i think i have to go with too sweet, because i would rather eat a spoonful of sugar than a spoonful of salt. it does, after all, help the medicine go down.

what what what would YOU do?

Elitist Slumbers

There is a certain brand of ridiculous that can be found only on this island in two rivers. What’s more, there are stupendous, stupefying things that are acceptable in Manhattan and practically nowhere else. A club that looks like a bedroom where you sip cocktails while leaning against a headboard next to a total stranger? Oh, fine. A theater festival where ‘pretentious’ is the new ‘black’ (but, with ‘theater people,’ it’s never been new) and theater bloggers (here, here) come together to blog about theater blogging. I mean, that’s graight. Bring it to the apple, and it is almost guaranteed to attract some grade of hipster and last long enough to keep you warm in the limelight until they realize you’re hip and abandon you completely for some other ostensibly post-modern act of non-conformity.

Rant-isms aside, I base much of my attraction to New York on my affinity for the ridiculous (i.e Paula Deen, dinosaur comics). So, imagine my utter joy when I uttered the words (in all seriousness, folks),

“I would like a thirty-minute nap, please.”

That’s right, kids. I paid money to take a nap. But not just any nap. I’m talking the king of all naps. The nine-course-meal-at-Per Se-that-would-make-Alastair-hard kind of nap. A nap that put me in a reclining chair designed to make you feel weightless (zero gravity napping is pretty extreme) with 500-thread-count sheets and a cashmere blanket, allowed me to choose from soothing sounds as diverse as “whales calling” and “springtime meadow” (I opted for golden silence for my golden slumbers) woke me with a simulated sunrise, and left me in a mood so zen (near zen stupor) that even Columbus Circle at peak rush hour couldn’t break.

It’s true. I paid for a nap. Not out of necessity, but to display my love of New-ridiculous-York to the world with my half-hour, midday, $18.50 luxury purchase; out of a desire to feel ridiculous (which I certainly did when I stepped into Yelo at 57th and 8th, or, rather, stepped into what looked like the lovechild of 2001: A Space Odyssey and Barbie’s Dream House). When I left, I felt ridiculous, but in a super-bad-ass kind of way. Hell yes. I’m a New Yorker. And I can take a nap better than anyone else.

(PS, I know some of you are judging me. But, somewhere along the line, you’ve paid $12 for a Jack-and-Coke weaker than my grandma. Who’s ridiculous now?)

Yelo
315 W. 57th St.
Between 8th and 9th Avenues

Ode to Pork Belly

Momofuku Ssäm Bar
207 2nd Ave (at 13th St.)
212-254-3500

Subway: N, R, Q, W, 4, 5, 6, L to Union Square

www.momofuku.com

For the last year or so, Momofuku Ssäm Bar has stirred excitement amongst food critics and gourmands throughout the city, garnering rave reviews from Food and Wine Magazine and the New York Times among others. Search Momofuku on Gothamist or eater.com and you will find entries from the past two years raving about Chef David Chang’s brilliance in the kitchen (these started when he opened his first restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar), or alternatively pieces by Chef Chang himself begging people to stop talking about the restaurants and to just enjoy the food. Unfortunately, it seems that I, like every other foodie in this city, simply can’t shut up. That’s right—the food is every bit as good as people say, and that’s not something to keep quiet about.

Though Ssäm is notably chic, the minimalism you find there is of the dark-wood-and-warm-lighting variety rather than the industrial-glass-and-steel that has reigned supreme in past years. The smell of pork and—corny though it may seem—the sounds of laughter leant the space considerable warmth. I and two of my graight associates (who else?) sat at the bar and ordered sparingly, selecting only the steamed buns, the hamachi collar, and the signature Momofuku Ssäm.

The food started arriving shortly thereafter, beginning with the steamed buns. Aromatic strips of pork belly rested in pockets of thick, chewy dough. The crunch of fresh cucumbers and the sharp-sweet tang of hoisin cut through the gooey, decadent richness of the pork belly: an auspicious start.

Next, the grilled hamachi collar arrived. As light as the steamed buns were rich, the fish didn’t pack the same flavorful punch as the buns, but was pleasantly refreshing. Unfortunately the absence of utensils other than chopsticks made consuming this particularly bony cut of fish something of an ordeal

Finally, the Momofuku Ssäm arrived, the restaurant’s signature dish. This traditional Korean burrito consisted of an outer wrapper, something like a doughier tortilla, filled with rice, pork shoulder, pickled shitake mushrooms, edamame, bacon black beans, and kim chi puree. Both I and my companions reacted to our first bites of Ssäm with something that one might best describe as surprise and delight at such a serendipitous conglomeration of disparate flavors. The sweet, meaty, almost creamy flavors of the pork were mirrored in the sweet-and-spicy kim chi and the earthy beans, while the sharp vinegar acidity of the pickled shitakes, and the crisp, fresh edamame struck an astounding contrast.

Shockingly, the Ssäm was not only the most exciting, and satiating dish on the menu—it was also among the cheapest. At only $10, the Ssäm was a downright steal. I plan to return sometime soon for lunch when chef Chang replaces his full menu with one comprised exclusively of Ssäm. Surprises this genuine and delicious do not come along terribly often in the food world, and when they do you simply have to talk about them. Don’t worry, though, Mr. Chang—in the future I’ll try to save my rhapsodizing for between bites.

I'm here. You're queer. Let's booze to it.

Though Pride technically lasted the entirety of last week, yesterday’s parade serves as the ultimate gay event. It also happens to be one of my favorite days of the year-- it's no coincidence that it fell on 6 month marker of Christmas eve. As a hetero, perhaps the parade is not explicitly for me, but Pride establishes a tone of acceptance that is thoroughly refreshing and enjoyable to all who embrace it. Though Pride deals with serious issues such as gay rights and AIDS, the tone is overwhelmingly optimistic and celebratory. Looking up at fire escape upon fire escape of dancing shirtless men, one can’t help but feel joy.

Highlights of the parade included a very racy Altoids float, gay cheerleaders, and gay NYPD, who received the largest applause of all. Witnessing all the different groups, it seemed that, for every NYC activity you can participate in, there exists a group of gays who do it together (ex: take your pick of TWO gay color guard assemblies).

Though I had a wonderful time at the parade, I think our post-parade Pride party was the best part of the day. It featured watermelon vodka, the softest of gay porn, a water balloon fight, and a round of celebrity, theme of gay (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Celebrity_%28game%29). Our group consisted of a solid mix of homosexual, heterosexuals, and metrosexuals. Yet, the crowd was far from a forced alliance of orientations. It was simply another silly evening for a Graight group of friends. Friends for whom I have Pride every day.

On Leaving

(Written early Sunday morning, posted Monday at work...)

I have this theory about New Yorkers. Every month and a half or so, we feel this overwhelming urge to leave. No real reason, no specific needs, just an incredibly persuasive, possibly Canadian voice whispering, “I need to get out of the city… I need to get out of the city.”

So I did. I took off work at the lab on Friday to meet my folks upstate; after years of describing my boyhood neighborhood in Buffalo as being “in or near the ghetto,” they’re looking to buy a second property. Weird. (Although, I swear there are shootings on my street. Well, a few blocks up. Um… why am I bragging about this?) I’m writing this from a single bedroom cottage in Austerlitz, New York, nursing a single malt McClelland, and watching Arrested Development circa season two. Dad’s upset because the Yanks lost in the 13th, Mom’s upset because she lost at Scrabble, and I’m trying not to gloat because I won and so did the Twins. Life… is… good. (To be fair, Mom had a four game winning streak going.)

Here’s a quick recap of the weekend. The first night in town, we stopped in for dinner at a Chatham, NY standby, the Blue Plate. Did you know you can put bacon on top of meatloaf? You can and it is awesome. Also, Mom’s “appetizer” of calamari was gigantic. (Hah. Like a giant squid. Gee, this scotch is good.) Then, we caught a summerstock performance of The Pajama Game at the Mac-Haydn Playhouse. The performance was slightly macabre, but in an enjoyable way. The dude playing Sid was like Craig Kilborn’s sleazy, brunette brother, the chorus was full of girls last seen as Patty Simcox in their senior year production of Grease, and the most convincing performance I saw all night was this Chloe Sevigny lookalike in the back row who literally swooned, hand on heart, during “There Once Was a Man.” A one person standing ovation is a baffling spectacle.

And… I no longer sound straight. Oh, Sammy Sosa hit his 600th homerun and the media response was surprisingly laudatory, despite allegations of steroid use. Meanwhile, fans of baseball and ethics alike shouted a collective expletive on Friday as Barry Bonds hit number 749. That puts him at seven round-trippers away from breaking Hank Aaron’s all-time homerun record. And today, Alex Rodriguez hit his 28th of the year, putting him at 492 on his career. A-Rod is 32 and if he plays another ten seasons and hits an average of 30 homeruns a year—entirely possible given contemporary training regimens—could surpass 800 homeruns. So, when you add it all up, what do you get? Apparently, a guy can cheat, but as long as he doesn’t break any records, he can be a comeback kid. Also, according to ESPN’s Skip Bayless, A-Rod’s alleged marital infidelity is evidence enough to call his baseball fidelity into question as well. Luckily for him, he’s only at the “Doesn’t he look bigger than he was when he was a rookie?” stage of suspicion, while Bonds has been in “I MEAN, COME ON—LOOK AT HIM” territory for years now. As for Bonds, here’s the stat of the weekend… RBIs from homeruns: 1. RBIs from being walked with the bases loaded: 2.

Graight, I sound straight again. Oh, we stopped by Pittsfield to see Herman Mellville’s house, too. Mom and Dad kind of hijacked the guided tour… the old docent dude was going on about Melville and Hawthorne being more than friends… pretty standard stuff. Standing at the desk where Moby-Dick was written was pretty humbling, though. From the upper room, there’s this terrific view of Mt. Greylock, which, if it’s winter and you’re Melville, apparently looks just like the white whale. It’s been a few years since I’ve reread it and I’m feeling due, if only for that incredible chapter on cetology. (I mean, it’s all incredible, but seriously… right in the middle, there’s like, twenty pages about whale biology. It’s fucking fascinating.)

Well… my scotch is done, my parents are asleep, and Baseball Tonight is on. Jesus… Karl Ravech just called Richie Sexson “Big Sexsie” and said of his two-run performance against the Reds that he was, “bringing sexy back.” NYC, I’ll be back by noon. In time for Gay Day and the rubber game of A-Rod v. Bonds. Getting away was wonderful–but the best thing about leaving New York is realizing why you can’t live without it.

as the world turns

i had a very french beginning to my weekend. tonight, many of the graighties and i were at a bbq themed bar in murray hill, so that wasn't too french (maybe it's the french conception of america? true story: in it's a small world at disneyland paris, the america section has a lot of guys in cowboy hats and then a random football player standing in a mini endzone, and that's the representation for the good old us of a. yipee kay yie yay.) and tomorrow will be all pride festivities all day (while we're dealing in stereotypes, that's also perhaps appropriate since everyone knows that ALL french people are gay AND anti-american. oh, but i'm sorry, that's obviously redundant.) but thursday and friday were jeudi et vendredi.

last night we saw la vie en rose at the paris theatre on 58th & 5th. i started the night with soupe a l'oignon and the contents of three bread basket refills at rue 57. it really was just like when i lived in paris-- except then, it took me six months to gain those thirty pounds, instead of one meal.

at any weight, you should probably see la vie en rose. more precisely, you should probably see marion cotillard play edith piaf. i'm not a movie person, and definitely not a movie critic, because i'm pretty easily pleased and even more easily entertained, but her performance was unreal. i have been describing it as distractingly good. you know, one of those performances where you have to stop watching at moments and be in awe that you're watching an actor. the review in the daily mail said it much more eloquently than i could ever hope to do (obviously): "Unfortunately, Cotillard's performance seems to squeeze the life out of everyone else around her." so...allez! if just to see gerard depardieu seem inconsequential.

the movie is fractured as a stylistic choice, in an [unsuccessful] attempt to symbolize her kalidescope life. what is supposed to be surreal just ends up distracting. what that does do, however, is give me an excellent seguay into my own surreal, french experience: the hermes party to celebrate the opening of their wall street store.

i dont know why or how i ended up there, because who really knows. what i do know is this: guests were greeted with champagne as we walked under a wooden pegasus with a 20' wingspan suspended above the atrium among hanging white lights and against a wall of evergreens. behind the pines, the beautiful (i really mean AMAZING) space of the cunard building opened up, replete with painted dome, rotating dance floor, several top-shelf open bars, a raw bar, a charcuterie station, and about 20 imported french cheeses. if you were there and only counted 19, it's because i ate all the camembert before you could get to it. (speaking of which: NO!) but i havent gotten to the surreal part yet: an enchanted garden with topiaries made of profiteroles, strawberries, and macaroons? and men in tuxes on stilts, wearing horseheads and bowing to you from 20 feet in the air, white-gloved hands held like hooves?

no cinematographer needed: from the rotating dance floor through my champagne goggles, i was living my own kalidescope.

Film Center oh HEY!

$12.95 for brunch in Hell's Kitchen isn't too unreasonable, even for a cheap chap like myself. But when for another $10 you can get unlimited champagne, bellinis, mimosas, and screwdrivers to go with your delicious food, then you've stumbled on a gold mine. Especially if you happen to be the type that takes advantage of anything free or unlimited to the very last drop. Which I am.

Some advice, though: if you decide to switch drinks (which is totally allowed), you may suffer some extra wait time. The waitresses only come around every so often with each pitcher, so declining a refill on your champagne in favor of a bellini may be a delicious decision, but it's not a cost-effective one.

From the food side of things (they serve food too? Yes! They do!!), everything is good. Omelettes and egg dishes come with a decorative fruit boob (an orange circle with a perky little raspberry in the center). The Monte Cristo is sumptuous, but should not be mixed directly with champagne except by the strongest of constitutions.

The atmosphere at this eatery is delightful. I've been twice now - once on Easter Sunday, and again this past Sunday right before the pride kick-off rally in Bryant Park (an excellent place to sun one's drunk self after brunch, and only a few short blocks away). I would say the percentage of gay clientele, judging entirely from a haphazard gaydar scan of the seating area, hovers somewhere between 70 and 95. A favorite pasttime of mine involves guessing the equipment of a lovely raven-haired waitress with a faint Adam's apple.

Be warned: the place seats only 85 and is understandably popular. If you have a party over 4, call ahead. While they don't take reservations, you can at least see if they have seating available. And champagne.

Film Center Cafe
635 9th Avenue (btwn 44th and 45th)
www.filmcentercafe.com

'local' beans and local boys

I first visited 'local' at the behest of the owner of the clothing boutique of which I am currently employed after I had a sudden , and surprisingly brutal, panic attack upon my discovery, or lack thereof, of a Starbucks in the immediate area--where was I going to find my mediocre, unreasonably priced cup-of-joe in an area so foreign to me both geographically (living in Morningside Heights) and ideologically (I would not at all describe my wardrobe as trendy. I refuse to spend a billion dollars to look like an Olsen twin ... or a bag lady).

She directed me down the Sullivan between Prince and Houston to a plain storefront with a simple, black, lowercased 'local' on the cement-to-awning glass door. The unexposed brick and white, rectangular table tops didn't shock me, but I found myself at ease in the refuge of the coffee haven with its earthy smells and the quiet hum of the espresso machine. A voice from the back yelled, "Just a sec..." as he finished wrapping up some ham/fig and feta/green pepper sandwiches ($7 each) for two gentlemen typing away at their laptops. I discovered upon reading cleverly placed light pink and green chalkboards that they serve only fair-trade coffee and local (how apropos) baked goods from nearby establishments. The John-Mayer-(who I don't personally find particularly attractive, but whose rugged features still manage to appeal to my double-x chromosomes)-look-alike emerged with a certain boyish charm that was only slightly tainted by his SoHo-hipster attire (I do not care what my cousin Conor says, slippers are NOT an appropriate outdoor shoe choice.)

"I know what you want," he said with mock arrogance. Without a reply from me, we went to work on my beverage, and after a few whirs and whistles from his coffee machinery, presented me with an iced soy chai latte. "It'll blow your mind," he said.

It was totally what I wanted. And you know what? It BLEW MY MIND. (He also told me he only charged me $2 for my $4 drink. It was cute.)

Though they were out of skim milk (hey, it happens), my friend was also equally impressed with her coffee ($2), which she described as "EXCELLENT EXCELLENT." Also excellent was the outrageously tasty zucchini bread ($2.50).

I guess the coffee this side of corporate America comes with a side of flirt. And I'm okay with that.

local
144 Sullivan St.
A to Spring St/R to Prince

Pleasant? Casual? Lower East Side? Well which is it?

Falai Panetteria
79 Clinton St (Rivington St.)
212-777-8956

I know, I know—the Lower East Side is a pretty terrifying place, the air so thick with self-righteous irony and hipster ennui that every exhalation comes out as a bored sigh. But have no fear, for there remains another Lower East Side, a place shaded by trees rather than oversized aviators, a place where the alleys remain skinnier than the jeans.

I discovered recently on a walk through Lower Manhattan that the spread of hipsterfication has—at least as of now—essentially stopped at Ludlow St. The streets to the east of Ludlow remain happily characterful (and I don’t mean full of characters, which would be an apt description of Ludlow and Orchard streets.) Though Suffolk and Norfolk streets offer little in the way of entertainment, one block further you’ll find Clinton St.

Among the restaurants studding Clinton St. like culinary jewels in a tinpan alley crown, is the quaint Falai Panetteria, the bakery branch of the more formal Falai a block away. About the only thing I can say of Falai Panetteria is that it is unerringly pleasant, nothing more and nothing less, but that is no small praise. A couple of hours into my walk, I was hungry, tired, and needing a place to rest my feet. Falai Panetteria, with its bright white walls, blue chairs, and stacks of freshly baked bread, seemed like a perfect choice. I was immediately afraid upon entering that I had inadvertently found my way back to Orchard St. The staff and clientele were, I dare say, hipsters, but of a different breed. Present were the skinny jeans, American Apparel, and ironic pop music (was that “Living on a Prayer” I heard?), absent the smug condescension.

I walked up to the counter, ordered one of the day’s specials, a baby octopus salad with potatoes, mixed greens, and sun-dried tomatoes in pesto. A moment later the waitress placed a basket of thick, doughy, rosemary-olive bread in front of me (delicious), but there was no olive oil in sight (strange). Within ten minutes, my salad arrived. Like the bright, clean room and the service, the salad was quite nice, nothing special, but enjoyable. What Falai deemed pesto was more like olive oil with basil, but not bad for that, just mislabeled. The octopus was the strange part, mostly delicious and tender, occasionally rubbery and over-cooked. Alas.

Still, the salad was large and filling and only cost me $11. I didn’t get a chance to sample the desserts, but the ample offerings of tarts and pastries looked enticing indeed. I wouldn’t go out of my way to get back to Falai Panatteria, but if I ever find myself fearing for my life among the hollow gazes of the hipsters, I won’t hesitate to duck in for, if not an absolutely safe haven, then at least a pleasant one.

Musical, Free, Gay-- Not Theatre, Just My Week

I have a strong liking for free events. Especially when included in the price of $0 is a few drinks. It is for this reasons that this week (so far) has been a good one. The fun began when I arrived at my desk Monday morning to receive an email from a friend stating, "I have to do a write up for Duran Duran's album release party tonight. Who wants to be my +1?" Shortly after responding with a, "why the hell not?" I received a second email from a friend planning Genre Magazine's Pride week party, asking me to attend the event on Tuesday.

Ok, so I'm pretty far from being gay and even further from being a Duran Duran fanatic, but there's no harm in supporting other communities (especially the latter...the Duran Durans aren't doing so well). The weirdest thing about these invitations is that the events were in the same place-- a 9th floor loft space on West (and I mean West) 28th.

The first night was pretty silly. The fans and coworkers of Duran Duran in 2007 are an amusing bunch. I'm pretty sure the bouncer didn't let anyone in who had symmetrical hair (thanks, side bangs). The centerpiece of the room was giant cut-outs of the band members, which you could pose with-- pretty awkward considering the 3-D versions were walking around. I wish I could give a review of the new tracks, but they didn't perform--LAME. And there was a super long line for weak drinks--LAMER.

My second night at the venue "The Exchange" was far more enjoyable. Though speciality drinks included cotton candy margaritas, I wasn't messing around this time. I ordered a vodka martini, and lacking proper ingredients, received a giant glass of vodka. Perfect. Adding to the perfection was the high number of college friends I ran into. My alma mater always did have a large gay population. The icing on this cake were my friends/gay twins/jugglers/apparently Genre cover boys posing for pictures. Indeed, I received a few glares as took the attention of the cute brothers (http://www.genremagazine.com/2007/6-1/magazine/content/441.cfm).

Upon leaving the event, I received a goody bag with the likes of men's underwear and shirts. Even if I can't use the items, I thought maybe I could give it to a man as a parting gift after a good night. When is that going to happen next, by the way? No fretting. I've had a wonderful (free) week so far. As it turns out, Gay week has been just that. And the parade hasn't even happened yet.

Rejoice, Coeliacs! Rejoice! (and everyone else, too)

Risotteria
270 Bleecker St (at Morton St.)
212-924-6664

Subway: 1 to Chistopher St./Sheridan Square
A, B, C, D, E, F, V, Q to W. 4th

www.risotteria.com

In my family of amateur gourmands, risotto easily ranks among our favorite gustatory indulgences. My mother in particular practically swoons whenever she sees it on a menu. We all of us adore that most decadent and satisfying of Italian starches and its ability to be both luxurious and simple, elegant and rustic.

Of these adjectives, the only one that really applies to Risotteria, a West Village eatery specializing in (shock of shocks) risotto, is ‘simple.’ Risotteria occupies a modest glass storefront on the corner of Bleecker and Morton streets more redolent of a midtown diner than an Italian trattoria, an impression that continues in the cozy (read: tiny) ten-table dining room, where you find an open kitchen with bar stools and a wine list overhead hand-written in multi-colored chalk.

The picture starts to change, though, when the menus arrive accompanied by crispy, warming, olive-oil-and-herb doused bread sticks, which are reason enough to dine at Risotteria. The menu offers a broad array of salads, sandwiches, and the restaurant’s eponymous specialty, risotto. Many dishes are gluten-free or vegetarian for the more persnickety diner. Regrettably, that chalkboard drinks list fails to match the diversity of Risotteria’s food. Still, the few bottles of wine are reasonably priced, and some gluten-free beers are light and refreshing if not particularly exciting (the Anheuser-Bush Redbridge was surprisingly good).

I and three of my graight associates all ordered from the classic Arborio section of the menu, and not a single dish disappointed. My corn, porcini, and truffle-oil risotto was rich and creamy, loaded with the intensely earthy flavors and aromas of its constituent parts (perhaps a bit heavy on the truffle-oil, but there are worse excesses.) The other three dishes were lighter than mine, primarily featuring cheese, seafood, and vegetables, and all managed to strike the appropriate balance between luxurious richness of texture and refreshing lightness of flavor.

The meal itself transcends the quaint, dinette atmosphere, but mercifully Risotteria returns to its more rustic side when the check arrives—virtually nothing on the menu exceeds $15. And somewhere my mother weeps for joy.

there's no slice like home.

Place: Koronets
2848 Broadway
New York, NY 10025
(right off of the 1 train at 110th Street)

In a city like this, it's nice to have something that feels like home. Koronets pizza. Home to thousands since... well.... hungry kids have wanted a satiating bite.

Musings from the Workplace

Is it avant-garde that the font "AvantGarde" isn't at all avant-garde?