One Hot Summer requires one hot (but quick) noodle!

OHD does not like the heat. OHD hates the hot 'n sour soup that is NYC in the summer. But OHD still gets hungry and can really get her heart set on what she wants to eat that day.

Which explains the recent exploration into insta-noodles. No, not the noodles in a cup with enough salt to turn anyone into human jerky in minutes. I'm talking about rice vermicelli (or noodles for the honest truth) or mung green (cellophane-clear) noodles. All they take is a quick bath in water boiled in a kettle and they are ready to absorb anything you throw onto in.

As on most Saturday and Sunday mornings, I want eggs. And my safety egg dish is always juicy pillows of scrambled eggs in the most mouthwatering yet simple tomato garlic broth. 3 ingredients (4 if you count the scallions for some added fragrance). A simple scramble of the eggs with the scallions until they are set begins it al before chopped garlic is thrown in. Diced tomatoes should follow after the garlic has had a chance to liven things up (i've found this is the best way to appreciate tomatoes year round--even in the bleary dead of winter with its pasty, tennisball-like doppelgänger). Add equal parts of water and stand back! The thickening magic is gradual but soon what emerges is a vermillion pot of flavor gold.

SIDE NOTE: In fact, this is almost 2 hot dishes in one since the egg tomato broth goes over any carb well.

The scrambled eggs go in to absorb some of this priceless liquid and become an even meaty contrast to the broth than its honorable pad thai cousins. Once the sauce thickens up some more, pour the whole mixture atop of the shaking mound of drained noodles. Once the noodles join in on this menage a trois of simplicity, its time to slurp the real instanoodles. A hot (but not sweaty) dish to save any during a hot summer day!

Modesty, thou art not my middle name.

I've always been known to have a healthy self-esteem when it comes to my food. Best place to eat in Naples? OHD knows. Most gaucho of gaucho steakhouses in Latin America? OHD ate there last year. Freshest sushi in North Dakota? PSYCHE. (everyone knows that's a red herring).

And when it comes to my own cooking? Forget about it. I happily regale friends and strangers with my latest invention, my most challenging conquest involving plant or beast.



So when I recently had lunch at a place humbly referred to as my midtown salvation, I found myself instantly mute when asked what my best dish is. Mind you, I can wax on and on about my food to even professional chefs but this one really took the cake. But the difference this time was that I was eating with a chef who has worked at some of the world's most fantastic and disciplined places. Gordon Ramsay at Savoy, Laurent Tourondel at his many BLT joints. There we were, gaily rubbing greasy burger elbows, when this question stops me in midbite (well, maybe just slowed down my chewing). And to top it off, this chef was in charge of the fish station--the violinist in a sea of macho steak-wielding brute percussionists.

In response, I blurted out the one dish I can always curl up to: Black Bean Sauce noodles. Made from 3 different types of bean paste, the black bean sauce is robust and luscious. I've increasingly lessened the proportion of pork to mushroom/tofu and noone is the wiser. Meaty shiitake mushrooms and little nuggets of tofu strings greedily absorb the deep flavors of the bean paste. Throw in lightly blanched greens (crunchy bok choy provides a wonderful bite) and it is my idea of one hot dish. Fresh noodles make for sheer al dente perfection but dried noodles or pasta works in a pinch. Got no noodles? Just ladle the sauce over leafy greens. An ultimate onehotdish on a cold or hot day.

Take that you fancypants poissonier.

When things go awry, we'll always have fried chicken...

It's a bad day when even the thought of a pint of vanilla swiss almond haagen dazs in bed with a full TIVO awaiting your conductorship can't reverse the onslaught of blaaaah's. Overcast skies, lost opportunities, one heel dangling like a jiggly tooth threatening to strike.

Then my shoe heel breaks. All hell breaks loose.

As I angrily half step/half stomp through midtown, i realize suddenly that the one beacon of hope that could possibly salvage the day may be the fact that the unnecessary but critical errand i had to run brought me dangerously close to an old neighborhood lunch favorite. Cafe Zaiya on east 41st St.

I teased myself with the thought of a fragrant, freshly-filled cream puff from Beard Papa, each peony-shaped pastry lightly encasing a pudding of the most vanilla vanilla. Then i caught sight of something grander.

Through the cellophane wrapper, I can feel that the spicy chicken sandwich is still warm from the fryer. The bun is soft and good smooshy in contrast with the crunchy chicken and crisp shredded cabbage garnish, the latter invited to the party to add its own refreshing say on what is likely the most perfect fried chicken sandwich. The sauce is spicy enough to give your tongue a tickle. Before i know it, i have just one slippery bite left to dabble into a tiny puddle of sauce clinging to the wrapper.

I lick my fingers, give the wrapper a last look for any hidden bits i may have missed and then think that maybe this day isn't so bad after all.

My so-not-sorry-but-kinda-sorry Penitence Fish

I know. I play dirty.

After yesterday's hijinks, I'm still awaiting words chastising my decadent lifestyle of steaks, no-drugs and some rock-n-roll t-shirts. Which is why I saved this as my penitence. This is the type of dish my mother patiently instructs me to make for myself instead of my typical east coast, fat-ladened, double-chin generating fare. Luckily, like having twins or red-hair, my mother's condition clearly soared past my genetic temperance and, instead, I inherited my grandmother's stubborn refusal to kowtow to anything short of super tasty. As with any of my mother's recipes, once I add back the verboten elements, they instantly strike a closer semblance to my grandmother's cooking rather than my mother's "new californian".

This is the simplest yet seemingly most exotic. Apparently, this has never been seen before in Europe, much less in the U.S. and even in the home kitchen of New York. I call it my Steamed Firecrackery Chilean Sea Bass.

Firm filets of whatever meaty fish is fresh that day should be quickly washed off in cold water, then salt and peppered before steaming. While they steam (this will never be a singular dish for one filet is never enough), load up on the Charlie's Angels, the Trinity of Asian cooking: Garlic, Ginger and Scallions. Each is fresh, firm and snaps to attention at the slightest instigation. Thin slices of each should line up on your board, the scallions cut on an angle. In a tiny skillet slowly heat up some peanut or grapeseed oil. When the fish are firm to the touch, lay a filet on the plate, immediately crown with the Trinity, bedazzle with some chili flakes or fresh chilies and vigorously squeeze fresh lime juice over the filets like an angry ex wishing for vengeance.

For a Gypsy Rose Lee finale, bring the plate over to whomever you judge truly worthy. Set it before them and then carefully, yet seemingly nonchalantly, drizzle the hot oil over the top of the filets. Listen to the sibilant hisses and pops, gaze in fascination as the herbs twist and unfurl elegantly like modern dancers, laugh as the powerful yet invisible pouf of vibrant herby perfume punches you straight in the schnoz. Leaving you in a bewildered stupor before you realize you've already greedily snatched up the plate, only to reduce the travel time between your mouth and this one hot dish.

Conquering Bad Boys in the Steak Indoors

With Summer fast approaching and the promise of mini-shorts baring all sorts of visual reminders of dairy products on the shanks of those jostling around me, it is with slight guilt that I foist my not-so-secret carnivore confession upon you at this time. However, as most of my winter was spent celebrating the wonder that is the steak indoors (much to the sooty-faced chagrin of The Boys), I figured it was time I came clean about how it was that I conquered the bad boy in the Steak Indoors.

Wherever you fall on the Grass v. Corn debate, the steak should be firm and fresh. Not stinky and definitely not mushy. Thin ribbons of what I call glorious-gravy-to-be white fat should lace delicately throughout the steak. Do not like the raw steak yet. I went with a Beef T-Bone.

After washing and patting it fanatically dry (this is key!), promiscuously season the steak with lots of gravelly salt but pepper to your heart's desire. Take your time in massaging your drooly faced wishes into the steak at this point because the cast iron skillet should have plenty of time to gain such furious heat that the smoke alone will excise even the most indoor-bound roommates. Like fog rolling around the Bay Bridge, once a constant fury of smoke has built up around your skillet, slap the steak in and then grasp that nearby glass of red wine with white-knuckled desperation(have really been enjoying Terranoble as described here).

Resist, even ignore, the steak like a bad boy giving you the lazy eye at closing time. Be the pacifist, touching it only to flip once. Feign a haughty disdain for it as it is dangerous at this point to lick the caramelly crust shimmering seductively face-up in the skillet. When the time is up, the ultimate self-less (for now) act is to let it wait 5 minutes to become the juicy paradise of your deepest, hottest fantasies before you start slicing.

With or without a separate plate, devour the steak drenched in the meaty seduction sauce of all things naughty and carnal. For this is one bad boy that makes an even better hot dish.

the bubbles get to my head....

so the obsession of today is: soda water vs. sparkling mineral water.

Is it bad for me or good for my stomach? is it going to eat away at my teeth? is it better than soda? Most importantly: is sparkling mineral water merely soda water's more sophisticatedly branded doppelgänger? Or is soda water the Sienna Miller to sparkling's kate moss? Both fizzy but one marginally more tolerable (although highly overexposed) to have with vodka.



Apparently, I'm not the only one that is obsessed with this. Google, Wikipedia, Chowhound all offer fascinating reading on this. Who knew?

that would make me...?

am having a discussion with a friend to plan a weekend brunch. in the Upper West Side. the land far away from my people.

there will be no raccoon-eyed hipsters/art director admiring his skinny denim "stockings", jeans so tight they would make Garth Brooks blush. no tumbly-haired fashion stylist wondering whether her skirt would look better with the slouchy, scuffed booties or the capezio jazz shoes. instead, it will be properly coiffed, de-linted & dry-cleaned adults responsibly attending to their meals and blackberries with a serious commitment to proper . And their hipster-LITE children dressed in faux rags a la Urban Outfitters.

(note: must pick up a brush before saturday.)

I've been eyeing Ouest on Broadway & 83rd. talk of yummy bacon cubelets, moist duck breast and sweet buttery sweet rolls abound on the brunch menu. But the discussion with my calorie-obsessed friend (COF) is going more along the lines of:
Me: Have you been to Ouest for brunch?
COF: nope. Cafe Luxembourg is also a good brunch.
(I maniacally google 'cafe luxembourg' but notice the glaring absence of duck immediately.)

Me: Fish is far healthier than the perennially sexier duck confit and crispy lardons, sure. But if healthy is the only thing that separates us from the animals, than that would make me a ....feral, carnivorous snow leopard?!
COF: Oh for goshsakes. Other things for sure do.

Sure.

UPDATE: Cafe Luxembourg brunch was lovely and, with much restraint, my eggs benedict came healthier than i'd normally asserted on a weekend, my will enfeebled by the previous night's trivolities.
Furthermore, men's denim leggings sadly continue to plague those who enfeebled by their desire to emulate all things corny about being 'young' and mizundastood. Barf.