It's Not You, It's Your Mother: Baby Artichokes
As far as I can tell, breakfast and non-alchoholic brunches are the domain of people who were once fun, but are currently compromised somehow. My friend Knirg fits squarely in this category -- an ex who used to eat half a pig for breakfast is now all about Green Tea and Chicken Apple Sausage. Glad I knew him when.
We rolled into Siggy's, the new organic place in town on a Tuesday morning around 11:15 and looked at the menu. It was a cold rainy spring day, and I figured I'd enjoy a few eggs. But no. The menu gave options for granola, cereal, and various cold, wet, crunchy concoctions. Where was the warmth, the organic love? For that, apparently we needed to show up on Wednesday through Saturday, because although the walk-ins were stocked, they don't do warm breakfasts on Tuesday.
I looked toward the Chef, and wondered exactly how much flirting would be required to get a warm egg in this place. He was on his cell phone staring me down, annoyed that he'd have to get to work. What's with the pathos in these health places? Perhaps if these folks ate more animal protein they'd resurrect the killer instincts they never had.
So I was already annoyed when two mommies rolled in with two babies, about 36 and 3, respectively. I knew we were in trouble when one Mommy, pushing the SUV of baby carriers into the already too small restaurant said, "If you scream one more time, we're going to have to leave the restaurant, Serena Pacific." To which the response was not one, but two screams, to which the response was nothing.
So the food would be mediocre and the sound would be unbearable. Knirg, in his day, had a razor tongue and the patience of a caffeinated hummingbird. But today, sitting in mommy play group, he said nothing but, "Do you think I might like the turkey burger?"
Did he not hear the commotion? Did he have kids I didn't know about and was suddenly immune to this noise?
Then the tables turned (literally), and the children started behaving while these mommies started inflecting their voices up and down the vicadin perky scale in a way that could make the most hardened Mafioso turn rat. "Mommy is going to get some eggies for brekky." What, did she get a special menu? "Would you like an eggy, Sereny, like mommy? Or would you like yogurty like Daddy?" Or would you like the nice lady in the restaurant to smack your mommy with a skillet so you can avoid 20 years of therapy?
I turned to the oblivious Knirg and searched for something, anything, that I had to eat that couldn't be found in this place.
My tantrum subsided when Knirg strolled me into my local greasy spoon, and we filled the table with Gyro, Pita, Tzatziki and green tea (for me); fatty pork sausage links, eggs over easy, a grande freshly squeezed orange juice and more green tea (for him). Ain't he sweet, I knew my old pork lover was in there somewhere.
We smiled, we ate, and we didn't make any orphans that day. In fact, I even got to enjoy an adorable 4-year old sitting up at the counter munching on a grilled cheese. Flipping her legs, sipping her chocolate milk, and behaving as Eloise would have, had Eloise taken her morning vittles at a greasy spoon. Children I adore; undisciplined parents I do not.
Today's recipe has very little to do with that meal, but everything with the concpet. Artichokes are wonderful...tasty, filled with fiber, nutritious, interesting to look at, and fun to eat. The baby artichokes are even that much more wonderful than the adult version, and simpler to prepare, as they do not contain the fuzzy choke that makes you want to gag.
Braised Baby Artichokes with Minted Breadcrumbs and Olive Oil
Inspired by Sette Restaurant, Park Slope Brooklyn
Created by Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon
Recipe coming soon (I'm traveling again) but if you just can't wait, try this.
We rolled into Siggy's, the new organic place in town on a Tuesday morning around 11:15 and looked at the menu. It was a cold rainy spring day, and I figured I'd enjoy a few eggs. But no. The menu gave options for granola, cereal, and various cold, wet, crunchy concoctions. Where was the warmth, the organic love? For that, apparently we needed to show up on Wednesday through Saturday, because although the walk-ins were stocked, they don't do warm breakfasts on Tuesday.
I looked toward the Chef, and wondered exactly how much flirting would be required to get a warm egg in this place. He was on his cell phone staring me down, annoyed that he'd have to get to work. What's with the pathos in these health places? Perhaps if these folks ate more animal protein they'd resurrect the killer instincts they never had.
So I was already annoyed when two mommies rolled in with two babies, about 36 and 3, respectively. I knew we were in trouble when one Mommy, pushing the SUV of baby carriers into the already too small restaurant said, "If you scream one more time, we're going to have to leave the restaurant, Serena Pacific." To which the response was not one, but two screams, to which the response was nothing.
So the food would be mediocre and the sound would be unbearable. Knirg, in his day, had a razor tongue and the patience of a caffeinated hummingbird. But today, sitting in mommy play group, he said nothing but, "Do you think I might like the turkey burger?"
Did he not hear the commotion? Did he have kids I didn't know about and was suddenly immune to this noise?
Then the tables turned (literally), and the children started behaving while these mommies started inflecting their voices up and down the vicadin perky scale in a way that could make the most hardened Mafioso turn rat. "Mommy is going to get some eggies for brekky." What, did she get a special menu? "Would you like an eggy, Sereny, like mommy? Or would you like yogurty like Daddy?" Or would you like the nice lady in the restaurant to smack your mommy with a skillet so you can avoid 20 years of therapy?
I turned to the oblivious Knirg and searched for something, anything, that I had to eat that couldn't be found in this place.
My tantrum subsided when Knirg strolled me into my local greasy spoon, and we filled the table with Gyro, Pita, Tzatziki and green tea (for me); fatty pork sausage links, eggs over easy, a grande freshly squeezed orange juice and more green tea (for him). Ain't he sweet, I knew my old pork lover was in there somewhere.
We smiled, we ate, and we didn't make any orphans that day. In fact, I even got to enjoy an adorable 4-year old sitting up at the counter munching on a grilled cheese. Flipping her legs, sipping her chocolate milk, and behaving as Eloise would have, had Eloise taken her morning vittles at a greasy spoon. Children I adore; undisciplined parents I do not.
Today's recipe has very little to do with that meal, but everything with the concpet. Artichokes are wonderful...tasty, filled with fiber, nutritious, interesting to look at, and fun to eat. The baby artichokes are even that much more wonderful than the adult version, and simpler to prepare, as they do not contain the fuzzy choke that makes you want to gag.
Braised Baby Artichokes with Minted Breadcrumbs and Olive Oil
Inspired by Sette Restaurant, Park Slope Brooklyn
Created by Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon
Recipe coming soon (I'm traveling again) but if you just can't wait, try this.
posted by Allison Fishman Task at 4:06 PM
1 Comments:
Allison, as always, I loved the blog. I laughed out loud at the reference to avoiding 20 years of therapy. I'm looking forward to the recipe tomorrow. Is it hard to find baby artichokes (in rural America)? Keep the aricles coming, I love your writing.
Mom
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