A Woman Traveling Alone: Steakhouses

I'm on the road again, visiting 10 American cities to discuss "Cool Meals for Hot Summer Nights" on the morning news. I'm making chicken salad and blended cocktails, like Groundhog's Day all over again.

As a solo traveler, I'm dragging props, food and camera-ready outfits all by my lonesome. The silver lining to my cloud of schlep is that I treat myself to one fantastic meal in each city. As a "just one" traveler, it's tempting to eat a Balance Bar and call it a night. But I pack a wrinkle-free outfit, heels, and make an effort to dine. After being humiliated by airport security guards too many times; I need something to dignify domestic travel.

I suppose I could order room service (actually, I couldn't). Or, I could find local eating partners on Craig's List or chowhound, or seek out friends of friends who'll converse with me, but in truth, I like being alone. It's a simple pleasure to enjoy the companionship of one's self in the company of a well-prepared meal.

Plus, I am a not-bad looking, mid-thirties woman without a shiny nugget of "she's-mine" on her finger. A single woman of a certain age dining alone is a curiosity.

But don't take my word for it -- give it a go. To maximize the experience, try a local steakhouse. Women never eat there alone. So maybe you'll be mistaken for a prostitute, but would that be so horrible? I recommend politely declining payment, and saving the story for your friends.

Can't find a steakhouse? Try a Ruth's Chris, there's at least one in every American city. Plus, this successful chain was created by and still run by a woman, Ruth Fertel. I go there because I like her moxie.

Here are a couple of steakhouses I like, in cities across our fine country:

TAMPA: Berns. I swear it's not a brothel, but damned if this place doesn't make you want to put on a bustier, don a hat with feathers, long gloves and take up smoking. I sat in the dining room alone while women looked to me with pity. That was kind of annoying, so I took a tour of the place instead. The wine collection! The fishtanks! Get off your duff and ask your server for a tour. And if you feel the pity police frowning in your direction, retreat to the private dessert rooms. There'll you'll have privacy and a live piano serenade.

CHICAGO: Gene and Georgettis: Thick with history and a strong belief in the power of chivalry. Don't take my word, read the quote above the bar. And while you're there have a seat, a scotch and a steak.

CLEVELAND: Morton's. A chain with class. That dining room has nothing to distract you, and is too dark for reading and writing, so sit in the bar. Eat nothing all day and eat that whole damn loaf of bread yourself. Mmmm.

JACKSONVILLE: Ruth's Chris. A new favorite. On the waterfront. If you ask nicely, they sure will give a single person that gorgeous four top by the windows where you can watch the dolphins. Get the red wine and a steak, the sides are up to you (there are no bad choices here). I asked for extra butter with my steak so I could continue basting the thing, and you can too.

LUGERS: Brooklyn. Go for lunch. In the winter. Let the light stream through those old windows. Get a burger (because it's unconscionable to get or pay for the T-bone solo). Instead, spring for a plate of bacon and the tomato and onion salad. Bourbon is a must. You'll know why as soon as that 8-ounce pour hits your table.

Daddy's Girl: Chocolate Dipped Biscotti

The thought of being a Daddy's girl has always creeped me out.

I've known girls, way past puberty, who are quite comfortable sitting on daddy's lap, and flirting for what they want, be it a pair of diamond earrings, a car, or maybe some Choos. I distinctly remember feeling nauseous watching Meadow Soprano on Tony's lap one season -- she was about the same age as the girls at the Bada-Bing.

Eeeeew.

But girls and their Daddy's have always been a thing, and can be sweet, with images of girls learning to dance by stepping those tiny ballet flats on Dad's dress shoes. But with today's extended childhoods, modern daughters are twenty-something women, dancing on daddy's laps flirting for allowance.

I have never been a Daddy's girl. As a kid, if dad had to entertain me for the day, we'd engage in gender-neutral activities, like party-boat fishing, and trips to Belmont racetrack. Some Long Island kids go to museums in Manhattan; I got to sit in the grandstand with the the degenerates and their cigarillos. My dad would give me $10 of don't-tell-mom hush money, which I'd usually split between a long shot trifecta, and a couple of square pieces of pizza. I was more of Daddy's little handicapper than a girl.

So I got a strange case of girlness last week, when I found myself baking cookies in the kitchen while my dad watched some Will Ferrell movie on the couch. The cookie making wasn't for fun, mind you, I was working. I informed my father that although it might look as if I was baking cookies (because --er-- I was baking cookies), I was actually earning a living.

I removed the first batch from the oven, and placed the fragile, camera-perfect lovelies on a cooling rack. Every so often, I'd catch him sniffing the air. Once he waved at me. After about 10 minutes, he slowly walked to the kitchen, with a familiar look. It was the same face I'd seen on my dog when I cook steak. I asked him how his movie was. "Funny," he replied, staring at the cookies, sniffing.

It was too much. "Dad, would you like a cookie?" I asked.

"No, no. I don't want to disturb you at work. I mean, if it's not a problem I would be happy to have one, but just to help you with your test."

"It's no problem, take this one." He took it, pointed to a second, at which point I nodded. He took a cookie in each hand, made a small bow, and was back to the couch before the commercial break was done.

A few minutes later, he came back with the same face, and asked for a cold glass of milk and a napkin.

At the next commercial, he appeared again, ever-so-politely, asking if there was another batch that he should sample, so that he could give me proper feedback. Of course, only if this would help me with my work.

I gave him another, and packed up the rest of the cookies. Someone had to save him from himself.

This coy sweetness is something I hadn't seen in my father before. After all, he's the father and parent, the provider and giver. I was finally in a position to give my father a little sugar (so to speak).

Sure, it was funny to see my dad semi-afraid to ask for a cookie, but it was much more thrilling to know that with my own two hands I was able to make something that would make him so happy. It wasn't a square piece of pizza exactly, or a hook baited with a bloodworm, but it was what I had and what he wanted. And that was enough.

Dad's Favorite Biscotti
Adapted from Jewish Cooking in America, by Joan Nathan
Makes 4 dozen biscotti

1 3/4 cups loosely packed unbleached flour
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
3 large eggs
½ teaspoon vanilla
6 ounces whole, unbleached almonds
6 ounces semi-sweet chocolate, cut into chunks (optional)
1 teaspoon vegetable shortening

1. Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Using a paddle in the bowl of an electric mixer, mix the dry ingredients.

2. Lightly beat the eggs and the vanilla and add to the dry ingredients. Add the nuts. Remove the dough to a well-floured surface and divide into 2 pieces. Roll each piece into a sausage about 2 inches wide. Lay the strips on a buttered and floured baking pan. Leave several inches between each.

3. Bake for 50 minutes and let cool for 5 minutes. Remove to a cutting surface and using a serrated knife, cut into 1/2 inch pieces (on a bias). Lay the bars on their sides on the baking sheets and return to the oven for 35 to 50 minutes until they are dried.

4. In a small microwave-safe bowl, melt chocolate in the microwave for 45 seconds. Add shortening and stir. Dip half of each biscotti into melted chocolate, allow the excess chocolate drip from the biscotti, and place on a sheet of parchment paper. Let chocolate harden, and store in an airtight container.