Restaurant Mistakes: Take it Or Leave It?

The Boyfriend formerly known as Kid-alicious and I were enjoying a celebratory meal at Kefi this week. The Upper West Side's gift to Greek is the scene of our first date, and many subsequent meals with family and friends. It's our place; important enough that he's pre-claimed it in exchange for letting me keep my dog, should a break-up occur.

TB had made it through his first weekend working for my favorite former boss, and she has been making pleasant small talk with him, so we were celebrating. We ordered some our favorite mezze: the crispy codfish with oven roasted tomatoes; the sweetbreads with lemon, spinach and caperberries; the taramasolata and warm pita, among others. Oh, yes.

In our ordering frenzy, we lost track of exactly what we asked for. So when a plate of meatballs landed on the table, instead of thinking, not ours, he picked up his fork and went to town. The Waitron arrived minutes later, waving her hands and saying, "Omigod! That wasn't yours! Omigod!" She ripped the plate from the table, and scurried away, like Chicken Little.

He made a little frown.

TB: "Well, at least I got to try one."
Me: "Were they good?"
TB: "Really good."

I let it go, for a second.

Me: "What do you think she did with them?"
TB: "You know what she did with them; she threw them in the garbage. She can't serve them."
Me: "Well she didn't have to throw them out."

I believe that mistakes like this are an opportunity to do something unexpectedly nice. If it's going in the trash anyway; why not just let us have them and avoid the awkwardness of taking food away?

When she returned to the table, I couldn't help myself.

Me: "Can I ask you something?"
WHAM! Something fast slammed into my shin.

Waitron: "Sure."
Me: "What happened to those meatballs that were on our table?"
Waitron: "Well, first the manager really yelled at me, and then, you know..."

I looked at her, full of inquiry. Then the table popped up; TB was now digging the heel of his shoe into my foot.

Waitron: "Then, um, I threw them in the trash."
Me: "Really? The trash?"
Waitron: "Yah. We can't serve them, and you didn't order them, so you know..."

Yeah, I know. I know that I'm here frequently enough that I get a hello-again smile when I walk through the door. I also know that you can't serve a half-eaten dish once you've already served it. But you can leave it where it is, tell the guests you made a mistake, and tell them it's on you.

This seems like a better option than feeding the mistake to a garbage bag.


Kefi
222 West 79th Street (Broadway)
Upper West Side
Manhattan, NY
(212) 873-0200.

NY Times Review

NY Magazine Review

Seasonal Shmegegee: Buttercup Soup

As I was walking home from the gym, swearing to god I’d be a better Jew if he could give me the strength to say no to carbs this holiday season, I passed by my local farmer’s market.

It occurred to me that my empty-fridge approach to dieting was not a good one. Weight Watchers grants dieters unlimited amounts of certain foods; sexy stuff like water, broccoli, celery and carrots; fibrous fat free alternatives to my usual chocolate, pasta, and cheese. It's best to fill up on the forgiving when trying to lose weight.

I’m not sure what attracts the hipsters to my market, but that’s who lurks amongst the cruciferous vegetables and tubers. From what I can tell, these folks purchase vegetables as decor for their home, an alternate to that retro ashtray.



Lest ye think I fib, witness the following conversation I heard while waiting on line:

Customer 1: “Those beets you're holding are like, amazing looking. They like still have their stems and leaves. They’re so cute and like, real and beet-y, and like from the farm. I love them.”

Customer 2: “Yah, I know, I had to have them. I totally love them.”

Pause. Pause. Pause.

Customer 2: “Want to hear something really crazy?”

Customer 1 gives a nonverbal invitation to crazy-share.

Customer 2 “I’ve never cooked beets.”

Customer 1: “Weird. You're a vegetarian, right? So weird.”

Customer 2: “Actually, I'm a flexitarian, so I'm an omnivore, but whatevs. Anyway beets, I mean, how hard can it be, right? Like, I’m basically going to boil them, right?”

Customer 1: “Or roast them, right? Like in an oven?”

Customer 2: “Yah, totally. Um, but I should like blanch them before I roast them, right?”

[Blanching a beet before roasting is like rinsing a box of dried pasta before you boil it.]

Customer 1: “Definitely. Definitely blanch them and then roast them. I mean, like, you have to. Or they'd be gross.”

Customer 2: “Yah. Totally gross. They’re like so pretty. Yah.”

Listen up ladies, these are beets. Not a scarf, not earrings, not a pair of shoes. If you don’t know how to cook them, that’s okay, but admit it and then go home and figure it out. Don’t toss around terms that don’t make sense. You sound like a couple of shmegeggees, and that's not hip.


Personally, I’m totally stumped by those cute little buttercup squashes. They’re everywhere, mocking me like little orange and green striped turbans. So I took one home, and did a little web research. Three recipes for buttercups on epicurious. Only seven on foodnetwork. There are more recipes for toast.

I was like a new mother without Spock; I’d have to rely on my instincts.

So I peeled the thing (major pain), sliced it and roasted it with an onion and a couple of sprigs of thyme. When it was golden and soft, I pureed it with some buttermilk and maple syrup (it’s what I had), and was in keeping with my hopes of thinness.

It was really good. Subtle, interesting; a muted peach-orange color, creamy, and a wee bit tart. Gentle. It wasn’t rocket science, but it was different and good and I’d tried something new.

Moral of the story: this fall (maybe for the holidays) pick up something you’ve never cooked before. For the sake of your waistline (and community involvement), make it a vegetable from the farmers market. Research, then give it a go. If it fails, order out. If it succeeds, you just made a new friend.

What’s to stop you? All you have to lose is that which you don't know.

Buttercup Soup
The fun in this soup is the double-butter; buttermilk, buttercup, yet virtually fat free. Even better, because of those onions it's super creamy.

Makes 4 to 6 servings.

1 small buttercup squash, peeled and cut into 1-inch wedges
1 vidalia onion, cut into 1-inch wedges
5 sprigs thyme
1 tablespoon olive oil
Salt
3/4 cup buttermilk
1 1/4 cups skim milk
1 tablespoon maple syrup
Minced chives, for garnish

1. Preheat oven to 425. Place squash, onion and thyme sprigs on a roasting pan, drizzle with oil and sprinkle with salt; toss. Place in oven until golden and soft, about 25 to 35 minutes.

2. Discard thyme sprigs, and place roasted vegetables in a blender. Add buttermilk, skim milk and maple syrup; puree. Add more liquid if needed, choose buttermilk for more tartness and skim for less.
3. Pass soup through a strainer; remove and discard solids. Adjust seasonings as desired. Serve soup warm or chilled, garnished with chives.

Don't Rely On Pie: Apple Crumble

Pie, pie, pie. Friggin’ pie.

Pie is my undoing in the fall. It taunts me from the covers of Saveur, mocks me on Martha, and sits innocently, in a $4.99 kind of way, at every two-bit grocery store in this fine democratic nation.

Friggin’pie. Every since my stint working for Martha, when she let a room full of people know that “You should never, ever make a pie crust again,” – this from the woman who has the ability to motivate women to spackle their ceilings. I sigh: pie.

But every year, I attempt the thing, and every year I zero in on what I need to do differently. I need to work the dough more, or work it less. Do more frissage (schmearing in of the butter to the flour), use my hands, use my food processor, buy a marble slab to chill, for forty days and forty nights, so that I achieve the perfect temperature and my moody-as-a-teenager dough will work with me.

And I will continue to try, because I have a dream and that dream is that I am the type of woman who can make a kick ass pie. And, because when I fail at pie, I get to enjoy my favorite morning carb: breakfast pie. (The pie is a disaster. I cannot subject others to it! But yet, I cannot waste…)

Until I get it right, when I need an I-have-5-pounds-of-fresh-picked-apples-in-my-fridge dessert, I can count on crumble. Like pie, I get that hot mushy-cinnamon-appleness, and instead of a layer of crust, there’s a pecan and brown sugar crunch topping. Plus, it gives me a reason to buy a pint of perfection: Haagen Daazs Vanilla Bean Ice Cream.

Friggin’ pie.

Apple Crumble
Makes 6 to 8 servings

For the topping:
1/4 cup flour
1/4 cup rolled oats
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small bits and chilled
1/2 cup pecans

For the fruit filling:
5 apples, combination of Rome and Golden delicious for firmness, macintosh for sauciness, peeled cored and thinly sliced
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 tablespoon flour
Juice from 1/2 lemon
Pinch of salt

1. Preheat oven to 375F. For the topping: In a food processor, combine flour, oats, brown sugar, granulated sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Pulse to combine.

2. Add the butter and pulse 6 to 8 times until mixture has pea-sized pieces of butter mixed in with the flour and oats. Add the pecans and pulse a few more times to coarsely chop the pecans and to mix them through the topping. Transfer the topping to a bowl and refrigerate for at least 15 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, in a large bowl, combine the apples, sugar, flour, cinnamon, lemon juice, and salt. Toss ingredients together. Transfer the filling into an 8 x 8-inch baking dish.

4. After the topping has chilled, loosely scatter it over the top of the fruit in the baking dish. Bake for until fruit is bubbly and top is golden, 35 to 45 minutes. Cool for 15 minutes before serving.

Marathon Carbonara

Yesterday was my favorite Sunday of the year, the New York City Marathon. The event turns the five boroughs inside-out (forget about driving), with over 2 million spectators cheering on 40,000 runners.

The marathon doesn’t suffer from the obvious consumerism of the Thanksgiving parade; this event feels like the city itself; difficult, sweaty, and leaves you panting, but encourages you just as you’re about to give up, and helps you over the finish line. It’s a tangible manifestation of love and support, self-imposed challenges and successfully rising to that challenge.

I ran it in 2005 and loved every minute of it (though the training, not so much). I make it a point to scream my head off in support of the runners every year. For those who couldn’t make it, or who want to relive it, join me for:

The Six Faces of the NYC Marathon
Face 1: The anticipation of the runners. The faithful are out before the race, coffee and pom poms in hand. They are largely friends and loved ones of the runners, with their homemade posters of encouragement.

This group gets me going – it means it’s officially marathon Sunday, and I’m getting chills for the excitement of the day. I’m emotionally anticipatory and the supporters bring a few tears, because they’re so sincere in their celebration and love of their friends.

Face 2: Achilles runners. Achilles runners are other-abled; this running club supports blind runners, wheelchair runners, those with MS. These are the most motivating runners.

I saw a few men in their arm-powered cycles with a flag that said “new veteran”, next to a US flag. These men who looked like they hadn’t been old enough to serve just five years ago had returned home without the appendage they left with. I found myself with more tears; it’s hard not to feel humbled in the face of such unapologetic earnest determination.

Face 3: The top runners, moving faster than I can sprint for 26.2 miles. No tears, just awe.

Face 4: The masses. When I ran the marathon, a friend told to put my name on my shirt. “You have no idea how much you need to hear that,” he counseled.

He was right. This marathon thing is hard, especially if you’re running for 4 hours, like me. I go out there and scream every last name I can read at the top of my lungs; if they didn’t need it, they wouldn’t have taped their names to their shirt.

The runners always seem surprised to hear their name; returning my yelp with a thumbs up, mouthing the words ‘thank you’, or giving me a warm smile.

The tears come, sure enough, from the other words I read on these shirts: “for Dad”, “for Aunt Kate”, “for my son”. Sometimes there is a picture (of an 8-year-old), sometimes there is a birth and death date. Either way, you know that when these folks are taking the most difficult strides, they are pulling their strength from someone who isn’t there that day.

Face 5: The crowd thins out. Now the runners are 70 year old women in decorated bras, 80 year old men with odd, labored gates or small groups of Japanese women, running slowly and supportively in a group with enormous smiles. The sweep truck comes (akin to the Santa float in the Macy’s parade), but the stragglers keep coming. These folks will be run/walking 8-hour marathons and need the support.

At this point, I strolled over to the dance party in Ft. Greene Brooklyn, with a DJ who welcomed every marathon straggler like he was a dearly loved sibling who’d just been released from a “you-got-the-wrong-guy” prison stint 10 years. Like those welcome home parties you’d see on old episodes of the Sopranos.

With the proper words of recognition and shouts of the crowd, suddenly these gasping folks were hopping and dancing with the kind of smiles you usually see on a blissed-out toddler.

Face 6: It’s over, baby. See you next year. The winners have already crossed the finish line and the only thing left to do is take that face in the mirror to the gym for a no-holds-barred work out.

Spaghetti Carbonara
Serves 4 to 6

Carbonara has all the things that we want, but deny ourselves, like bacon, whole eggs and cheese. To heck with it; life’s too short for all that denial.

Why are we always so stressed out about bacon consumption, anyway? I decided to look into this, and flipped over my pack-of-pork to see how many calories are in a strip of bacon. I was thinking 80 calories, maybe 110? '

Turns out, a piece of cooked bacon has 30 calories. It surprised me too. I can burn that off on a 15-minute dog walk. Do some sit ups and eat your bacon; your eyes, nose and ears will thank you.

3/4 pound spaghetti or bucatini
¾ pound sliced bacon, chopped
4 large eggs
1 ½ cups pecorino romano, grated
kosher salt and coarse black pepper
¾ cup roughly chopped parsley, or 1 cup frozen peas (optional)

1. In a pasta pot, bring salted water to a boil and cook spaghetti according to package directions for al dente. Add frozen peas (if using) for the last minute of cooking.
2. In a large, wide pot (large enough to fit the pasta), cook the bacon over medium heat until crispy, about 6 to 8 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon and reserve; pour out excess bacon fat and discard. Remove pan from heat, and let cool slightly.
3. Add eggs to pot and whisk together; add cheese. Add hot pasta and peas or parsley (if using), and toss with tongs until pasta is coated with sauce. Season with salt and pepper to taste.