A to do list I could really go for

There's something about a list, isn't there?

Top 100 movies.

5 Fastest Cars.

10 Best Coffees.

50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.

And now a list of the 101 Best Sandwiches in New York, courtesy of New York Magazine's own Grubstreet. In addition to the NYC list, Grubstreet has kindly put together lists of the 26 Best Sandwiches in LA, 29 in Boston and (for those of you who might be moving westwardly) the 30 Best Sandwiches to be found in the windy city.

I'm pretty convinced that a great sandwich is close to the perfect meal. So you gotta admit, this list is way more helpful than 50 ways to leave your lover. I mean, do you really need 50 ways? It's kinda a one-time thing, isn't it?

Top 10 reasons to move back to New York

Reason #10. Ice cream.

You're surprised? Nah, you're not surprised. What better reason to move 3,000 miles than to be in the city that has to-your-door delivery of home-made ice cream in flavors like brown-sugar-peanut-butter?

This is a company that knows its market — the subscriber list is being limited to 50. Talking about the "in-crowd."

Homemade ice cream delivered once a month, right to my door. Sigh.

Reasons 9 through 1 coming soon. Stay tuned.

Best movie so far... and it's not a movie

I could be accused of a little bias. I do, after all, know the producer/director.

But trust me when I say, Every Little Step is the best movie I've seen so far this year.

Which, you could argue, isn't saying very much.

So, let me say this. It's an amazing movie. Entertaining, and moving, and interesting, and so well-done. Whether you've seen the original (which I seem to remember seeing as a little girl) or not, seen the revival or not—you know the story. You know the music. But you haven't seen the chorus line behind The Chorus Line.

Look, I'm really not a documentary fan. Same way I'm not a non-fiction fan. But I told you not to skip Michael Lewis' Moneyball, and I'm telling you, this movie is not to be missed. Seriously. I enjoyed it. So go, have a good time!

Oh, and did you hear? They're making Moneyball into a movie. Go figure.

What Garcia effect?

Did I mention that hamburgers are still, despite a few negative experiences, on my top five favorite meal list?

Look, I love me a good steak (yeah, yeah, charred rare, and anyone who bothers to order their steak anything over medium might as well just take a fork and knife to their shoe as far as I'm concerned, but another post for another day), and there's no doubt that sushi can hit the spot like nothing else.

Still. A perfect hamburger, great fries and a milkshake? Tell me it gets better than that? See? I didn't think so.

New York Magazine today posted a story about the resurgence of double patty burgers. Which, I have to say, is pushing it. The perfect burger is all about balance, and once you start doubling the meat, or, say, adding ribs and foie gras (ye who shall remain nameless), you've betrayed the very essence that makes a burger a burger.

In 2005, The LA Times ran a story on Nancy Silverton's hamburger recipe. Yeah, the recipe got its own story. And it deserved it. You'll note that although the meat is muy importante (she suggests combining prime chuck with prime sirloin), and the fat content of the meat in particular (20% to 28% total), nowhere does she suggest that you put two patties on one hamburger bun. As if.

The Case of the Mysterious Maple Smell

It could have been worse.

It could have been really bad. Foul. Putrid. Noxious.

Instead, New York City smelled like breakfast. A tasty pancakes and waffles breakfast. Which evidently was enough for concerned citizens to take to the phones and dial 311. And this was in 2005.

Three years and some months later, scientists from two states, NJ and NY, cooperated on the investigation along with the Department of Environmental Protection. Is it just me, or does it seem ironic that when it comes to tracking suspicious pleasant odors, our agencies have no problems playing nice, but when we have to share information on, oh, I don't know—possible terrorist activity—that spirit of cooperation is itself a mystery?

So, playing nicely together, the scientists plowed through chemical registries, air samples, weather reports and 311 call logs, and found the culprit—a factory in NJ that, among other things, processes fenugreek seeds. Oddly, according to Newsday, the factory, Frutarom, "slammed down the phone on a reporter who called for comment." Now that is suspicious.

Oh, you want to know what fenugreek seeds are?

Wikifact has it that fenugreek is both an herb and a spice (a blog for another day), and is often used in the US to mimic maple flavor, as in artificial maple syrup products. Well, duh.

How true it is...

My parents rock - yesterday's post was courtesy Mom, and today's is courtesy Dad.

• There is no North or South - it's "uptown" and "downtown." East or West is "cross-town."
• You're 35 years old and don't have a driver's license.
• You ride in a subway car with no air conditioning, just because there are seats available.
• You take the train home and you know exactly where on the platform the doors will open that will leave you right in front of the exit stairway.
• You know what a 'regular' coffee is.
• It's not Manhattan...it's the 'city.'
• You cross the street anywhere but at the corner and you yell at cars for not respecting your right to do it.
• You move 3,000 miles away, spend 10 years learning the local language and people still know you're from Brooklyn, Long Island or the Bronx the minute you open your mouth.
• You return after 10 years and the first foods you want are a 'real' pizza , a 'real' bagel, and 'real' Chinese food.
• A 500 square foot apartment is large.
• You know the differences between all the different Ray's pizzas.
• You are not under the mistaken impression that any human being would be able to actually understand a P.A. announcement on the subway.
• You wouldn't bother ordering pizza in any other city.
• You get ready to order dinner every night and must choose from the major food groups which are: Chinese, Italian, Mexican or Indian.
• You're not the least bit interested in going to Times Square on New Year's Eve.
• Your internal clock is permanently set to know when alternate side of the street parking regulations are in effect.
• You know what a bodega is.
• Someone bumps into you and you check for your wallet.
• You don't even notice the lady walking down the road having a perfectly normal conversation with herself.
• You pay 'only' $230 a month to park your car.
• You cringe at hearing people pronounce Houston St. like the city in Texas.
• The presidential visit is a major traffic jam, not an honor.
• You can nap on the subway and never miss your stop.
• The deli guy gives you a straw with any beverage you buy, even if ! It's a beer.

That's New York, baby! Ya gotta love it!

Where o' where have all the cowboys gone?

You're supposed to be able to count on certain things. Not on all things, and not on other things. But definitely on certain things.

This year, not so much.

You're supposed to be able to count on the Yankees making it to the playoffs—but no, all that money and they still can't get the job done? On Spielberg and Indiana Jones—but, aliens? Really? You're going with that? On Starbucks—except, automated espresso machines that don't smell like coffee? Whose brilliant idea was that?

And seriously, you're supposed to be able to count on a warhorse steakhouse knowing how to cook you a steak. "Pittsburgh." "Black & blue." I didn't make these terms up. They should mean something to the kitchen. I mean, other than a city and a mouse.

I know most of you will be shocked, shocked!, to learn I had a five minute confab with the waiter regarding the temperature of the steak we ordered. Five minutes is a long time to discuss a steak. Nonetheless, after all that, and despite being at The Palm in WeHo, an establishment boasting 33 years continuous operations (don't ask me why), our steak arrived over-done. Back it went and came back, I kid you not, frozen in the middle. Honestly, what restaurant takes their meat straight from the icebox and puts it on the grill?

So, from me to you, skip The Palm and head over to Wolfgang's (not Puck) on Canon, or Boa on Ocean. Better yet, hop a plane to NYC...Keens anyone?

The sands of time

Whenever I go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I visit the Temple of Dendur. Every time.

There's something about the sheer age of the building - and its completeness - that awes me. Every time.

The temple, a tomb for two brothers, is built of massive bricks of sandstone and covered in detailed carvings. Its accessibility - in its own glass temple - is extraordinary; you can walk up to it, around it, into it.

The temple is over 2000 years old - an almost incomprehensible length of time. I mean really, what were they doing 20 centuries ago? What were they wearing? But the Temple of Dendur, given to the USA in the 1960s and first exhibited by the Met in 1978, also shows another timeline. One that brings that timeline of centuries to a tad more human scale.

Carved into one of the pillars of the wharf in neat Roman capital lettering is the name "LEONARDO 1820" and over on the walls of the temple are the names "Belmore" and "Madox" carved two years earlier.

Almost 200 years ago, some young toughs were standing on the banks of the Nile, scratching away at the walls of the temple, leaving their mark. And they were not the first. There is a trail of graffiti on the temple that evidently dates back to 10BC - just 5 years after the temple was built.

Looking at the Temple of Dendur, I see not only the amazing - and it is amazing - sight of a massive and beautiful building constructed long before the time of cranes, engines and concrete mixers (and hard hats), I see the stream of regular people, like me, who have stood looking at the same walls with some degree of the same wonder. Every time.

Glug, glug, glug

There's nothing like a little data mapping to make your day.

Gasbuddy Gas Prices

Or not.

Wolfgang who?

So, what's in a name? If it's your name, aren't you entitled to it? Perhaps not.

Wolfgang (Puck, that is) is suing Wolfgang (Zwiener, that is).

I bring you this story as an interested party on several counts - a steak eater who has fairly despaired of finding a good steak in LA, a New Yorker, and someone with a name.

Nutshell version (mine): The two Wolves signed an agreement in 2007 covering the use and representation of their names in and outside of their home turfs (why is it wolf and wolves, but turf and not turves?).

The history as I understand it goes like this: WZ, a long-time waiter at Peter Luger's steakhouse in NY, opened a very good steakhouse in NYC (and not in Brooklyn - HUGE bonus), in 2004. Three years in, as he expanded, he and that other Wolfgang - who, I assure you, does not cause much of a stir in the Big Apple - shmoozed, discussed, agreed and signed. Case closed. Or not. Because now, after WZ opened his latest outpost in Beverly Hills, it's Wolfgang v Wolfgang.

Nutshell analysis (also mine): Despite the 2007 agreement , Pucko is marking his territory with a nuisance suit. In good ol' New Yorker fashion, WZ is pretty much saying, we covered this already, nein? Ja, nein.


P.S. I've had the steak at CUT by Wolfgang Puck (the one in BH) and at the newest Wolfgang's Steakhouse by Wolfgang Zwiener (also in BH) and Zwiener's steak wins. By a mile. WZ can surely improve some things (service, wine list, bread) - but, damn, that steak is fine.

P.P.S. It's about time a New Yorker opened a steakhouse in La La land. I mean, really.

Strike that. Reverse it.

So, not only is Target (that Target), previewing one of its new lines at Barney's (yep, that Barney's) - but every article I read about it reads the same way:

Julie Gilhart, [Barney's] fashion director, has worked her magic by persuading Target to launch the Rogan for Target collection at her Manhattan and Beverly Hills flagships in advance of their launch at the superstore. full article

Did you catch that? Barney's worked their magic to persuade Target to preview their clothes in their stores. Bet she had to really beg and plead to make that happen.

Don't tell me, tomorrow, Domino's will be premiering its new All Cookie Crust-All Creme Center dessert pizza at Mario Batali's restaurants. When did I leave earth as I know it?

Just a little lovin'

Here are my two cents (if you just can't get out of it):

theme song -- Just A Little Lovin' (but only the original by Dusty Springfield)

flowers -- framed postcard of Renoir's "Roses" (longer lasting and surely more original)

champagne -- a rose cava (try Cristallino) or the real thing: Billecart Salmon Brut Rose

chocolate -- it just doesn't get better than Mr. Chocolate himself, Jacques Torres. If I know one thing, it's chocolate - and these, friends are Off. The. Charts.

And if you happen to be in New York - check out the loooove banners in Times Square ("a public art project featuring 15 unique banner designs by 12 top graphic designers and illustrators"). I heart NY, anyone?

Don't move. Don't say a word.

You can make your point by doing absolutely nothing. And when I say nothing, I mean nothing.

Who did what?

The headline in today's New York Times: "Surprising Few, Italy’s Government Collapses"

And the picture that went with it:














I know what you're thinking.

Well, maybe not so simple

Just when I finish extolling the pleasures of my favorite classic cocktail, the Champagne Cocktail, what happens? Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, I find the one whose bartender doesn't know how to make one.

It started well enough, I ordered my cocktail, the bartender nodded. I returned to my conversation. When I looked back a few moments later, I saw the bartender pouring my cocktail out of a shaker into my glass.
Hmmmm, I thought, that's interesting; I've never had my Champagne shaken before, but I'm willing to try something new.
Then she handed me my pale, pink, rather cloudy drink. Cloudy? Hmmmm. I took a sip. Sweet, fruity. Fruity?
What's in this? I asked.
Raspberry puree.
Raspberry puree? I repeated. I asked for a Champagne Cocktail.
That's right - Champagne and raspberry puree.
How about Champagne, a cube of sugar and some bitters? I asked.
Bitters? What kind of liqueur is that?

At that point, friends, I surrendered. I drank my Champagne 'cocktail' - not a Mimosa, not a Bellini, and definitely not a Champagne Cocktail - quietly, and when I was done, I asked for a Perfect Manhattan, straight up. But that's a story for another day...