“A killer whale killed a trainer Wednesday afternoon, February 24th at SeaWorld's Shamu Stadium in Orlando, Florida, a public information officer for the Orange County Sheriff's Office said. A witness told CNN affiliate WKMG-TV that the whale approached the glass side of the 35-foot-deep tank at Shamu Stadium, jumped up and grabbed the trainer by the waist, shaking her violently. A SeaWorld employee who asked not to be identified confirmed the description of the attack...” -CNN

I have been fascinated by the killer whale story. It turns out that this is the third trainer to be killed by this whale at Sea World. I think the problem lies with calling them all Shamu. Publicly, all the whales are known as Shamu; there are probably like 10 Shamus at a time. Wouldn’t it be super fucking annoying if everyone knew you as Shamu, but your real name was like Eddie or Frank?  If you where a KILLER whale, wouldn’t you eventually freak out? Or kill a trainer? I think she probably called him Shamu and he was thinking, “If this chick calls me Shamu one more time, I am going to fucking kill her!” So she called him Shamu again, and the rest is history. Whales, like all mammals, need their own identity, and so it goes... 

I moved back downtown a couple of months ago and really love downtown New York.  The energy and feeling of downtown Manhattan is unmistakable. The people, the experiences, the variety, the ethnicities, the music, the style, the substance, it is the truth. You can’t bullshit downtown and if you try to, it will smack you in the face, chew you up, and throw you out.  At no time is this “je ne se quoi” more apparent than during the spring. Finally this past Sunday, G-d heard our cries of desperation and allowed us to see the sun, the future. It’s comical because New Yorkers hibernate so much in Winter, that fifty degrees and sunny happens, and we think it is the Caribbean.  After a long and glum winter, a day like Sunday provides hope of what’s to come for 2010, life AU (after uptown).

With that said, the day did not necessarily start as hopeful as it would become. Saturday night I attended my friend Yak’s wedding followed by late night visits to SL and 1Oak. Both were extremely busy and crowded, a good sign of what should be a strong season.  After the clubs at around 4 a.m., I stopped into a 24-hour Duane Reade to pick up some household supplies and frozen White Castle. I don’t know why I like to shop for toothpaste, baby wipes, and mouthwash at this hour, but it’s as good a time as any and these types of activities are more fun drunk, as are most. You would think that after the shopping trip I would have been clearheaded enough to get undressed, but that was not the case. I woke up fully clothed in my suit with a half eaten white castle in one hand and my blackberry in the other. Gentleman incarnate.

So I rolled out of bed and began my ritual rehydration. Vitamin drink, Starbucks Iced Green Tea, Espresso shot… BAM. As I began to break open The Post and check into the horoscopes and Page Six, I received a text message from my cousin Rob, aka the Cooz. Cooz informed me that it was beautiful out and that I should join him for a leisurely stroll, a cigar, who knows. So I jumped in the shower, got dressed, and headed to meet him in the Meatpacking District. As I left the apartment, Spring was in the air, the city seemed alive, and I had an inkling that I was in for a good day, the beginning of good things to come…    

Highline Park

The city was bustling with action as I stepped out of the cab in front of the Standard Hotel. The Cooz was with some friends and we strolled through the Meatpacking district. Someone suggested we check out the Highline Park, but I was too caught up with a hangover and the shakes to realize where we were headed.  All those feelings vanished as I got my first view of the Highline Park. This is the first spring for the Highline Park and it was made for days like Sunday. The Highline is one of the first things that our great city has completed in some time that is quintessentially New York. The park is a 1.5 mile stretch of greenery and modern design located on a former railroad track in the Meatpacking District & Chelsea. It currently goes to 20th Street, but is supposed to eventually go to 30th and beyond. There are so many highlights including the incredible works of architecture flanking the park, a stadium-style seating section providing a view of the oncoming traffic below, a pass-through under the Standard Hotel, and a sun-lounge-styled seating area filled with all different types of people. The Highline in it’s essence is like a fashionable Times Square, a crossroads of the world, the downtown world. 

The Highline is a monumental achievement that was supported aggressively by social leaders such as Diane Von Furstenberg, Barry Diller, Phil Falcone, and Mayor Bloomberg along with thousands of supporters and a $50 million grant from the city. I plan to have many incredible days there and predict that New Yorkers and the movies will make this park legendary. I am looking forward to seeing who throws the first party up there, since it would be such a great place for a festival of some type. Maybe it will be me.  Whatever your motives or your schedule, grab some food at Chelsea Market, enjoy the sun, and go sit on the Highline; it is something every New Yorker should experience this season.

Frank

After the Highline, the group dissipated and Rob and I headed east. We picked up a Starbucks and walked in pursuit of an early dinner toward the LES. We eventually arrived at Frank on 2nd Ave, where we began with a bottle of Montepulciano outside as the sun went down on the first day of the rest of the year. Conversations flowed from work, to girls, to family, but inevitably ended up back on the food we were about to eat. We headed inside and sat down at the bar to grab some dinner. 

Frank, as a restaurant, captures the essence of the Lower East Side. Every neighborhood seems to have their version of the family-style Italian spot and Frank is like the cool downtown version. It exemplifies the community’s spirit and serves a great product without taking itself too seriously. Frank was opened in June of 1998 by Frank Prisinzano, who owns, operates, and acts as executive chef for Frank and his two other restaurants, Supper and Lil’ Frankie’s (both CH favorites). I find it very interesting how this restaurant’s personality and energy has expanded beyond its core clientele, while still maintaining a very real family vibe. What I mean is that many people come to Frank and call it their “spot,” but they are all from such diverse backgrounds, ethnicities, and economic classes, that the only thing connecting them is Frank and the neighborhood. It is very unusual that so many people feel this way about one place. This is a testament to how the business is run and that its owner continues to give back to his community with projects like “East Village Radio,” a non-profit internet radio station featuring local artists and DJs.

Despite all of the culture involved, the real point is the food, which is consistently high quality, flavorful, and uncomplicated Italian classics. It is not the best Italian you can get, but it combines really good, simple ingredients, prepared well, as Italian should be. We ordered a Sunday night Italian feast that started with the Sicilian Salad. This salad consists of fresh,crisp Romaine lettuce, arugula, chopped cherry tomatoes, roasted red peppers, black Sicilian olives, red onions, cucumbers, sliced salami, Ricotta Salata cheese with an olive oil, oregano, red wine vinegar, and lemon dressing. 

We then followed that with a trio of pastas including Spaghetti Limone, Papardelle with Veal Ragu, and the old faithful of Frank and Italian American Sundays, the Rigatoni Ragu. The Spaghetti Limone is a butter-and-cheese-based sauce that is cut with pasta water and a whole lemon. The lemon and pasta water lighten the sauce just enough to make it not too fatty. Frank’s version was excellent, with perfectly cooked pasta and a beautifully fresh lemon. I highly recommend Hot Pepper with this dish, as the pepper also will act as a way to balance the strong flavors of butter, cheese, and cream.

After that we continued with the Papardelle with Veal Ragu, a fresh long flat noodle with a tomato sauce with pieces of veal mixed in. My favorite dish at Frank, which I have been enjoying for years, is the Rigatoni Ragu with “Grandma Carmella’s Tomato & Meat Gravy.” This is a perfect Sunday Ragu with meatballs, sausage, and a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese.  If I could have one dish on the LES outside of Momofuku, this would be the one. Occasionally it needs a little salt, but it is delicious and feels just like the restaurant: homey.  As we ate, we ended up getting into a conversation with John Orozco, a neighborhood guy who customizes motorcycles and seemed to know everyone. We also spoke with a hippy-ish Argentinean girl who was studying English, the bartender (a female Asian rapper “Knewdles” who performs with her sister on Violin), celebrated John’s friend Krisan’s new apartment over a Mi Chilada (Mexican beer cocktail), and debated whether the Pacquaio-Mayweather fight would ever happen. After three hours at Frank, we departed with full stomachs, a slight buzz, some new friends, and a renewed appreciation for the everyday surprises and adventures of downtown Manhattan. 

Dinner cost us about $50 dollars each with a bottle of wine. I would highly recommend Frank, but if you want to come on the weekends, plan on waiting at least 30 minutes. Additionally, there is a communal table for large groups and an extensive and reasonably priced wine cellar. For a real taste of the LES, go Sunday through Wednesday, sit at the bar, and if John’s there say hello from Alan and coozin Rob.    

“Now John at the bar is a friend of mine, He gets me my drinks for free, And he's quick with a joke and he'll light up your smoke, But there's some place that he'd rather be...”

Venieros

After dinner we headed outside and lit up our cigars. We walked and talked as the city began to get slightly chilly, as to say “don’t get cocky; winter is not completely over yet.” The streets were jammed with people and Cooz suggested we finish the day off with something sweet, so we headed to Venieros Pasticerria on east 11th Street. Venieros is not a new-style trendy bakery filled with cupcakes, it is an institution of the neighborhood that has been open since 1894. The place is filled with neighborhood regulars, kids, hipsters, and tourists. It is a destination to many, but the beauty of New York is having 100-year-old institutions outside of your front door. People travel half way around the world to try a cannoli at Venieros or Pastrami at Katz’s, but we, the ungrateful few, get to have it whenever our hearts desire. Rob enjoyed some Rainbow Cookies while I indulged in Strawberry Shortcake and chocolate-covered cannoli. 

As we left Venieros, I said to Rob, “What an incredible day. I feel like I was meant to live this day, over and over, like it is what I am supposed to be doing.” I have had this feeling at other times in my life, maybe abroad in Florence, lying on the beach in Southampton, or sitting down to dinner with close friends. It is not easily or often found, at least for me. Waking up, I couldn’t have possibly thought the day would become what it did, but when it did, it was exactly right. Ten years ago in Florence, I was infatuated with the lifestyle of the Italians: la dolce vita, the sweet life. In some ways, for years, I have been trying to get back there. Like the many Shamus, I have searched for my true identity, becoming different versions of myself along the way, sometimes striking back at the forces and people pushing and pulling me. Now though, I have found my “dolce vita,” downtown New York is my modern Florence and this, I am hoping, is my renaissance.    

“Life moves pretty fast. You don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
-Ferris Bueller, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

Keep life delicious and see you next time at Cocktail Hour, where more often than not one drink turns into ten and no one knows where and when the night will end.
-AP

In the immortal words of Sushi Samba co-founder, Matty Johnson, we were “killing it” at the South Beach Food and Wine Festival this past weekend. Cocktail Hour threw its first event at the Mondrian’s Sunset Lounge, hosted by celebrity chef Todd English and DJ’d by the “Paul Oakenfold of the food world," Zach Chodorow. The party was an incredible success, as was the festival. It was my first time attending this foodie’s wet dream, and I could not have been more impressed. There were events going on day and night, each filled with the most delicious gastronomic treats one could imagine, only to be bettered by an unbelievable variety of wines and liquors. Some of the major events included Burger Bash (with 27 burgers made by big chefs and burger joints), Bubble Q (a champagne event), a massive tribute dinner for Daniel Boulud at the Loews, and Best of the Best, an event featuring specialties from 40 chefs, 60 wineries, and 16 champagne houses. Even better than the food was the incredible array of star chefs and food personalities who came together for the weekend. We personally ran into Daniel Boulud, Rachel Ray, Bobby Flay, Michael Chiarello, Emeril Lagasse, Guy Fieri, Anthony Bourdain, Morimoto, and Scott Conant as well as multiple contestants from Top Chef and too many others to possibly list.

Although you might not expect it, chefs are some of the more extreme partiers out there, and this weekend is the prime party weekend in the culinary world. Just like in other “scenes” chef’s have groupies too. Mind you, chef groupies are not necessarily as svelte as a say football or rock ‘n roll groupies; these groupies are seduced with cabernets Maker’s Mark, foie gras, Sottocenere, and molten chocolate cake. But who’s judging? A little “cushion for the pushin” is always fun. 

Last Thursday night, Cocktail Hour attended the Patron Party at the W Hotel, which featured an unlimited supply and variety of Patron Tequilas and cocktails. When the Patron party started to wind down, we, along with the entire party, headed to Wall. As I was walking into the club, I noticed that Bobby Flay and his crew where standing at the door, looking quite perturbed. (I know Bobby and his partner, Lawrence, from my days of working with the Borgata). Once I saw them, my inner monologue told me to assist. With all the respect I could muster, I spoke with the doorman, Laurent, a generally nice Frenchie, “This is Bobby Flay. It is Food & Wine Festival. He is one of the biggest star chefs in the country.” Laurent was on his period that night, and replied in his European drawl, “Who is BOOBY Flaiz? I don’tz cares who he is, he groupz is too bigz!” Feeling strong, and a little inebriated, I fought back. “Bobby Flay you French fuck, not BOOBY Flaiz.” I don’t think Laurent enjoyed that response, and by the time we stopped yelling at each other, a fed-up “BOOBY Flaiz” had already moved on to greener pastures. We should have reported Laurent and Wall for reverse discrimination; had it been Jacques Pepin, Alain Ducasse, Laurent Tourondel or another French chef, the velvet ropes would have parted like the Red Sea. So continues the decades-old debate of everything French vs. American – food, wine, style, Jerry Lewis, Woody Allen, and now chefs. The French may have won this battle, but the war wages on. Top Chef’s next season should include a competition of the French vs. the Americans. Fuck the Eiffel Tower.

Although I am sure he was treated like gold everywhere else, BOOBY was not the only chef who ran into an issue. I have been told by many people about the culinary world’s most exclusive party at the “Two Twelve Access House” – a no-press, VIP after-hours spot, where only the best chefs and biggest VIPs can get in. I picked up on Eater’s story below and thought that you would like a view into the business…

“Focus, please, as we back-of-envelope the operation. The going rate for a house sponsorship, which gets one's product in front of these chefs and other assorted taste makers, ranges from product-only—such as the deal that Tom Collichio likely has for 'wichcraft, which is passing sandwiches—and $40K, the sum a source tells Eater was offered to one potential sponsor (who politely declined).  If there are twelve sponsors and even three of them are paying half this amount, Two12's micromini-honcho Scott Feldman is raking in $60,000 before costs this weekend. Now, the house, a real behemoth at 1350 Collins Avenue, goes for $2,700 per night, which ain't cheap. And if dude is getting it for 5 nights, let's says he's spending $15,000, including fees. Let's say, too, that he has another $5K in expenses, which he doesn't. At the low end, he's walking away with $40,000 for a weekend of boozing with his friends; at the high end, he's clearing $150,000. Or, we should say, $150,000 before he doles out appearance fees to all the name chefs, like Tim Love and Guy Fieri, without whom he's got bupkis. And he does pay them, no?”

I did not make it over, but I am told that the “Two Twelve Access House” is quite the scene. Apparently, many chefs of great regard are unable to gain access to this culinary version of Avenue. Personally, I can’t knock the hustle, as Feldman is the agent who makes superstar chefs. As our old friend Gekko says, “What’s worth doing is worth doing for money.” Feldman should be applauded for working hard enough to create his business and getting corporate America to pay for his friends’ and clients’ debaucherous sanctuary of gastronomy.

The Secret of the Satay Sauce

In honor of this week’s Food and Wine Festival, I decided to kick off our feature column, titled “Gentlemen in the Kitchen,” where our resident chef, Spencer Gabriel, will work to decipher famous restaurant dishes. GK will start out by unveiling the secret behind Mr. Chow’s Chicken Satay Sauce. The Chicken Satay is the signature item of Chow’s restaurant empire and its copycat competitor, Phillipe Chow. The dish combines tender sautéed chicken with an unusual red coloring and a sweet and rich peanut sauce. The sauce has been the subject of debate for years, in terms of ingredients, calories, and where all that deliciousness descends from. The restaurants generally limit your access to the sauce, but the rule with food is, when in doubt, look for fat, sugar, and salt. Well, my hunch was right, so just make sure you visit the gym after eating those sumptuous satays. Mr. Chow’s clientele of fashionistas, celebrities, socialites and hip hop stars have been consuming more than their recommended daily allowance of butter, heavy cream, salt, and sugar for decades. Like the great Planet Café and Tasti D-Lite yogurt controversies, the secret of the satay will spread rampantly from the Upper East Side to Los Angeles, London and beyond.

It’s been three days and you are wondering why he didn’t call? Cut down on the Satays.

Mr. Chow’s Satay Sauce

½ of a Shallot, minced
Pint of Chicken Stock
Pint of Heavy Cream
2T Butter
3T Creamy Salted Peanut Butter
Sugar
Korean Red Pepper Flakes

1) Sweat Shallot in butter until translucent
2) Add ½ a pint of chicken stock and let reduce down about 50%. (The larger the frying pan, the better, due to the larger surface area)
3) Add ½ a pint of Heavy Cream and let that reduce down about 50%, constantly stirring to avoid burning on the bottom and sides
4) Add 3T of Peanut Butter and keep mixing
5) Let the sauce get to a creamy consistency and add Korean Red Pepper Flakes
6) Remove from heat and continue to mix
7) Serve at room temperature

For information on “Gentlemen in the Kitchen,” Spencer Gabriel’s new private chef service, contact Brooke at Deluxe Experiences (bu@skynewyork.com) or call 917-338-9759. Spencer and his chefs are available for private dinners, as well larger events. Rates are similar to what it would cost for a nice dinner out in Manhattan, which is quite a deal considering Spencer and his team come to you. Wine pairings and travel are additional.

Keep life delicious and see you next time at Cocktail Hour, where more often than not one drink turns into ten and no one knows where and when the night will end.
-AP

Cocktail Hour will be going light this Thursday because of an impromptu trip to the South Beach Food and Wine Festival, assuming we make it past the snowstorm. We will be hosting our first Cocktail Hour event at the Sunset Lounge in the Mondrian Hotel. We have brought together some friends from the industry including Chefs Todd English, Camille Becerra of Top Chef, her friend Lee Anne Wong also of Top Chef, Seth Levine of Hell’s Kitchen, David Schulman of Georgica Restaurant and many more. There will be passed cocktails provided by Leblon Cachaca along with music by Ian Boyd and Zach Chodorow. Hope to see you there. If you can’t make it, definitely check out “The Meatball Shop” this weekend and my review of it below:

The Meatball Shop
84 Stanton Street
If you haven’t been living under a rock for the past couple of weeks, then you have heard about “The Meatball Shop.” The restaurant, right off of Allen Street on the Lower East Side, it is a must visit for authentic and new style New York comfort food. 

My personal meatball voyage began with my grandmother Gladys Iannolino. Grandma Lally, her grandmother name, was an expert in the art of meatball making. She never used a recipe and seemed to be immune to foodborne illness. She constantly tasted combinations of raw meat (pork, beef, and sometimes veal) mixed with garlic, onions, breadcrumbs, hot peppers, pecorino cheese, eggs, basil, and Italian parsley. She would mix the sultry blend of meat with her hands until it reached the proper consistency, and then roll handfuls of it into approximately three-inch-round balls (Ha Ha, I said balls). After that, she would cook them directly in her homemade sauce and the result was the taste of home. I remember she would sometimes mix them with Braciola and hot sausage for Sunday Ragu with Rigatoni, but my favorite was simple sauce and meatballs over long Italian Fusilli. 

Quick meatball anecdote: when my Italian father met my Jewish mother years ago, my other grandmother (my mom's mom), Blanche, was a little less than pleased about the situation – call it naiveté, bitterness, ignorance, or just her disposition, who knows. So my father went to her house for dinner, around 1962, and Blanche Godlis was preparing meatballs. My mom told my dad to taste the meatballs while they were cooking and he happily obliged. He turned to her mother, and said, “Mrs. Godlis these are the most delicious Swedish meatballs I have ever tasted!” My mother started laughing as Blanche turned beet red – they were her Italian meatballs. 

Needless to say Gladius and the Italian side won our family’s meatball war.

Fast forward a couple of decades and someone has finally recreated this experience for mass consumption. Don’t you love capitalism? Americans are geniuses at recognizing emotional moments and ties to our youth and marketing them for commercial gain, not that there is anything wrong with that. Daniel Holzman and Mike Chernow opened The Meatball Shop around a month ago. They have combined their years of experience in clubs and restaurants with culinary training to the meatball. They offer six types of meatballs: chicken, beef, spicy pork, salmon vegetable, and a weekly special. These meatballs are offered with a variety of sauces including classic tomato, spicy meat, mushroom gravy and parmesan cream. The meatballs are available in a bowl with sauce and Foccacia, as sliders, in a hero, or with a side of pasta or vegetables. 

Josh and I tried the chicken, beef, and spicy pork varieties and they were all spectacular. The meatballs were very light and the sauces were bursting with flavor and freshness. I loved the sprinkling of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese over the meatballs, not so much Josh (he has some weird thing against white foods). The décor of the place was simple but with a cool modern elegance, while staying true to the neighborhood and Italian culture. The boys also offer a great selection of beers, wines, and sodas including root beer on tap. For dessert, they have freshly baked ice cream sandwiches made from homemade cookies and ice cream. 

The food and the idea are simple – the best places are – and this one is no exception. I am told there is already a big wait on weekends and I don’t expect that to change anytime soon; but don’t worry, I am told they have plans for more meatball shops around the city and country. I am not sure if they will ever be as pervasive as Starbucks, but there is definitely some potential for The Meatball Shop.  While 2009 was the year of the pizza and burger wars, don’t be surprised to see 2010 as the year of the meatball wars.

“I'll take you to the meatball shop, I'll let you lick the lollipop, Go 'head girl, don't you stop, Keep going 'til you hit the spot – woah.”

Keep life delicious and see you next time at Cocktail Hour, where more often than not one drink turns into ten and no one knows where and when the night will end.
-AP

“Call me a joker, call me a fool
Right at this moment I'm totally cool
Clear as a crystal, sharp as a knife
I feel like I'm in the prime of my life
Sometimes it feels like I'm going too fast
I don't know how long this feeling will last
Maybe it's only tonight”
-Billy Joel, I Go To Extremes

My business partner and best friend Josh always tells me that I have an extreme personality. If I drink, I drink a lot. If I eat, I eat a lot. If I am angry, I am very angry and if I’m happy, I’m very happy. You get the picture. Whatever the emotion, the person, or the project, it is all encompassing. What is the point of doing something unless you are going to go all the way with it?  

My life has always followed this path of extremes. My mother pushed me to be a good student when I was younger, so then school was all encompassing. In my junior year of high school I memorized thousands of words and definitions for the SATs and spent countless hours with a tutor. When it was said and done, I got a respectable 1400 on the test, got into Cornell’s Hotel School, and that was it – I officially checked out from the world of academia. That summer I headed to Los Angeles to work as a cook in Wolfgang Puck’s original Spago on Sunset Boulevard. Through my friend Danny Zelouf and my co-worker Jesus, I discovered forties of Olde English and next applied my extreme personality to Malt Liquor… West Side till I die. I recall showing up to work in Spago’s kitchen with my first real hangover and puking in the sink. I swore off alcohol for the first time, but it wouldn’t be the last…  

My odyssey of excess continued from L.A. to Cornell, an incredible school located in the most boring city in America. The most exciting thing about Ithaca was the supermarket, a gourmand’s dream, Wegmans.  The store was a food heaven way ahead of its time, filled with specialty items, ethnic food sections, and an incredible café full of delectable sandwiches, pastas, sushi rolls, and butchers that would grill the meat right in front of you. During this phase of my life, I started many of my extreme food journeys at Wegmans, including searches for the hottest peppers on the pepper chart, chipotles, to feed raw to my fraternity pledges during hazing. There is joy in watching grown men cry.

I remember one cold and snowy Saturday evening in Ithaca when I had nothing really planned. With my Jewish Latina girlfriend in toe (what a find), I went to Wegmans and picked up a case of Coors Light, a baguette, a half pound of prosciutto, and a hunk of the fattiest Brie available. The sea was angry that day my friend, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli. As my girlfriend watched with childlike disbelief, I polished off the lusciously decadent melting Brie at about beer number nine, and the last slice of prosciutto at around 13. As my mind said yes, my arteries said no, but like Brett Favre and an interception, for better or for worse, there was no stopping me from my ultimate goal.

I am now 30 years old and not much has changed. Last Friday in Miami I once again woke up hungover and in extremist fashion ordered the Blueprint Cleanse for commencement upon my return to New York. The Blueprint is a six-juice-per-day cleanse that is delivered to your house. You drink those juices for a set amount of days and it cleanses your system – in my case, of everything I did that past weekend.  I cleansed from Sunday night until Thursday morning, erasing almost seven pounds (probably mostly water), clearing my head, and creating an uncontrollable craving for delicious food and drinks. As is the case, one extreme leads to another and at 7 p.m. on Thursday I was raring to go, so I started by meeting my friend, Eric Goldberg for drinks at Hundred Acres in SoHo. I eagerly anticipated my first Belvedere on the rocks with three olives. As Will Ferrell said in Old School, “Once it hits your lips, it’s so good!” Maybe he wasn’t kidding or maybe he was, but either way I was back on the gravy train and ready for the weekend. After a plate of meatballs with tomato sauce over a bed of polenta, I left to meet my cousin Rob for the first of this weekend’s gluttonous adventures.

Aldea Restaurant (31 W 17th Street)
Thursday, 8 p.m.
For those of you who don’t know, Chef George Mendes’ restaurant, Aldea, has received tremendous praise. It was named one of the 10 best new restaurants in the country by critic Alan Richman of GQ Magazine and Mendes’ himself was nominated best chef in New York by the James Beard Association.  So with much anticipation, I arrived about 30 minutes early for my reservation. As I walked into the restaurant from the darkness and cold of 17th Street, I felt like a man coming out of a coma and into the light. Aldea is a beautifully bright and airy restaurant with a warm and calm energy. The hostesses immediately disarmed my New York edge with authentic warmth. One hostess was a funky downtown girl with spectacles and a peculiar yet inviting smile, while the other was a curvy ethnic firecracker with a deliciously cute giggle. There was no room at the bar for me to continue my drinking, as it was filled with diners. I told the girls and they quickly recommended I check out Rye House, a bar and restaurant down the block, while I wait. Having knowledge of this street and its former lack of personality, I was surprised to find Rye House – a great vibe-y speakeasy with handcrafted cocktails, an incredible selection of spirits (especially its namesake whiskeys & bourbons), and a surprisingly interesting food menu, definitely worthy of a trip of its own.

Upon my return to Aldea and my cousin Rob’s arrival, I was once again greeted by my two favorite hostesses, one of whom told me she was a fan of “Cocktail Hour.” (I was pleasantly surprised, but I think Brooke from my office definitely set this up. Either way… AWESOME!)  I was shown to a great table on the main floor with a perfect view of chef Mendes’ open kitchen. Mendes is of Portuguese descent. He was mentored by David Bouley in his original Bouley, and worked in kitchens across the globe with chefs like Roger Vergé, Kurt Gutenbrunner, and Martin Berasategui. At Aldea he is cooking high-end interpretations of the Portuguese and Iberian food of his youth and achieving incredible results. Our waitress, Maggie, greeted us warmly, suggesting a crisp, aromatic, and slightly mineral Albariño Fesinanes from Spain to begin and a bottle of Argentinean Red, called Paisaje De Tupungato, for our main course. 

We began our meal with the Knollcrest Farm Egg cooked in its shell with Bacalao, black olive, and potato. The dish was beautiful and theatric. The Bacalao, a dried salt cod, gives the egg a hint of fishiness, which I personally don’t love but I am sure is traditional for Spanish and Portuguese food. For our next course we shared the Shrimp Alinho with garlic, coriander, pimenton, and pressed jus. The shrimp was perfectly cooked with a haunting smoky flavor that could only be created through long slow preparation by a patient and talented chef. The taste of the Alinho was what I would imagine delicious to be, had I been born to Portuguese parents. Chef Mendes then visited our table with his “taste,” a sea scallop with black truffle over a squid ink risotto. The dish was a very nice compliment to some of the stronger flavors presented during the meal and Mendes was a humble, distinguished, and personable host. When asked why he opened on 17th Street, he told us he wanted to be close to the Greenmarket purveyors with whom he had built relationships. He then told us about the flavors of his youth which he was cooking, including things like the squid ink he used in the scallop dish. I can only imagine a young chef Mendes cooking with squid ink – a parent’s nightmare. 

We followed these dishes with our main courses. I had the much lauded Arroz De Pato with duck confit, duck cracklings, chorizo, and olives. This was like duck paella with a strong and smoky flavor. I was most impressed with the sliced duck confit, which topped the plate. It was almost like eating a Kobe version of Duck Breast (if it existed) – super soft, flavorful and luscious. Rob had the Tilefish with crispy brussel sprouts, green mango, and a lemongrass ginger broth. Now Rob, for some odd reason, always orders Tilefish. I had never had it before, but this fish was absolutely stunning in its flavoring and execution.  The skin had a crisp and salty crust, and the meat was cooked to beyond perfection. It was almost like Mendes made a deal with the devil – let me cook fish this way and I will give you my soul upon closing the restaurant.       

The real reason I am writing about Aldea is not the fact that it is a great restaurant or that the food is spectacular, although both are true. Aldea to me represents something very interesting within the New York hospitality landscape. It is a restaurant with the best possible food you can get and prepare, that is served in an environment that is not stuffy and at an attainable price. The cost of our meal was $140, including a bottle of wine and a brand of hospitality that is authentic and not bothersome. For all of Danny Meyer’s 51 percenters, the staff at Union Square Café is often too nice. I am from New York; if you are too nice to me I get suspicious. I don’t want any Stepford servers. Aldea is 2010’s Union Square Café, a groundbreaking restaurant in that it is providing perfect food and service in an environment that is young, approachable, and warm. It may be Portuguese food, although the chef will tell you it is market-driven with Portuguese influences, but the style and feeling is distinctly American. Aldea is one of the best new restaurants in the country because it does everything right, but most importantly it speaks to the current moment. 

Camille Becerra’s Apartment
Friday, 8 p.m.
After Aldea, I continued my week of extremes with a second memorable meal Friday night at Chef Camille Becerra’s apartment. Becerra is dating an avid foodie and good friend of mine, Vincent Rotolo. She is a lovely woman, was a contestant on Top Chef, and owned the much heralded restaurant, Paloma.  We had an incredible four-course meal with highlights including a marinated manchego with fresh tomatoes, walnuts, and rosemary, a spectacularly flavorful kale crostini with mozzarella and pecorino, a sole crudo with hemp seeds and black sea salt, and seared tuna with a decadent piquillo-chorizo sauce.  On the spur of the moment, Camille prepared a decadent chocolate soufflé and perfectly pressed coffee. All of these were accompanied by a wine. We started with a Prosecco, followed by a new style Chardonnay, and a nice baby Barolo to finish. There is something to be said for dining with like-minded foodies and even more to be said to dine side-by-side with a great and passionate chef. Becerra is creative and strong, and I am very much looking forward to her next professional kitchen and collaborating on some exciting projects in 2010.

Apotheke (9 Doyers Street)
Friday, 1 a.m.
After my meal I was craving more drinks to ensure a really fertile hangover the next morning, so I met a friend briefly at Brinkleys. After two tequilas we headed to Apotheke in Chinatown for more cocktails, designer versions of the same devilish spirits. Apotheke is a great cocktail lounge on Doyers Street known for its speakeasy feel and off-the-beaten-path location. Sadly the secret is out. Apotheke now has a line of people outside and the place was jam packed. As much as I love the cocktails, a speakeasy in Chinatown loses its splendor when there is a line of people waiting to get in and it is nearly impossible to get a drink. Combine that with the 20 spot I had to give the doorman to cut the line and Apotheke is officially off the list for “Cocktail Hour.” We say goodbye and Murray Hill says hello, hello, hello.

Wall & Water (75 Wall Street)
Saturday & Sunday Brunch, 1 p.m.
If someone wanted to assassinate me during brunch in the Financial District I wouldn’t be very hard to find. I skipped my regular order from Leo’s bagels on Saturday and Sunday for incredible brunches at the new Wall & Water restaurant in the Andaz Hotel. The Andaz is Hyatt’s new boutique hotel brand and they have done a great job creating a more service-driven and stylish version of W. I have to say that in terms of value, food quality, and service this may be the best brunch in Manhattan. All hotels have to serve breakfast, especially hotels at this level, and this one is putting out an outstanding product and variety for a bargain price (less than $30). Come in for brunch before they realize that they are losing money doing it.       

Ballaro (77 2nd Avenue)
Saturday, 5 p.m.
As I walked home from Paul Smith on Saturday, I passed a Southern Italian wine, Panini and Proscuterria called Ballaro. This perfect mix of New York and Southern Italy drew me in like a Sephardic Jew to a Purim party. I enjoyed a Panini of prosciutto di parma, pecorino romano, artichokes, and roasted peppers with a bit of olive oil on a crunchy round roll. Had the smell of liquor not made me nauseous I would have definitely indulged further in a glass of Chianti, but sometimes I know when to say when. One note: everyday from 6 p.m. – 7:30 p.m. Ballaro serves the most beautiful selection of antipasti Toscani, including cheese and salumi, complimentary with the purchase of wine. Stop by if you don’t mind seeing me daily.

Bianca (5 Bleecker Street)
Sunday, 8 p.m.
Now it’s Sunday and in my world of extremes that means I would usually stop drinking and start thinking of ways to heal my bruised body and fragile ego. But wait – my friend Danny Zelouf, the one who started me on this rough and tumble road years ago in Los Angeles – just called. He and his consigliore, Jason Behfarin, want to have Sunday night dinner at Bianca on the Bowery. I think I can survive one more night. You see, I am realizing that despite what you think, you can usually do so much more than your mind allows you to believe. I don’t know if you are supposed to apply that to drinking, eating, and pleasure-hounding, but right now, I don’t really care. Bianca is a Florentine-style Italian restaurant with a great downtown feel and clientele. As a kicker, they are bringing in wine direct from Kelham Vineyards, my favorite winery in Napa, for only a $15 per bottle corkage fee. I am already thinking of my order Gnocco Fritto with Scamorza Cheese, Carciofi Parmasean Salad, Tagliatelle Bolognese, sliced Filet Mignon with Rosemary, and Tiramisu to finish. All that for $40 dollars a person along with good friends and great conversation – what could be better?

So why do I go to extremes? Most of us have had a tough past 12 months, because when the economy tanks, it gives you a gut check and makes you question what’s really important. I spent the last 10 years focusing on what I was going to become, but the truth is, all that matters is now, and that’s why I go to extremes. 

“Let me tell you this, the older you do get the more rules they're gonna try to get you to follow. You just gotta keep livin' man, L-I-V-I-N.”
                                                                                   -Wooderson (Matthew McConaughey), Dazed & Confused

Keep life delicious and see you next time at Cocktail Hour, where more often than not one drink turns into ten and no one knows where and when the night will end.
-AP

“I read this article a while back that said that Microsoft employs more millionaire secretary's that any other company in the world. They took stock options over Christmas bonuses. It was a good move. I remember there was this picture, of one of the groundskeepers next to his Ferrari. Blew my mind. You see shit like that, and it just plants seeds, makes you think it’s possible, even easy. And then you turn on the TV, and there's just more of it. The $87 Million lottery winner, that kid actor that just made 20 million on his last movie, that internet stock that shot through the roof, you could have made millions if you had just gotten in early, and that's exactly what I wanted to do: get in.”
                                                                                                      -Seth Davis (Giovanni Ribisi), Boiler Room

I was planning to write about a different topic this week, but when I saw HBO’s new series “How to Make it in America,” I could not help but express myself (hey hey, hey hey). I don’t know if it's where I stand right now in my life, where I am from, or what I do, but the characters and imagery connected to my nucleus. I often ask myself, and others, why are so many ultra-successful people from New York and its surrounding boroughs... maybe even more the boroughs? I would make a list of the leaders of art and commerce from these areas, but it would be way too long. I am sure one day Malcolm Gladwell will write a book about it, and then talk about it on Oprah: The Borough Effect. I think it's because New York turns the strong into stone-cold Hustlers, and sends the rest back whence they came. As Sinatra says, “if you can make it here you can make it anywhere.” The show’s imagery, wardrobe, dialogue, and emotion struck the essence of Manhattan life, not for all Manhattanites, but the “pleasure-hounding,” ultra-motivated, and surprisingly thoughtful youth who are the subject of my column. The show’s creator and first-time writer, Ian Edelman, is also collaborating with Emmy nominee Rob Weiss on many of the scripts for "Entourage," produced by Mark Wahlberg. The official description of the series is as follows:

"How to Make It in America follows two enterprising Brooklyn twenty-somethings as they hustle their way through New York City, determined to achieve the American Dream. Trying to make a name for themselves in New York's competitive fashion scene, Ben Epstein and his friend and business partner, Cam Calderon, use their street knowledge and connections to bring their ambitions to fruition. With the help of Cam's cousin Rene, who is trying to market his own high-energy drink, and their well-connected friend Domingo, the burgeoning entrepreneurs set out to make it big, encountering obstacles along the way that will require all their ingenuity to overcome.”

This show should be starring everyone I know with a set of balls below the age of 35, literally or figuratively (don’t want to leave out the ladies). See, that is what we all do, we hustle night and day, but not in the way most of our parents did. We go out, we meet people, we get introduced to other people, we dream, some sleep around, we dine and party beyond our means, and sometimes, if we are good and lucky we find success, although luck will only get us so far. Some fall off and get stuck in the dip, unable to climb the hill, while others continue to work, pushing through until they get it right. Ben, the protagonist of the show, took a dive and failed in business and in romance, with his love interest Rachel, played by the beautiful Lake Bell. But by the end of episode one, the hustler’s spirit is back and he is moving toward the next shot. Most people don’t hit it on the first try, and if they do, they are worse off for it years down the road. Hitting it on the first shot is like being born with a trust fund: you have the resources, but lack the humility to respect them. As my old friend, Gordon Gekko says, “Most of these Harvard MBA types – they don't add up to dog shit. Give me guys that are poor, smart, hungry, and no feelings. You win a few, you lose a few, but you keep on fighting.”
 
The show begins with Ben opening the door for his friend Cam, who is coming home after crushing (aka having sex) with some quasi-lesbian and not sleeping.  From that point, I was hooked. Here are some highlights from the show: 

• Ben and Cam’s friend Gingi, is a trust-fund baby living downtown who “doesn’t take money from her father.” I know this kind all too well… they have certain special, “Je ne sais quoi.” 

• Gingi then tries to set Ben up with Jane, “a girl from Nylon,” played by the lovely Samaire Armstrong, who will “definitely have sex” with him. Can you say lay-up? I heard she once got it next to the amps at SL...

• Ben works at Barney’s, where he runs into his friend David, the rich UES Jewish hedge-funder, shopping for jeans with a girl from eros.com. What’s eros.com?

• Cam returns home to his grandmother, played by Tony Montana’s mother from Scarface. He realizes his gangster cousin, played by Pachanga from Carlito’s Way, is back and going to want to collect the money Cam owes him. Can anyone say, “Tribute to Brian Depalma?”

• Cam is at Gingi’s art opening, speaking with a wealthy Asian man. Memorable quote number one: Cam asks the guy for money, to which he replies, “You keep coming to me with these crazy ideas, and maybe some of them might be good. But everybody’s got ideas, nobody wants to put in the work. Don’t tell me what you’re gonna do, show me what you’ve done, and then maybe finally I will write you that check.”

• Ben bumps into his ex with some guy at the art opening. Cam quickly interrupts Ben to take him to an after party at Jane’s Chinatown loft (Jane is the girl from Nylon). Upon arrival, she is trying to get him to drink absinthe – a little behind the times, but great for TV. Marco, some androgynous painter who just got back from Mexico City, goads Ben by saying he would “tear that ass up,” referring to Jane. I really want to smack the shit out of this Marco so bad. He reminds me of one of those people who name-drop famous people they “know,” are supposedly friends with, or once saw. 

• Cam returns with his friend, the immensely talented and street-credible Kid Cudi, and they say they are going to, “get some grub at Blue Ribbon, courtesy of Harold’s Conde Nast expense account.” No expense accounts anymore at Conde Nast, but respect the reference – this shit is fucking awesome. Are they reading our minds? Who writes this shit and where can I meet them?

• Before Cam leaves he drops the best line of the show: “he who hesitates masturbates.”

• The drama continues until we get to the most critical exchange of the episode, setting up the true test of the hustler’s code.

     Cam: At least I am still going for it, not working for “The Man” like you.
     Ben: What are you, 12?  How long are you gonna keep saying “Fuck The Man” for?
     Cam: Until we are the man!

•They go to visit David, the Jew hedge-funder, at his house. He says, “I hardly even graduated but anything is possible in America, even for some loud-mouth Jew.” He offers to let them borrow the money to pay off Cam’s cousin, as long as they help him get on doorman at Avenue’s good side. Tepperberg strikes again.

Upon returning the money to Cam’s cousin, the two young hustlers parlay and borrow more money to start a denim company. 

You can take everything the hustler has – his woman, his money, his smile – but you can never take his spirit. “How to Make It in America” star, Bryan Greenberg, and creator, Ian Edelman, capture the hustler’s spirit, as movies like Wall Street, Boiler Room, and Goodfellas have in the past. 

Don’t miss the chance to be inspired, and whatever you do, don’t knock the hustle.

“How to Make It in America” is on HBO, Sundays at 10 p.m.

See you next time at Cocktail Hour, where more often than not one drink turns into ten and no one knows where and when the night will end.
-AP