The novelistic dog diversion

Check out this darling piece published by Slate last week, that my co-worker sent to me. It's on the role of the obligatory dog bark in a moment of great tension in the modern novel. As a lover of both barks and books, I do appreciate the recognition the dog's voice gains here for its purpose in contemporary fiction, albeit brief.

3 hours, 5 glasses of wine, and a short drive home

Last week, I cashed in on my birthday gift from Dan and choose to make reservations for the both of us at a wine pairing dinner at A Mano, a pizzeria Napolitano in suburban-swanky Ridgewood, NJ. I read an ad in The Record that advertised a five-course meal with pairings from Alba Vineyard (located in Milford, NJ) for only $35, which included tax & tip. We had been to A Mano a few years ago to sample their Napolitano style pizza (they import the flour from Napoli and make the mozzarella on site), and I was thrilled to see that they served my favorite: mozzarella di buffala (buffalo mozz pizza).

The dinner was on Tuesday night at 7:00, and when we arrived we were seated in a private room at the back of the restaurant. As I twiddled our thumbs in anticipation and eyed the evening's menu, Tiziano Ferro, my current pop-music obsession, came on the stereo and I FLIPPED (though very discretely)! Dan rolled his eyes while I squealed--it was a perfect start to the evening.

The first item they brought out was a small pizza (plain without toppings - a typical appetizer) with olives, which I didn't see on our menu, but was delighted to see on our table. I had to use a good amount of self-control not to wolf it down. Shortly after, they brought out a white Mansail wine, which I've never tried before. It was citrusy and light, and within minutes I wolfed that down. With the wine they served a pinwheel of mozz, prosciutto and veggies, which was a bit soggy and flavorless. After that came the insalata di mare, which I never thoroughly enjoyed in Italy (even in Sicily I was weary), but this was a refreshing dish. A chilled bowl of shrimp, conch, scallops and meaty mussels with olive oil and red onion was so uncomplicated and enjoyable. The Chardonnay, however, was not (I'm generally not a fan). It was pretty much chilled torture in a glass.

Forgive me, but oh did I eat some meat that night: tasty ground beef blanketing the lasagna bolognese. It had a great texture and a succulent red sauce, but I, for the life of me, could not find a single lasagna noodle within. The dish should simply have been called "bolognese" as there was no evidence of any pasta. It was served with a godly Merlot, which I stupidly gulped and then fought Dan for his. Again, I was discrete about it.

To, quite literally, pile it on, we were then served a pecorino and porcini pizza, which our waiter placed on our table and told us to "dig in" because it's best fresh out of the oven. We could barely move at this point, but we did, just for the sake of the pizza. The creamy tang of the pecorino, which I've never had before on a pizza, was delicious. Sidenote: this would NEVER happen in Italy! When you're done with the second course, you move onto the fruit and cheese and basta, not another second course. This was served with a rich Cabernet Sauvignon, which was decent and not too dry. I felt guilty asking our waiter to box the rest of our pizza for us - I knew it wouldn't taste the same ever again, and that's the point of Italian cooking: you eat it now, no leftovers. Tupperware doesn't exist in Italy (even Rome)!

For dessert was a creamy tiramisu and a hazelnut gelato. Both were fantastic, and I craved more despite my seriously topped-off stomach. Dessert came with a white, dry Riesling, which I'm sure I drank, but can't recall a thing about. By this time, I had the giggles and trouble finding the bathroom (ah, what it means to be wined-up).

The only setback was our bill, which we were told would include tax and tip, when it included neither. Despite that, it was well worth a little extra since $35 was such a reasonable price in the first place.

We headed out the door at around 10:00, thanking the helpful wait staff and some guy in white, who I would image was the head chef (?). The rest of the crowd seemed pleased: parties of women perhaps having a "girls night out", other older couples, and us (the kids of the group).

Oh, mother.

It's as if she's never encountered an answering machine before, despite her years of telephone (and, can you believe it?) cellphone usage.

This shit is gold.

Meeting the Man

On Tuesday, my friend (and trusty co-worker) Maegan and I walked into the Barnes and Noble in Union Square, and right behind us was Tony himself. As I squealed and ran to a safe spot, poor Maegan got to see why you really can't take me anywhere. I FREAKED, and we spent the next two hours musing over what clever, provocative, utterly amazing words to spout at him during the precious seconds we had in his presence. What are you expected to say to a magnanimous personality of his almost cultish fame, who's traveled to every country, met every person, and eaten every kind of delicacy I don't even have the ability to dream of?

Maegan and I stood with bated breath in the standing-room-only section (yes, amongst the bookcases), while Anthony read a few pages from his new book, and then took on an obligatory Q&A session. We darted to the "Line forms here" sign, only to discover we were in the secondary line. We were not discouraged by a hair. Instead, we took advantage of the extra time to brainstorm a few lines. Maegan settled on mentioning her boyfriend's aspirations (he's a professional chef), while I thought it would be nice to say something like, "So when are you coming back to Jersey?" (Bourdain was born and raised in Leonia). By the time we were ushered toward the stage, I looked around: those remaining were swooning, twenty-something females, just like us. How could we possible stand out?

Short answer: we didn't. I said, "Hi Tony." The music (Rolling Stones) was loud. His publicist (certainly a female Asian kickboxer) was intimidating. He scribbled our names in our spanking-new hardcovers, and I told him I might throw up. Then we said thanks and walked away. "Mission accomplished!" Maegan chirped. "I hate myself", I groaned.

In retrospect, I'm over it. I doubt he even heard my vomitacious threat, and you know how he is about hum drum book signings--who fucking cares? ...my God I love him.

From Medium Raw (Ecco, 2010):
There is no debating that it's "better" to cook at home whenever--and as often as--possible.

It's cheaper, for sure. It's almost always healthier than what you might otherwise be ordering as takeout--or eating at a restaurant. And it is probably better for society.

We know, for instance, that there is a direct, inverse relationship between frequency of family meals and social problems. Bluntly stated, members of families who eat together regularly are statistically less likely to stick up liquor stores, blow up meth labs, give birth to crack babies, commit suicide, or make donkey porn. If Little Timmy had just had more meatloaf, he might not have grown up to fill chest freezers with Cub Scout parts.