Poetry: the stuff of which the dinner at Original Stamatis was made. If you missed this particular Fressenwagen, well, sucks for you. That would be a snooze/lose kind of situation right there.

I'm going to totally admit it: I'm basically phoning this blog entry in. I've had a hell of a week and am leaving for some fun in the sun relaxation in a few minutes, leaving you lovely people to find your way through the mushy gray snow by the side of the road. Not to rub it in. Back to the task at hand.

Reasons the dinner was great, no particular order:

1. I Didn't Drive.

Now look...you know how I love to drive. And I do. I like the sense of control (shocking!). And when I drive, that sense of control is so inextricably interwoven with the exciting element of danger (as anyone in the carpool for the Bukharan place can attest). But the Blizzard of '09 (you think there's going to be another one in the next week?...famous last words) made the prospect of trying to find on-street parking in Queens even less appealing than it had been beforehand. The subway ride was direct, quick and painless. Plus at least one (charming, and handsome, albeit new) person had told me that the F-wagen was in need of at least one intimate rendezvous with a Dustbuster before it would be passenger-ready (said person apparently has higher sanitary standards than the usual crew: who will bend first?). All these factors combined into the perfect storm: an event where I did not have to worry about picking people up who 'run late', and an event where I let control go to the winds. I also forfeited menu ordering and check-calculation responsibilities (and thank our local clergy for performing that service). I'm no lame duck here, by the way -- I'm still in charge, people (insert sound effect of cracking of whip). But I've got to say, it was kind of nice to kick back, relax, pour the wine and see where things went.

2. The Experience Rendered Everyone Incapable Of Substantive Commentary On The Food.

Which is weird, right? Since we're supposed to be GOING FOR THE FOOD, people. Remember?? Sigh. So I only got a few quotes on the food involved in the experience. I'm not freaking Rumpelstiltskin here: I can't knit gold out of straw or whatever the heck that guy did. I list the quotes below. - "That was the best octopus I've ever had in my life." - a non-kosher (albeit, apparently, circumsized) diner. - "Please pass the wine. Again." - Me. - "I always thought it was branzino and not branzini."- kosher poor speller. - "Excellent tzatziki and great bread." -that's what I thought she said but her mouth was full of tzatziki and bread at the time so it was kind of unintelligible. -"I'm still tasting the garlic," one eater said the day after. "Not necessarily in a good way. Is anyone else feeling sick?" I didn't bother to pass that last one on to all of you guys. I'll assume the answer was 'no.'

3. The Group Was...Unusual.

Why? What made the group unusual? Well, let's start by the fact that this was our biggest F-wagen event yet: over thirty people. Two tremendous tables. "It was little like a wedding," one regular said...and he didn't necessarily mean it in a good way (though I'm going to put it out there right now that if there is a Fressenwagen wedding and I'm not invited, there's going to be hell to pay). I do feel the more the merrier...hence why invitations were extended and accepted up to the very last moment.

I'd like some feedback on the size of the group. Many found it a lot of fun. Others found it utterly overwhelming. Suggestions for how to make this a better experience are actively solicited. One new member of the group says he may be able to facilitate packages for true outer borough dining experiences, to the tune of...other cities. Interesting. Again, comments sought. I feel we have miles to go before we sleep/cover all the great restaurant turf locally. Actively soliciting suggestions for January (which I can take or disregard as I see fit).

This truly was an exceptional Fressenwagen. I think we officially crossed a line with this one when I received an e-mail from a friend of a friend saying, "I hear you organize these amazing outer borough dinner parties at out of the way, good restaurants. How do I buy a ticket?" Wheels...turning...

Okay, I can't be nonchalant about it any longer. I mean, who am I kidding? I was totally, totally excited for this Fressenwagen of all Fressenwagens, because of our special guest! And I would be remiss if I didn't mention it.

So let's give it up for...the Fressenwagen Driver's Sister, people!!! (multiple exclamation points!!!!!) God, I LOVE that girl. She came, she ate, she interrogated, she laughed. I daresay the girl even enjoyed herself. Stars: they're just like us!!

Until, that is, she decided to head out on the early side to limit the extortion from the babysitter. I quote from the transcript of an interview with her: "We went to the subway platform and saw a man dressed as a female clown with hair sticking straight up, enormous high heels and gold facepaint in stripes." (Immediately, I wondered, was this someone I dated in 2007? No, he's far away by now...hmm.) She continued: "He was muttering to himself as he paid for his MetroCard."

"And THAT is why I never come to Queens," my outer-borough-phobic sister concluded. "Who knew 'Queens' was not only a name, but a literal thing?"

Happy end of 2009 to all of you, and happy 2010. May it be a year which brings you only happiness, health, joy and good food with old and new friends and loves.

Fluorescent Lighting, Hearts on a Plate, and Thou

Getting there was not half the fun. Nor, necessarily, was getting back, although the company in the disconcertingly-clean Fressenwagen was stellar. But our evening in Rego Park at Cheburechnaya was delicious, cheap and carnivorous.

Let's not go into why I showed up, with my carload of Fressers, twenty minutes late for my own proverbial party. "Don't focus on entertaining the passengers," one of my grateful-to-be-alive riders said as we entered the restaurant, dispensing a bit of unsolicited advice for my future driving. "Just focus on the road." But here's the thing -- I'm really much better at entertaining the passengers. I think we can all agree on that now.

Appropriately enough, this trip entailed the highest number of vehicles going to a Fressenwagen event so far: a culinary caravan, if you will, down the Silk Road of the -stans. Not sure what drew people to the place from the Fressenwagen point of view, though I was delighted to have a great group of 25. Bukharan food: it's interesting, sure, but not on many people's gotta-have lists. Kosher, yeah, for some of us it rocks, but for others, meh. But wait...fluorescent lighting that buzzes from overhead, and flat-screen televisions hanging from the ceiling showing a random computer desktop, with Britney Spears' song "Three" piped in from speakers surrounding a dormant disco ball? Oh, yeah: now I see the appeal.

You needed a minyan to eat at this place: virtually no tables had less than ten occupants in the restaurant. The other tables were mostly multi-generational. Hey, we have East Siders AND West Siders. Rock the casbah.

Those who rose to the challenge of group ordering of appetizers in my absence (namely one Fressenwagen virgin) did a stupendous job. Where there is no woman and a woman is needed, strive to be that woman. Or something like that. The cheburekis, like bourekas on some supersize-it program, were filled with either meat or pumpkin and were completely delicious. 250 calories for half (stupid NYC law). Good babaganoush. The bread was hot, clearly freshly baked and phenomenal, like big steroidal bialys. There were some salad things too, but let's be honest: no one goes to this place for the salad.

I'm going to just come right out and say it: I was jazzed up about the testicles. Yeah, go ahead, read into that one all you want. Look, it's rare for a kosher chica like me to have the opportunity to indulge in experimental eating. So when the opportunity arises, I like to take it (actually, on second thought, please do me a favor and don't read into any of this). So, in ordering, I was excited to say to the waitress, "...and one order of lamb testicles, please." I envisioned tiny little balls of meat (get it?), obviously in pairs, that would give me a most-likely-chewy, unique and culturally-adventurous dining experience.

"We're out of testicles," the waitress said, with what one might contend was a somewhat gruff -- perhaps overly testosterone-inflected? Just sayin'. -- voice.

"Seriously?"

She nodded.

There was no indication given (or requested, for that matter) as to whether the demand for testicles that evening had been so unpredictably high that the supply couldn't live up...or whether she thought our table of neophytes wasn't ballsy enough (okay, I'll stop) to handle it. The Fressenwagen was much more estrogen-heavy than usual this trip, for some reason, so perhaps she found the gender implications of our choice troubling.

After quick consultation, the people-inclined-to-try-something-new-and-somewhat-gross-sounding opted to go for lamb heart instead. Now, as many of you know, I have an internal karaoke machine. I couldn't stop singing to myself: "Piece Of My Heart," Janis Joplin ("TAKE IT!"); "You Give Love A Bad Name," Bon Jovi; "I Left My Heart In San Francisco," Tony Bennett (rather than Frank, oddly), and, of course, "These Dreams," by (who else?) Heart.

All this without Google. The mind reels, nu? I mean, look at all this space on my internal hard-drive being taken up by crap like this. It could be used for so many other, more worthwhile things, like remembering the names of my kids' interchangeable, ephemeral little friends. (I just call them all, male or female, "Morgan.")

Eventually, the plate of "heart" arrived. Disappointingly, it neither had an arrow through it nor was it pulsing with rapidly dissipating vigor like that one in Temple of Doom. It looked a lot like pieces of steak. And it tasted a lot like pieces of steak. The lesson: there's no point in putting your heart on a plate and serving it up to someone...because it just tastes like steak, it's totally gratuitous and it's kind of gross to think about. Maybe that's not the lesson. Anyway. Again, moving on.

Green rice pilaf: rice pilaf like the kind you get out of those Near East boxes, but inexplicably green and filled with tasty, insanely-salty meat, as though someone wondered, "What if we take rice, make it green...and then throw in some beef jerky?" I wasn't a fan of the dolmas, meat-filled grape leaves, but other people seemed to like 'em.

Shishkabob is apparently a specialty. Who doesn't like a meal where tons of stuff shows up on spikes? People thought the quail was better for novelty value than taste, which was described as "gamey." You know, like Battleship or Connect Four. The four quails on a spike did look like they were all coming out with their hands up...sort of sad and amusing at the same time ("You sunk my Battleship!"). A lot of people also enjoyed the "lulya kabab." Lulya, for those who don't know, is apparently what happens when beef and lamb fall into a blender.

The evening was marked by prices that bordered on ridiculous -- $3.50 for a platter of shishkabob? -- and was further cheap-ified by my erroneous impression that the place was BYOB. So there we were, living it up with our own alcohol in plain view. Classy. Yet no one spoke to us about it. I think we were so brazen about it that they must have thought we had links to criminals. $17 per person, apparently including a hefty 30% tip. I mean, that's serious not-knowing-the-value-of-a-dollar.

The drive back was pleasant for the most part, despite some mentions of don't-go-there topics like excessive exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, Jonathan Safran Foer (shudder) and my driving ability. It was pleasant until I dropped off the Fressenwagen's final passenger and said, hopefully not audibly, "Come on, old girl, let's go home," turned the key in the ignition, at which point -- nothing happened.

Thank the Lord for my final passenger, my knight-ess in shining armor, who rather than go to sleep, opted to chill out on the street with me as we waited for the AAA truck that never came and hailed cabs in the hope that one would give me a battery boost. At last, one cab stopped. No, he responded, he did not have jumper cables. He then instructed me that any cab driver (other than him, apparently) would most likely have them.

"Just don't ask some immigrant," he gave me the friendly racist heads-up. Thanks, Mr. Native American. Oh, I'm sorry... since you're clearly NOT actually Native American, I'm pretty damn sure your family's immigrants too, ace. Put that in your Thanksgiving pot pie.

"Why don't YOU have jumper cables?" Mr. Open-minded Taxi Driver asked me, continuing our friendly discourse. I smiled, resisting the urge to reply, "Not to feed into your bigoted worldview, but I'm a pretty privileged Jewish girl from suburban New Jersey. Until tonight, I'd have thought a jumper cable was some sort of oblique reference to an English brand of sweater." Conversation over, he sped off into the night.

Thankfully, My Heroine saved the day by finding a taxi driver (who for the record, clearly was, as we all are, an immigrant) who had jumper cables and, for the slight fee of $20, would be happy to help a damsel in distress. (After telling this story to one passenger of the Fressenwagen, he said that he only charges $15 when he extorts from stranded beautiful women. Very well, passenger: you'll be invited back. Flattery will get you everywhere.)

Morals of the evening's story:

Kindness is never free.

Don't put your heart on a plate. Or Lambchop's.

and, finally, the one we all knew but never put into words...

You just don't need testicles in order to have a good time.

Blue Elm....you saw me standing alone...

Is that not how the song goes? No. No, it isn't. Not only are those not the words, but with around twenty people showing up for this particular F-wagen event, no one was standing alone. No (wo)man is an island.

Blue Elm, Lower East Side. Cuisine from all over the world, conveniently placed in one somewhat teeny, albeit gorgeous Orchard Street location. Well, I certainly know all about teeny and gorgeous. Hmm...my sense of humor may be off today. Anyway, why the name Blue Elm? My friend Avi, the restaurant's owner, told me the reason behind the name choice: "I picked a name that I could spell, pronounce and understand."

You see, Avi is a simple man. He opened Blue Elm last month. We (and by "we" I mean "you guys as coordinated by me") decided to go support a friend's new business...and to test the limits of his patience. As it turns out, his patience is limitless, and Blue Elm's food is delicious. Everyone's happy.

Technically, was this adventure really a Fressenwagen event if it neither took place in the outer boroughs, nor employed the Fressenwagen? Being the dictator that I am, I'm going to go with "yes." Not that I need to justify myself to any of you, but I will do so anyway for the more contentious ones among us.

:Fressenwagen trips do not have to be to the outer boroughs. It's generally preferable because those tend to be the restaurants offering the ideal combination of esoteric, inexpensive deliciousness critical to a successful F-wagen event. But a Fressenwagen event is really solely defined by whether or not I say it is a Fressenwagen event.

:Fressenwagen trips should, ideally, involve the Fressenwagen, but her involvement is not as mandatory a component to the experience as, say, food. The F-wagen was parked, alone and unmolested, on Orchard Street just a hop, skip and a jump away from Blue Elm. I daresay she wondered why no one was gracing her pretzel-encrusted pleather. But really, in a week when someone could win the Nobel Peace Prize without establishing peace (ooh, snap!), surely it's not too radical of a logical leap that there can be a Fressenwagen event which does not involve group transportation in the Fressenwagen.

And yet I will concede that something was missing...like the motivation to clean my backseat. Where *is* that f*&5@!$ open chocolate milk container? Eh, whatever...good teachable moment about bacteria.

Where were we? "We" being "me"again...oh, yes.

Blue Elm is a truly gorgeous space. Wood-paneled walls, paintings of lush-looking tropical flowers, intimate lighting. I wanted the designer to come to my place and get to work. The place, however, seemed to draw people with my general aesthetic. I noticed someone not in our party wearing the same dress I'd worn to my birthday party earlier this year (the red strapless one, for those who keep track. Um, chilly? In the words of the arguably immortal group Expose, "seasons change.").

Blue Elm is not only gorgeous physically, but the service that we received there was the best we've had at any dinner together. That was no small feat. We were a HUGE party that not only kept growing with every passing 15 minute interval, but also kept switching seats due to the pushy insistence of the Napoleon-complex Fressenwagen Driver who wanted to make sure everyone met one another. Despite what could have been chaos, Avi and his crew kept everyone happy and even seemed happy themselves. Perhaps Avi, due to his sordid past as a lawyer, was well-versed in how to deal with annoying people. The lovely Meli, our waitress, knew everyone's names and by the end of the night seemed almost sad to see us go. Almost. She even reminded me that I had forgotten my iPod when I was already out the door (though arguably perhaps she didn't want it within a 500 foot radius of her after she heard some of my more offensive 80s workout music picks).

The drinks received universal praise from those who indulged. One person called the lychee martini "the best I've had in Manhattan," and another admired the Pinot Noir. The food mirrors Chef Malik Fall's worldly upbringing and training, in Senegal, France and Asia. For $20 per person, we got a three course prix fixe trip around the world.

What is not to like about french fries? I'll answer you: nothing. And I'm all in favor of them as starters, as entrees, as desserts, what have you. But they're really perfect when presented, as they were here, with a deliciously spiced mayonnaise, a sriracha-inflected aioli, and a little condiment I like to call "ketchup." Tasty. Everyone loved the lamb and the steak. The salmon with hearts of palm got mixed reviews -- some loved it, some thought the yucca was too much.

The sushi was exceptional and universally loved -- fresh, beautifully presented and exquisitely tasty. Avi himself says he eats the sushi almost every night, with the personal goal of becoming the next Jeremy Piven. Well, I've hung out with both Avi and Jeremy Piven and much prefer the former to the latter. Let's compare and contrast. Avi thought I looked hungry and offered me his favorite roll, the Golden Dragon, a beautiful and simple essay in salmon deliciousness. In contrast, Jeremy Piven thought I looked like I'd be interested in any dreck he'd have to give me and offered me his off-the-cuff, flamboyantly-signed pen-and-ink doodle of Michael Jackson (of blessed memory) as a Hasidic Jew. It's no contest. The Golden Dragon tasted SO much better.

Love was expressed for the bitter chocolate gelato...but really, again, what's not to like? I mean, I love chocolate, and I can be bitter. It was a match made in heaven. When I asked those eating it if the pineapple mint gelato tasted like a cruise ship in the mouth, I was met with both blank stares and vehement nods of drunken acquiescence. The mojito sorbet was, rumor has it, "luscious." At this point, people may have been too inebriated to provide truly meaningful feedback.

Some members of our party seemed confused by the fusion of Blue Elm's three disparate cuisines. "When one eats french fries and sushi as a first course, the question of 'fusion' versus 'eclectic' versus 'random' comes up," one dissenter e-mailed me after the fact.

I get it -- it's unfamiliar, and there's a degree of cognitive dissonance afoot. It's true that Blue Elm doesn't have the traditional thematic cohesiveness of your usual restaurant. But I, for one, would gladly trade that element of cohesiveness for the things that we *did* get in return: fresh and delicious food, beautiful setting and amazing service, for an unbelievable price. $20. I mean, I've paid that for an overpriced pair of tights. And they ripped.

Plus, there's an unseen bonus to Blue Elm. As Avi told me, perhaps off-the-record, "a consulting firm the restaurant hired determined that 69.2% of all dates at Blue Elm will result in at least some dry humping." Insert some joke about "fusion" here.

"We use the finest French, Asian and West African aphrodisiacs in our cuisine," Avi elaborated. "I challenge One If By Land, Two If By Sea to show a higher amore rate."

Really, what more can I say? Seacrest out.

Too Little, Too Late

It's been a while, my darlings. How are you? Have you missed my graham-cracker-encrusted back seat? My unpleasantly-sticky seatbelts? Yes, yes, I thought you had.

Let's get back into the swing of things, shall we? It was pointed out to me, somewhat indelicately, that I never wrote about Mimi's Hummus. Which was totally unfair of me, I might add, because Mimi's Hummus was AMAZING.

The odyssey to Mimi's is a long one from Manhattan. Not sure how it would fly on public transportation, but our drive (Garmin-less, though aided by our Boston native's technical guidance) felt a bit on the long side. Parking was fairly easy, though, on a Sunday night, and Ditmas Park is a neighborhood which has unsung virtues -- lovely large houses, seemingly extracted from another era, and Mimi's.

In contrast to the houses in the surrounding neighborhood, Mimi's is modern and small. Hence why people can't announce at the last minute that they want to bring four extra friends (ahem). Our table of 12 almost filled the restaurant, much to the chagrin of those waiting outside (at one point in the torrential rain).

One of the best parts of the F-wagen, besides the company of course, is the ability to gesture flamboyantly over the menu and say, "We'll have at least one of everything, please." When I do it, I feel vaguely like I am channeling Louis XIV -- Louis XIV, of course, having developed a strange predilection for Middle Eastern food and the company of an eclectic group of internationals, writers and clergy.

Out came the hummus. Avid readers of this blog (of which I feel fairly confident that there are none) will remember that I don't even particularly like hummus, a.k.a. in my rude mind as "wallpaper paste." No longer the case! Loving Mimi's. The blend, the flavors -- amazing. But my personal favorite were the brown-rice stuffed grape leaves. SO FANTASTIC. My mouth is watering even describing them. I'm inches away from jumping into the car and gunning it for Ditmas Park.

The rest of the meal was also superb; the memory of it, unfortunately, has nearly completely dissipated, due to the lethal combination of the passage of time and the consumption of wine. BYOBs, in my opinion, are so much better than the alternative, especially in a big group context. But I dimly recall that everyone was raving about the lamb. I'm sure people will post comments (hint: please post comments).

Two salient details remain. Mimi was AMAZING. Yes, "the" Mimi. She could not have been more accommodating of our party, more kind about the fact that we took up half the restaurant, more solicitous or run a more delicious restaurant. I recommend this one full-stop. And the second detail was that after having ordered everything on the menu, the bill came and everyone had to put in a whopping $28. Un-be-lievable.

Tell all your friends about this place. It's a keeper.

The Wagen rolls again. As do some of your eyes at my humor.

Sneakily Clever

I am just tooting my own horn (funny on SO many levels) here: I have won third place in a poetry contest. Unfortunately/fortunately, it was a BAD poetry contest. And Jewish, no less. Oy. But it does have to do with food. Doesn't everything?

My entry, "Blue Dishes," (yeah, let's pretend it was my only entry), was called a "sneakily clever paean." Oh, indeed. Because if there is one thing I am, it's sneakily clever.

And here, the write-up and the poem.

Here’s our third-place winner. — who’s written plenty of non-bad material — treats us to this saga that mixes G-dly love, the love of complicated relationships, food love, and love of being rebellious. (And, really, what says “Jewish” more than food, religious laws, and contrariness?)

For her pains, she wins a copy of David M. Bader’s Haikus for Jews — and bragging rights at any party at which she appears for the next 365 days.

Blue Dishes

He said blue dishes “looked dairy,”

She said she’d use them for meat.

He told her, stop being contrary

But she said she wouldn’t retreat.

You would think that someday, the fight would go away

That love and time both would resolve it.

But you would be wrong: Marriage can be quite long

And if anything, this fight dissolved it.

There are those who contend that she went ’round the bend

And purely had acted from spite

When, on their silver, he came down the stairs

And was shocked when he turned on the light.

Surrounded by blue dishes in the kitchen was she

She gestured and said, “Here I am!

I TOLD you these dishes were better for meat!”

And he saw. They were covered with ham.

Whitefish. A Love Story.

Okay. Let's talk about a few things.

First, never blog after you've had a glass of wine. You may misspell. Mortifying.

Second, let's go into how awesome my job is (with the exception of the whole inconsistency-of-pay thing). It's AWESOME. I really almost misspelled "awesome."

Wow, I am SO going to regret this.

But I think of you, my five readers, above and beyond anyone else. Well, that's not really true. But it was extremely important to me that I alert all five of you (feel free to comment so that I have some small sense of personal validation) to this...

AUGUST 26TH.

RUSS & DAUGHTERS. A TASTE OF APPETIZING.

I'm not sure if you know what that means, so I will elaborate.

A TASTING. Of countless offerings of HERRING. And NOVA. And OTHER SMOKED FISH. From the head of the "Louvre of Lox" (no, sadly, I did not think of that) = Russ & Daughters. One of Anthony Bourdain's 13 Places To Eat Before You Die. Egregiously enough, I have NEVER eaten their allegedly magnificent wares. This is an omission that needs to be rectified. It's right up there with never having been to Japan or never...um, okay, I'm going to keep that one private.

Back to the topic at hand, I've never eaten the joys of Russ & Daughters. This, despite having a five year old son who, if faced with the choice of only having to eat one food for the rest of his life, would without hesitation and with no small amount of glee, select nova. It makes me schepp naches. I have done something right in my life. But I have never provided him with the gold standard of smoked fish. I have SETTLED. Well, NO MAS.

I'm covering the tasting. Meaning, I go to said tasting. I taste. I savor. I write. I get paid.

I mean, who needs Babeland?? Herring, people!!! HOT!!!

But you, too, can attend, and are most welcome. I will pretend we have never met and will behave in a very professional fashion.

http://www.russanddaughters.com/event_details.php?nID=278

There are some things in the world I simply cannot understand. Causeless hatred, for one. Deliberate cruelty, another. And a third: How could you NOT want to reschedule your entire life so as to attend said function?

Okay, let's close with this bit of wonderful goodness...

http://blog.russanddaughters.com/2009/04/02/whitefish-a-love-story-a-short-film/#more-1081

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Julie & Julia & Jubilance

Hi to all. Just saw Julie & Julia last night, and felt the obligation to write. Not only because she wrote a blog and then turned a corner and HELLO! people were raining cash down on her head (don't worry -- I've put up my money umbrella just in case of such a contingency), but also because of all the attention that's been focused on eating and food as a result of the film.

I separate those two categories, "eating" and "food," though one could convincingly argue that you can't have one without the other. In watching the film, I realized that eating, for me, is not just about the food. Don't get me wrong: I enjoyed the movie in that it went into savoring the act of creating the food. I love cooking, though I rarely get to do it to the extent that I'd like, and particularly like baking. But I'll admit that it is not the act itself that is my favorite part -- it's the experience of eating it afterwards, with good company.

Maybe it's because of my having grown up in a big family, but I don't think I could ever enjoy a meal eaten alone nearly as much as I'd enjoy a meal eaten with others. On my [unnamed though fairly obvious ethnic dating website] profile, I'm asked for my "ideal relationship." Well, I know very well what that's NOT, but that's not the question. I attempt to answer the question by saying something along the lines of the following: "I once read a Wall Street Journal article which says that you can have great food and great wine, but the ideal pairing makes each one of those things better than it would have been alone." I then courteously point out that I am using a metaphor to make a point (for the benefit of the not-so-smart guys out there; I'm trying to widen my pool a bit).

For some, food without wine is wasted. But for me, food without company could never be as good as it would be if it were eaten with others. It is the marriage of two of my favorite things -- learning about people and savoring exquisite tastes. Brown paper packages tied up with string -- please, girlfriend.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense to me that I don't want to have eating without company. Growing up, my parents always placed a premium on eating together as a family. Sure, when we were little, there were two seatings -- one for the kids and one for my parents, and each one of us knew we'd 'arrived' when we were allowed to attend the latter. But conversation was always wonderfully lively (ask me another time to elaborate on the conversational "egg timer system" and the "Olympic judges"), and the food was a delicious accoutrement to us getting to know each other as individuals.

Skip ahead to law school, when I'd organize "Big Night" dinners for moot court practice. Everyone would come over and bring something they'd cooked, wine and occasionally a brief we were working on. In college, grad school and law school, Shabbat dinners were always a place where we could get together and create our own worlds of conversation and cooking. Friendship and fressing, if you will (and I will!).

A few years later, I'm working around the clock at a law firm on a case that would have given Kafka ulcers. Yet every night, our 20-man/woman team would, at my pushy little impetus, take time out for a dinner I'd have ordered in. Some nights Colbeh (Persian), some nights Chinese (Shun Lee - big client!), Greek, Lebanese, Italian, you name it...we'd take an hour off the billable clock, sit around a huge table in the conference room and get to know each other as people.

And now, the Fressenwagen. I love eating and getting to know all of you, and feel very lucky that we live in/near the best city in the world in which to do it.

Leave the Gun, Take the Hummus

Was that not the original quote? My bad.

Hummus. Never something I've been particularly fond of, by the way. Whether it's the color or the consistency, I can take it or leave it. That being said, I have an adorable 2 year old nephew. He is fixated on two things in life: alligators and hummus. If he could wear an Izod shirt and bathe in a tub of hummus, the kid would be in heaven. He eats hummus on everything possible: hamburgers, chicken, chips, whatever. He'd put it on ice cream as a topping if my sister would let him.

So in deference to him, I'll give it another go. So it looks like wallpaper paste. So what? One person's condiment is another man's food group.

Plus, the reviews of our next destination, Mimi's Hummus, look quite good, and Mimi was super nice and accommodating. We're in.

It Is Our Time.

The current economic climate has its bad points. For example, people have less money. However, this situation is not just a potential cesspool for the breeding of bigotry and irrational mob thinking -- it also fortunately lends itself to restaurant adventures with great food and low(er) prices. See this article in Zagat Buzz which focuses on Matthieu Palombino of Motorino:

http://www.zagat.com/Blog/Detail.aspx?SNP=NNYC&SCID=40&BLGID=22525&zagatbuzzid=july09week5

I'll posit the idea that the Fressenwagen itself is particularly in tune with the zeitgeist. For example, this is a time which demands a sense of humor -- and we are funny (some of us more than others...no names mentioned). It is an era in which our celebrity-focus has rendered us more superficial and focused on appearances -- and we are attractive (some of us...see previous parenthetical). We are contemplative and self-aware, in a self-deprecating and yet not 1990s "Reality Bites" uber-ironic kind of way. We are even eco-friendly. Okay, fine, we use an SUV rather than public transport...picky, picky!!...but in fairness, we try to squeeze as many people as possible inside said vehicle. Kind of like a clown car, but with less frightening content.

Okay, of course, if it was REALLY in tune with the zeitgeist, I'd have figured out a good way to make cold hard cash off this thing by now.

The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of other things. It is time to discuss our next adventure, most likely for the end of August. I'd even be willing to do two in a row, because I like you guys. Some of you more than others. No names mentioned.

S. proposed authentic Greek in Astoria; J. has posited Italian/pizza in the Bronx or Chinese in Queens. And I'm going to put two other options on the table. The first is Enoteca Maria, a 35-seat place in Staten Island with no chef, just a rotating cast of Italian grandmothers.

http://www.enotecamaria.com/wp/

I've had two great experiences with Kampuchea, which is one of (to my knowledge) two Cambodian restaurants in New York City. Kampuchea is on the Lower East Side; their website is www.kampucheanyc.com. The only other Cambodian restaurant I know of in NYC is in Fort Greene. I went there a few years ago but it simply cannot compare with Kampuchea, which is great summer fare, open-air long-table seating and an interesting beer list.

An aspiring Fresser (?) sent me the following list:

1. Brighton Beach for Russian food. [note: this has been suggested by long-term Fresser E. as well]

2. Beer gardens in Long Island City, Queens (Studio Square) or Williamsburg, Brooklyn (Radegast Hall & Biergarten).

3. Also we could make a longer day of it and see the minor league Staten Island Yankees, followed by or preceeded by a meal at Sunshine Sri Lankan Restaurant: 3 Corson Avenue (Victory Blvd), New Brighton, Staten Island.

4. Barbecue! Daisy May's on 46th Street and 11th Avenue in Manhattan is a personal favorite.

5. Dumplings in Chinatown or Flushing Queens (the challenge is if there is enough veggie stuff without pork, that may be tricky...)

6. Locanda Verde (Robert DeNiro's new place in Tribeca). [note: I've wanted to try this one as well.]

7. Arepa Arepa, Willamsburg, Brooklyn - tasty Venezuelan sandwiches (kosher-friendly) and we could combine this with the beergarden (#2) for an adventure.

I'll keep thinking. Motorino was inspired, wish I had been able to make it.

I like his spunk. I also like the characterization of my choice of eatery as "inspired." Ass kissing will get you far, my friend.

To make it clear, there is no limit on the amount of destinations you can suggest. I'd also like to posit that our limits should be economic rather than geographic. That is to say, "outer borough" can be a euphemism for "comparatively inexpensive."

BRING IT, people. Fress on.

Motorino. We Came. We Ate. And Then We Ate More.

A friend of Liz Gilbert's in her bestseller Eat, Pray, Love, remarked that her trip to Italy was Gilbert's own personal "No Carb Left Behind" tour. Whatever carbs may have been left behind, fear not: we found them at Motorino and consumed them. And those that we didn't, well, we took those babies home. No carb should be left unattended. That's, like, a life-principle. Since one of us finished the NYC Triathlon that very morning, we all had to carbo-load. (As one participant remarked, she considered this dinner the third leg of her own triathlon: mani, pedi, pizza.) Armed with that flawless logic, we braved the storm/beautiful weather/storm/hail/humidity/lightning in the name of grub. One more, in the name of grub. Okay, I'll stop now.

This was the biggest Fressenvagen field trip yet. Numerically, we were approaching 20. Geographically, people had come from as far afield as South Africa, Mexico, Philadelphia, New Jersey and Westchester to join the merry band (poetic license, people!!!). All who were hungry came and ate. And ate.

Our group arrived so hungry -- whether due to athletic accomplishments, timing or deliberately having starved themselves -- that some contemplated eating the small, strange plants on the table (see left foreground of picture). They refrained. Joe, who helped me arrange the menu and the reservation, was nothing short of heroic.

Quickly, the food arrived in a veritable deluge. We had a chef-selected prix fixe menu, and one of the first things out of the gate was the bread.

Oh, the amazing bread! In my opinion, the crust is what really made the pizza here transcendent, and the bread was basically that crust in all its heaven-sent glory. Spongy goodness. I felt like bringing out the bread first was sort of like a guy pulling up to a first date in a brand-spanking new Ferrari: it's a little much, but hell, show it off if you got it, baby!

I'm really not the best person to be writing this part as I did not sample from the charcuterie or whatever you call a plate of magazine-photograph-worthy pink and rose veined meats. The salads were good, not over the moon good, but good.

Let's skip ahead to the pizzas, shall we? Ahead ahead, as in to this morning, the day after this event, when I consumed my personal box of pizza pleasure for breakfast and lunch. Delicious cold, I might add, as well as hot. And even now, as I sit, I fantasize about that crust. The naan analogy which other writers have made fails: this is in a class by itself. It's charcoaly without it being too much, it's pillow-like without being Pillsbury, it's thin and thick eerily exactly where it should be.The closest simile I can draw to the crust is getting back to the first date analogy. I am thinking about this crust the way you think about an amazing first kiss. You think, "Wow, that was fantastic." You try to reimagine it and its attendant sensations. And then you think, "I'd like some more, please." Sigh.

At one point, which I'll call The Tipping Point, the numbers of pizzas approaching our table made the jump from Plenty to Parody. I felt a little like Lucy, except rather than a conveyor belt line with chocolates, it was a conveyor belt of endless amazing pizzas. The analogy also fails because I was not required to wear a poufy hat. How anyone else in the place got served besides us is utterly beyond me.

There was so much food that it was almost too overwhelming, if such a thing is possible. See, here's the thing: when you consume such an insane amount of food, at a certain point, your vision actually becomes blurred. You wonder: will I actually have a heart attack here? Who will drive my friends home?

After all the leftover pizzas were boxed for ease of transport, it became apparent that it was not over: yes, there was still dessert coming! Phew, what a relief THAT was. As the desserts were placed before us on the table, they were greeted by groans, sighs and expressions of fleeting horror. Fortunately, no one in this group had any shame, and most had worn expandable items of clothing.

The desserts are really way better than they need to be at a place where only the most obscenely non-self-conscious patrons (see above photograph) would indulge after a meal. Most agreed that the tiramisu, in particular, was awesome.

"I would swim in that strawberry soup if I could, it was so refreshing and delicious!," one eater remarked in a post-game e-mail. I totally agree...and have to admit that, in light of just how much food we were plied with, I'm a little taken aback that that wasn't an option. But perhaps it is just as well. As said eater continued to note, "all the dough I consumed last night would likely weigh me down and I would drown. At least I'd go down happy and content!" she concluded.

Maybe we could get those guys who were playing the violins on the Titanic when it went down...no, wait, they are probably not available. Why do people always play violins when the sh*t starts to hit the fan, by the way? Without even trying too hard, the following examples immediately leap to mind: 1. The Titanic. 2. Rome burning, Nero fiddling. 3. Shriek-y violins in Psycho. Yet the sound of schmaltzy violins generally accompanies being overcome by love, kisses or passionate emotion...which I'm loath to equate with disaster. Whoa, tangent.

If there were a soundtrack for this meal, what would be on it? Suggestions actively solicited.

“Too much of a good thing can be wonderful.” Mae West

Sweet Lord, I'm full. More tomorrow. Time to see what one dreams about after consuming 20 pounds of food.

Dough Hits The Fan

Intrigue in the world of power pizzas.

http://newyork.grubstreet.com/2009/07/anthony_mangieri_closes_una_pi.html

Pre-Fressenvagen Musings, a.k.a. Homework

So our next jaunt is going to be Motorino, pizza palace extraordinaire, which I was all kinds of psyched about. Am all kinds of psyched about. Just bear with me.

I'm wandering around the kitchen, thinking my usual assortment of profound thoughts. At that particular point in time, these were a convoluted combination of a) "Holy cow, changing the Diaspora Museum in Tel Aviv to a place that views the Diaspora as being on par with Israel is a total narrative game-changer, and has tremendous implications for the modern forecast for Zionism." b) "Why was the coffee I had last night so much better than any coffee I have had any other day? And why did I drink coffee at 10:30 p.m.?" and c) "I'm hungry."

As I wait for the barbecue to heat up to start grilling some chicken, I look at the pile of magazines my mother has stolen/"borrowed" from the waiting room at the doctor's office ("When's your next appointment?" "Sometime next year. Why do you ask?" "No reason."). The Jackpot of the Waiting Room: I see New York Magazine, with some extremely tasty looking pizzas on its cover. After I briefly wonder about food photography -- you know, how that creamy fresh, milky mozzarella you're looking at is probably congealed Elmer's, etc. -- I flip it open to The Top 20 Pizzas Of The Moment.

Ah, the top 20 pizzas of the moment according to two random people I've never met. I have to admit that I was vaguely annoyed to imagine said writers high-fiving each other over pizzas and beer and saying things like "Dude, we have the BEST JOB EVER."

Although in fairness, journalism is one of the best jobs ever, when it actually pays and you get to do fun stuff (Exhibit A: Me, 7 months pregnant, getting the magazine assignment of "Find The Best Pregnancy Massage In Philadelphia." Sweet!). But let's move on from my I-don't-get-paid-to-eat-kickass-pizza bitterness.

According to the list, Motorino is number 8. Still in the top ten, but by the skin of its cheese.

http://nymag.com/restaurants/cheapeats/2009/57893/

I can only conclude that we are sort of obligated to go to at least 2 of the top 5 in the next year.

We have much work to do, my friends. Miles to go before we sleep.

Willkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome!!

There are those who say that there is nothing new under the sun. Ecclesiastes, for one. But the Internet is a venue in which people can attempt to disprove that idea, and fail miserably.

"Why don't I blog about cat pregnancy?"

"The whole world wants to hear my thoughts about being a suburban mom!"

"I'm REALLY funny, so maybe I should post my lame attempts at humor! LOL!"

But who am I...nay, who are we, dear readers, to say that we are beyond such omphaloskepsis? No, we are like you. We are random people -- writers, clergymen, lawyers, finance people, blah blah blah -- who have been carefully selected for outer-borough food journeys in one suburban mother's ostentatiously large SUV.

We go.

We eat.

We will report back.

You will probably not care.