La Siciliana

A hearty combination with a typical Sicilian flavor profile — olives, anchovies, cauliflower and capers. Bucatini or pici can be substituted in place of fusilli. For this recipe, I used chives instead of parsley because that’s what I had on hand.

Fusilli with olives and cauliflower

cooked pasta + 2-3 reserved tablespoons pasta cooking water
roasted cauliflower
4-5 cloves of garlic, minced
extra-virgin olive oil
olives, pitted and chopped (use Kalamata, oil-cured or Gaeta)
capers, drained
oil-packed anchovy fillets
Italian parsley, chopped

For the roasted cauliflower: Break a head of cauliflower into florets, toss with extra-virgin olive oil and kosher salt, and roast in a 350 F oven for 45 minutes to 1 hour or until the cauliflower turns golden brown. You may wish to stir every ten minutes or so, in order to brown the cauliflower evenly.

For the sauce: Heat olive oil in a large frying pan. Add the garlic and fry, stirring frequently, for about 2-3 minutes or until translucent. Add the olives, capers, anchovies and parsley, and continue cooking, stirring for 3-4 more minutes until the anchovies break down and dissolve. Add roasted cauliflower. Toss.

Assembly: Add cooked pasta to the pan with a few tablespoons of the pasta cooking water. Cook, stirring, for a couple of minutes until all the flavors belnd. Transfer to a warmed shallow bowl and serve immediately.

Roberto

Today’s mail brought
your memorial announcement
from Miguel.

Hadn’t seen you
for a couple of months
since you returned
to junk, bottles
and crystal.

You called the night
before you died
I was out.
Left you a message.

Recent photo
on a cover
still a clothes horse,
your hair shoulder length,
as it was
three years ago,
we battled booze
with hands dripping
water from the sink,
talking in the thick
snowy TV light
about how life was better
without hangovers
and men

I hold in my hands
the image you liked;
handsome, scruffy,
ink on arms and
the small of your back

I picture Miguel
paying his respects
to your corpse
early that morning;
on the bathroom floor
splattered with blood,
falling after jacking up,
face against sink,
shattering nose
on your face.

Roberto, you were all face.

Staying Put

After all the drama, all the apartments and various ads on Craigslist, I’ve decided to stay put.

I kinda like my space even though the shower is temperamental, the smoke alarm goes off when I’m boiling water, and I have to schlep three long blocks to the subway every morning.

I appreciate that I can lounge around in underwear or less, that I can play CDs at a fairly loud volume and not have to deal with whiny vegetarians.

I can finally buckle down and start saving/budgeting like the responsible hobbit I’ve always wanted to be.

What’s not to like?

Confidential to Michael: You’ve got a nice apartment and everything, but I’m just not keen on moving back to Queens. I guess I’m spoiled.

In the Groove

Duck pate, pistachio and onion marmalade
2006 Pazo San Mauro Albariño Rias Baixas, Spain

Veal cappellaci, sage, cauliflower, lemon butter sauce

Black tagliatelle, lobster, chorizo, calamari, mussels

Striped bass, crab, sunchokes, mizuna

Grouper, sweet onions, trumpet royale mushrooms

Rack of pork, braised pork belly, baby turnips, Adirondack blue potatoes

Lemon mango meringue

Apple chutney, honey; assorted breads

Selection of cheeses

Left to right: Vermont shepherd (raw sheep’s milk cheese from Major Farms Vermont Shepherd, Putney, Vermont), Shusan Snow (raw sheep’s milk cheese from J-Corner Field Farm, Shushan, New York), Vacherin Mont d’Or (washed-rind cow’s milk cheese from La Chaux, Switzerland), Saenkanter Gouda (cow’s milk cheese from Zaandam, Holland), Bayley Hazen (raw cow’s milk cheese from Jasper Hill Creamery, Greensboro, Vermont)

2003 Sauternes, Chateau Climens, Barsac, France

Warm chocolate bread pudding, cacao nib ice cream

Opened in 1994 by restauranteur Danny Meyer and then-executive chef Tom Colicchio, Gramercy Tavern was a bold experiment to reinvent the notion of classic luxury American dining according to modern sensibilities. Ruth Reichl declared it a restaurant with near limitless potential and awarded it two stars in her review.

Fast forward twelve years later. For many years, the restaurant coasted along on its laurels. The food, neither scintillating nor depressed, simply just was. Ennui had set in.

No more. Chef Michael Anthony, formerly of L’Arpege (Paris), L’Astrance (Paris), Daniel (New York), March (New York), Blue Hill Washington Square and most recently, Blue Hill Stone Barns, is the current executive chef at GT. Mr. Anthony is clearly in his groove and has remade the restaurant into one of the most exciting venues in New York City. His efforts have paid off; a re-review by Frank Bruni garnered three stars in June 2007.

Last night was the third time I’ve been at GT in the past year, and each has been an experience that has built on its predecessor. An undocumented dinner took place back in September. I still find myself dreaming of smoked trout served with a delicate celery root puree and pickled onion. Mushroom ravioli with trumpet royale mushrooms and aged balsamic exploded with an intensity of flavor on the first bite. Risotto with heirloom tomatoes and tomato jam was an extended farewell to summer’s long reach.

Out of 10? A very strong 8. GT isn’t known for being in the forefront of the avant-garde. Instead, it offers and excels its own brand of soothing comfort wrapped in modern elegance. I’d say the experiment succeeded in spades.

Gramercy Tavern is located at 18 East 20th Street (Park Avenue South) in the Flatiron district of Manhattan.

“The Endless Road”, Part 3

Scene Three

Twenty-five years later.  The lights come up. Ozzie has finally untangled the twisting history of his incarnation-death-rebirth cycle. He is mired in middle age, married with children and still unknown. He is prolific having written 12 novels, 20 plays, 46 short stories, countless poems, and as a result struggling author Goodenough is quite poor. Only one of his novels, one play and four short stories have been published. We find him hunched over his word processor late one night.

* * *

MARV
(enter from stage right) “Sorry to bother you so late and all Oz. But I got some news, bad news…”

WILL
(a beat)
“Don’t tell me. At the last minute they decided on ‘MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING’ instead of ‘NECESSARY LIES’- right?”

MARV
“You’re close. They’re going with ‘MACBETH’ followed by a rehash of a hit Broadway musical. Ditto for the screenplay. ROCKY XIX.”

WILL
(crestfallen)
“I put my best stuff into those manuscripts.”

MARV
“I know, I know. Here’s what Harry had to say. ‘It’s overwritten for one. Today’s theatergoer is after entertainment, not insight. Americans don’t wanna shell out money for anything resembling serious literary works. That’s for college lit courses.’ Hell, it’s not just Americans, Oz. Attention spans are shriveling everywhere. Anyway, just write something that’s fit for prime time or can be summed up on a bumper sticker and I’ll sell it.”

WILL
“What about originality, Marv? The Big Dream? Not to mention artistic integrity. Remember? I’ve got my own standards to measure up to. I don’t want to dumb myself down for the marketplace. Commercialism is the worst kind of tyranny. I should’ve been born in Russia fer chrissakes. Claimed dissidenthood. Then these same goddamn people would be clamoring to produce my plays, publish my books and make movies out of my stories.”

MARV
(a beat, then looks away)
“Come on. You’re talkin’ high falutin’ nonsense now. Worse, you sound cynical. You gotta make tradeoffs.”

(paces, then turns to face WILL)

“Think of it this way: in order to finance THE BIG DREAM you gotta make ONE BIG COMPROMISE. ‘Sell when you can; you’re not for all markets.’ It’s a valid point. The master said it.”

WILL
“Shit.”

(Fadeout)

(to be continued)

From Debbie, With Love

I posted an ad on Craigslist to the effect of “37 y/o gay guy looking for 1 to 2 gay/gay-friendly roommates to share an apartment with. Can afford to pay up to $____, though less is better.”

Today I received this reply (which btw is verbatim):

hi, this is the perfect place for you in Mid-Town Manhattan, the space is ready by the end of March 31 2008. please Contact me if you are interested. My name is Debbie, I have another male roommate who is gay and loves to go out on his days off and weekends. my number is 212 XXX-XXXX.

Anyone want to tell me what’s wrong with this picture? The person who guesses correctly wins a Snickers bar.

Hearth

Big Eye tuna, honshimejji mushrooms, capers, vitello tonnato sauce

Seared scallop, hen of the woods mushrooms, parsnip puree, caviar viniagrette

Sweetbreads, pickled cauliflower, shallot marmalade

Lamb pappardelle, tomato concasse, picholine olives, black truffles

Pork tenderloin, lentil ragout, winter root vegetables

Orange flower water panna cotta, candied pistachios

Apple cider doughnuts, creme fraiche sorbet, apple sauce

Previous dinners can be seen here and here.

“The Endless Road”, Part 2

Scene Two

The present. The lights come up. WILL is seated on a couch watching television. He is 13. His name is Oswald Goodenough. He has a croaky pubescent voice and is so brainy he is considered to be a prime candidate for class nerd. Unfortunately, he has no recollection of his past life, death or rebirth. He has also forgotten the reason why he wanted to take another turn on the wheel of life. Like all teens he is profoundly disturbed, insecure and self-conscious. One last thing: his hormones are making him believe that females are the most awesome, powerful beings in the universe.

SALLY enters from behind. He sneaks a peek at the girl his friends call “Mega Boobs.” She smiles at him deliciously. It’s an innocent gesture. There is no seduction in it. But he is terrorized. He unglues his eyes from her and glues them back on the TV. Too late his pulse begins to quicken.

* * *

SALLY
“You really gonna go through with it, Ozzie?”

WILL
“Go through with what?”

SALLY
“Act in the play.”

WILL
“Yeah. I don’t care if the guys think it’s uncool. I don’t know, I just have this feeling about it.”

SALLY
“Me too. Romeo and Juliet. It’s like so romantic.” (sighs)

WILL
(a beat, then sneaks a glance at SALLY, carefully watching her bosom swell and then deflate)
“I’d rather do Hamlet. That’s what I’m voting for.”

He finishes speaking, gets up and goes to a desk before SALLY can respond. He plops himself in a chair, turns to his computer and presses a key. The MS Word splash screen pops up.

(Fadeout)

(to be continued)

“The Endless Road”, Part 1

Cast of characters

Will — ambitious, cantankerous and introspective
Siggy — inquiring, incredulous and more than a little concerned
Sally — a young girl of thirteen, with ideals to match
Marv — sleazy, unctuous, eager to succeed at the expense of his client
Joe — confused and just a bit clueless, until the end

* * *

Scene One

Heaven. The entities that inhabit this realm do not have the luxuries or restrictions of bodies. They exist as pure intelligence or spirit. For these reasons you can understand that it is very nearly impossible to describe their existence.

The problem is further compounded by the lack of time as we know it. They live in what can only be called an extremely subtle environment. One devoid of touch, texture, sight, sound, smell, taste and physical events to mark crucial turning points - or anything else for that matter. It gets boring. This is one reason that virtually every entity that passes from Earth to the Beyond chooses to be reincarnated. Now we can turn to eavesdrop on an important conversation that took place there, not long before the action of the play takes place.

SIGGY
“But all the suffering, the confusion, the stupidity, I…I am at a loss to understand why you of all people here would want to return to that God-forsaken world.”

WILL
“I have already explained it to you in unending detail. Again and again I have told you of my reasons, my passion really. They have made a mess out of my work. Three hundred years have gone by and one would think they would have sopped it all up by now. But no! The thick-headed bumbling fools go on as ever pretending, lying, cheating, betraying - even killing. Worse, the directors have messed up the stage directions. They think nothing of misinterpreting my work. As for the actors they have fouled up the characters and ruined the delicate balance between physical gesture and spoken line. And the audiences… What can one say, my good man.”

SIGGY
“Yes, I understand all that, old friend. All you say is true. But wasn’t it one of your characters that said, ‘Sweep on you fat and greasy citizens.’ I beg you not to apply to the council for rebirth. We would miss you. The world of man goes on as ever. Reform is an idle notion, Shakespeare.”

WILL
” Ah yes. Wasn’t it I who wrote: Oft expectation fails, and most oft there- Where most it promises. Or: When we are born, we cry that we are come- To this great stage of fools. And, O! That way madness lies; let me shun it. Enough! The rest is silence or should be. But they have made a literary god, a cult figure out of me. And it is wrong. I am the fountain of the endless cliches that spew from their mouths. Well, I am going to return and put a stop to it, Sigmund …”

(Fadeout)

(to be continued)

Dealer’s Table

boxes on folding chairs
unfolded around a folding table

a bowl of nachos
four mugs of beer
a pile of poker chips,
cards face down

i pick up one of the hands,
five crisp cards,
all of them picture cards
red birds light on their wings

in the dealer’s room,
four men play cards
drink, smoke, cough, grunt
i put twenty dollars on the table;
a squinting man looks at the money
he looks like the bank

a jovial man deals me a hand
five of a kind
picture cards
red birds on black wings
i bet heavily on this hand

the bank sits back in his chair
clicks his tongue
he’s sure i’m bluffing
maybe i am
i never had a flush of birds
he sees me, raises me

the fourth hand
a drunk man
flutters his cards
as if he has the jitters.

he sees the bank
i see the bank
i raise the bank
the bank folds

the drunk sees me, calls me
i show my hand of red birds
he has a pair of aces and a pair of threes
i reach for the pot, he stops me
the money slides into his lap
he beams around the table, says
No cigar, two pair beats five birds

black boxes on folding chairs
around a folding table
a game of red birds
folded and unfolded