The City's Best Muffin

Recently on a walk from Tribeca, I cut through China Town on my way to the Lower East Side. It's no surprise that certain parts of China Town at certain times of day smell bad. Fish market deliveries? This was one of those times.

But as I was walking I found an olfactory oasis. I stopped dead in my tracks when I smelled this sweet scent wafting about me. Then, like a bloodhound I spun around and followed my nose back to a small and nondescript storefront whose very existence would have been swallowed up in the painted scenery of Eldridge Street were it not for that glorious AROMA. Said oasis turned out to be called Panade Puffs and Pastries. The smell had been fresh mixed berry muffins baking in the oven.

After waiting five minutes for them to come out of the oven, I enjoyed an iced coffee and a muffin on a bench out front.The muffin was hot and sweet and light and moist and finished with a thin layer of just-crisp crust. You Must Go.

Traif, a Brooklyn Blemish

The thing one must become accustomed to when dining in the City is the propensity of restaurateurs to regard your patronage as a privilege THEY have bestowed upon YOU. And it makes me sick.

Dialogue with a pretty, often pre-occupied hostess usually begins something like this:
"Um. Hi. Do you need a table or something? Well the wait is going to be about 3 hours, so unless you have a reservation you might just wanna go fuck yourself. Theeenks."

And so it was, a few nights ago when a companion and I wandered into TRAIF on the outskirts of Williamsburg that we were greeted and treated in a similar fashion.

I won't bog down this post with details from the horrific service experience we were subjected to courtesy of a pert, self-important pig claiming to be the owner, but I will mention that the food (though downright stingy in proportion) was interestingly put together, however it took well over a half-hour to be delivered to the table we were SO LUCKY to have been seated at.

Oh, and do you know what TRAIF means? It means any food that is non-kosher. By the way, the restaurant is situated right in the middle of a Hasidic Jewish neighborhood. There's something about this that I find to be in poor taste.

My recommendation? How shall I put this? I'd sooner go hungry than ever return.

Martha Wainwright at City Winery

I didn't want my blog to turn into a place where I simply talk about the shows I see. But I just couldn't leave this one out.  Last night at City Winery, that ethereal pixie Martha Wainwright graced the stage for a beautiful set of music both masterfully played and brilliantly sung.  I have to confess I was not familiar with her music before last night, but believe me: today I'm a bona fide fan.
But first let's talk about the opening act. Nath Ann Carrera was nothing short of a breath of fresh air.  He appeared onstage wearing a very short, plain white dress and a blue turban looking like a cross-dressing amalgam of Nurse Ratched, Norma Desmond and Jackie O.  His guitar playing was simple, his deep baritone not always in tune, but he was fascinating to watch.  He spoke like some observer/activist/monologuist robot gone haywire.  And like Sandra Bernhard, the songs didn't mean much without the banter.  Before singing what he called a "cultish lesbian separatist murder ballad" based on real-life prison interviews with the cellmates of Susan Atkins, a member of the infamous Manson Family, he recited (in character?) the disturbing yet kooky things these women had said.  Later, before singing one of her songs, he called Karen Carpenter one of the first people "to be thrown under the bus by gender fundamentalism."  He ended his short set with--of all things--Hank Williams's "On the Banks of the Old Ponchartrain."  I'm sorry I don't have any pictures of Nath Ann for you; I was simply too transfixed by his performance to bother.
And then came Martha.  She casually strolled out on stage to everyone's surprise and greeted us as though we were her old pals.  She's funny.  She joked about how expensive City Winery is by congratulating the audience for "making it to TriBeCa," though it is actually in the heart of SoHo.  She is also an impressive guitarist, tuning the thing by ear between songs while talking to the audience and being cute & charming. I was just waiting for her to start hopping on one foot to show us what a real multi-tasking performer she is.

But that voice! Ah, it was at once gruff and angelic. She sounds like Kate Bush and Jewel wrestling Marianne Faithfull to the ground while PJ Harey cheers from the sideline: just incredible.
She sang some of her old songs and some new ones, covered a handful of Kate McGarrigle (her mother) songs, and even sang (in French of course) several Edith Piaf songs (video coming soon).  Above, watch and listen as she sings her own "Four Black Sheep."
Wainwright invited her (other gender-bending) friend Justin Vivian Bond on stage to cover Melanie's "Leftover Wine," a torch song v sang with voice throaty and visceral (that wasn't a typo: "v" is Justin's preferred gender-free pronoun). Turns out, Bond is a fixture of New York's avant-garde scene and currently has an art exhibition called Fall of the House of Whimsy at Participant, Inc., a gallery on Houston between Avenues A & B.
I'll be following the careers of all three of last night's performers. And I recommend you do the same.  Oh, and City Winery is pretty damn cool too.  But Martha was right: it is expensive.

A Rainy Night in Georgia's

I have to hurry up and write this before I lapse into a diabetic coma.  I was on a diet. I wasn't going to indulge until Christmas week. But, Reader, I fell off the wagon.
I happened into Georgia's Eastside BBQ tonight simply searching for shelter from the rain, but what I found instead was a hearty hello and an unforced smile from the pert, pretty waitress across the room. I gazed around the restaurant (in what felt like slow motion) to find gingham-print vinyl tablecloths, wood paneling, a rifle on one wall, a huge fish on another, a kitschy pig holding take-out menus and a psychedelic Blessed Virgin sparkling by the cash register, and I said to myself, "this is gonna be good."
Despite the genial hostess and the fun atmosphere (rounded out by heavy metal music and a portrait of Manny Pacquiao) I decided to order take-out.  (Sometimes after a long day, a man needs to go home and eat with no pants on, know what I'm sayin?)

The Pulled Pork Plate includes a heap of slow-cooked (not smoked) Boston Butt seasoned to near Southern authenticity, potato chips, cole slaw, extra (housemade) bbq sauce and 2 sides of your choice. I went with collard greens and macaroni-and-cheese ($2 extra since it was on the Daily Specials Menu, and worth every penny). For the sake of journalism, I also had a Georgia Dog: a char-grilled hotdog with cheese, slaw, onions and diced pickles.  And while I waited for them to prepare it, do you know what I got? Free Sweet Tea. Free. And a refill! (pictured below with a bottle of pepper vinegar)

Even if the food hadn't blown me away I would have gone back for no other reason than the stellar service.  But it did. I shot my diet all to hell and I don't even feel guilty about it.  Tomorrow it's back on the wagon; but tonight, it's sweet dreams with Georgia's on my mind.