Dec 26
I would probably be sadder about the Meatpacking District losing its Western Beef, if I actually ever went anywhere near part of the city. But still, that overblown neighborhood could only benefit from an anthropomorphic cactus in a cowboy hat. Just wait, Stella McCartney will totally have a cactus fiber line of clothing next season.
Meatpacker Packing Up (New York Post)
Got Beef? Not Anymore (The New York Times)
'Tis the season of design bazaars, boutique sales and the like. And I always have the intention of attending a few, but inevitably end up at an outlet mall. The suburbs are genetically coded in me. A. I'm cheap. B. I'm a chunk. Like I said, suburban. While I admire the charming, well-curated, indie ethos, mass produced items tend to fit me and my pocketbook a little better.
Woodbury Common is almost like a little ski village (not that I've ever skied or visited a resort town) with a cluster of outdoor stores nestled at the foot of a mountain. I suppose I'm equating the set up with a series of alpine lodges since I only seem to visit around December when it's frosty and bone chilling. The piped in music is kind of unsettling. They really seem to be playing that bouncy Paul McCartney "Wonderful Christmastime" song an awful lot this year. It has never driven me so insane before.
I don't even hit half the stores. Some are irrelevant like Yankee Candle, Sunglass Hut (they also have a Sunglass Station) or NauticaKids, the whole designer row with Dolce & Gabbana and Versace does little for me, and some like Lladro just baffle me (the word always registers in my brain as lardo, and the porcelain figurines are equally confusing. They had these stores when I was in Hong Kong, which seemed even weirder than being in the Catskills).
I really didn't buy much, but I?m more about the experience (and the Applebee's). I settled on a green and white striped wool sweater from Banana Republic, purple velvet blazer, turquoise sequined cardigan and ruffly mint green sheer blouse at Gap, crazy puffy (not furry) white Khombu boots at Famous Footwear (I normally wouldn't look twice at these, but the snow had affected my brain) and red sturdy slippers at J. Crew (as a gift for James, he bought me the green version. Never mind that they were men's). So, I basically bought gifts for myself and will probably do so again in 2006.
Woodbury Common * 498 Red Apple Court, Central Valley, NY
I’m so mad that I missed the maple syrup smell again. Last time, I guess it just passed me by. Yesterday, I was home sick and sad to hear midtown sweet scent reports. I’m not even a big fan of maple, it’s just the principle.
Which reminds me of one of my first NYC culture shocks: no maple bars. Seriously, I had no idea this was a regional thing, every grocery store and chain like Dunkin’ Donuts (which are all going out of business on the west coast, despite thriving out here) carries maple bars. It's not like the NW is exactly teeming with maple trees, either. The closest I’ve come in the last seven years has been maple dips at Tim Hortons in eastern Canada. They were typically round with a hole, not long and bun shaped, but the treat was still coated in tan, tree sap tinged icing.
While I’m on a maple nostalgia trip, there was a weird incident in first grade where we’d had maple bars for lunch. And then while playing handball during recess afterwards, this other girl named Krista (Hagen, I think) who came in the middle of the year so she was weird, smiled and her teeth were all brown and maple-y like they were frosting coated. It was kind of obscene, I tried not to stare too hard at her pearly beiges. The thing is, it turned out that her teeth always looked like that and I’d just never noticed until that moment. How did a six-year-old’s teeth get so rotten?
I finally paid off my credit card and have been reluctant to pay a visit since. Yes, I have a NY & Co. credit card (complete with pre-2001 holographic Twin Towers) It was out of late ?90s necessity. I never touched Lerner before moving here, but my standards and expectations were all out of whack. If it?s $9.99 polyester dress shops blasting reggaeton (ok, reggaeton wasn?t around seven years ago) or a mall name I recognize, I?m going with the suburban familiarity.
Lerner, now New York & Company, was the only store walking distance to my first NYC apartment in Ridgewood, Queens where I could buy interview and temp outfits on credit. I don?t think they helped much, despite the supposed internet boom jobs were few and far between.
The trick is not paying full price because it?s not much of a bargain. The main draw is the sale racks. If you have a credit card you?re sent enticing coupons that encourage you to spend over $75, and you?re entitled to discount days, all sorts of crap to draw women in. And does it work. During these sales, the check out line literally goes to the door. Waiting in one makes you feel like part of a scary club.
After moving to Sunset Park, Brooklyn, I was still walking distance to a NY & Co. (though a long walk, at around twenty blocks). My tastes had grown a touch (only a touch, mind you) more sophisticated, but I wasn?t above the occasional cute skirt, sparkly sweater or slinky top. Though I?ve managed to weed over the years, my wardrobe contains a disproportionate amount of NY & Co. fare.
Sometimes I frequent the Bay Ridge location because it?s a block from Century 21 and you can kill two shopping birds with one stone. I?ve had good luck at the 86th Street branch, but the ladies in line were going on about how the Sunset Park one wasn?t in a good neighborhood (you know, not classy like Bay Ridge) but had better selection. Each to their own.
Now that I live in Carroll Gardens, there isn?t in my line of vision, which is a shame. I?m not too good for NY & Co., it?s just inconvenient to pay a visit. But not for long. Just yesterday a 58th and Lexington location opened (they really need to beef up their Manhattan presence) and I have a very good feeling about a new job just four blocks away. And no, I didn?t wear a single NY & Co. item to the interview.
It’s easy to pinpoint a few things I’m not thankful for: McGriddles® and Tyson Protein, not that I’m against fast food breakfast sandwiches or chicken strips. It’s just the wording. There’s something weird about naming a product in the plural. I can’t even recall the exact storyline in one of the new McDonald’s commercials, but at the end the clueless guy who can’t seem to get that the girl sitting across from him likes him says, “I guess it means that I’ll have to buy another McGriddles.” Urgh, I know it’s the registered name, but it’s just playing into that horrible habit where people add S’s where they don’t belong, like when someone says Nordstroms or Peter Lugers.
Most Americans are already far enough removed from where our food originates (not that I’m a farm girl, by any means). And more and more I’m hearing people using non-food terms for food. Maybe it started with the Atkins craze when breads, grains and pastas (amongst a host of seemingly innocent items) became an abstract enemy simply lumped together as carbs. Now, protein for all forms of meat (and presumably tofu), is becoming unappetizingly ubiquitous. That new Tyson campaign where middle aged folks apparently start playing basketball and hang gliding after eating poultry products, has a tag line exclaiming, “have you had your protein today?™” Gross. Did you know that Tyson is “the world’s leading protein provider and America’s most trusted protein brand”?
Oh wow, I should’ve guessed that there was something religious to this whole puritanical pleasure-denying, functional approach to food. Just in time for the holidays, Tyson is offering a booklet of mealtime prayers. I do have a certain fascination with prayers, but there’s something offbeat about them being on a mainstream commercial website.
What I am thankful for is an intrepid and tenacious mom who managed to track down a couple of Jones Soda regional packs with the coveted salmon pate flavor. I haven’t seen them here in NYC (though I did get the standard set at Target) and from what I gather, getting them in the Portland, Oregon suburbs was only slightly less tricky. It took trips to Thriftway, Fred Meyer (not Meyers, as even I’m wont to say) and a couple of phone calls to finally find them near her trailer park (yes, I said trailer park) on the Beaverton/Hillsboro border. Score. I’m not cracking them open until my dinner party next Saturday, so I’ll reserve comment until then.
I?m not sure what it says about me that I find it easier to get to Edison, NJ than Soho, despite the latter being a subway jaunt away. I just never get down to that pocket of Manhattan. But I?d feel like a loser if I didn?t at least pop my head inside the latest temporary NYC Uniqlo (I didn?t partake in the Vice permutation). And I happened to have a hair cut scheduled just a few blocks away, so it fit into my two errands per trek minimum.
Surprisingly, I think the prices were lower on many items. A promotional attention-grabber, I?m guessing. This morning I saw a big full page ad in one of those daily freebies someone was reading on the subway. And while I think the Soho collection was pared down, it seemed comparable to what was offered in New Jersey. The two floor set up made the store seem larger. I refrained from buying anything, but I?ll admit the sweaters are nicer than my cheapie collection that mostly consists of Old Navy and NY & Co. acrylic blends.
Uniqlo Soho * 76 Greene St., New York, NY
I'll never hear the end of how I passed over our recent favorite Edison 
(location in favor of trying a new Costco. (There was logic behind my choice. I also wanted to go to Trader Joe's and The Melting Pot, which are closer to Hackensack.) While not quite Sunset Park traumatizing, this was not an upper rung version. You know you're in trouble when cars are hovering for available parking spots and customers stalk each other for free carts. Costco is about bounty, plenty, that's the aspect I get off on, and if I'm going to have to push and shove and fend for myself, then I might as well stay home in Brooklyn. Not impressed.
While we were getting ready to head out, an impatient guy waiting for us to vacate our spot shook his head and gave James an exasperated women look and hastily drove off. Instead of helping load groceries into the trunk, I was taking photos of the faade and creepy industrial river behind our car. Big fucking deal, like I was somehow ignoring my wifely duties. Besides, I don't see a ring on my finger, and even if I did I'd still shirk and snap pointless photos. See ya, Hackensack.
Costco * 80 South River St., Hackensack, NJ
It feels like I was just here, but I needed to pick up a few items for my post-Thanksgiving dinner party (plus, I was itching to try The Melting Pot down the street). After my recent Monteblue & Populet dabbling, I went back with the original Rosencrunch & Guildenstern (it's been four days since I bought the can and I've had the willpower to leave it unopened. But once that seal is broken, all hell will break loose). I was fairly restrained with my purchases, swooping up a small wedge of Saint Nectaire, packs of prosciutto and smoked salmon, two boxes of individually packaged oatmeal (for breakfast every weekday except Monday when it's bagel day in the office. Bagel day brings more pleasure to my routine than it has any right to), sparkling cranberry and blueberry juices (possible party drink mixers), English toffee, butter (Cabot's, not the Plugra because I already have two hunks of that. I wouldn't normally need so much fatty dairy in the house, but I'll be cooking for 20+ people the weekend after next), fresh cherry preserves, 144 ounces of chicken broth (five cartons) and five cans of pumpkin puree. Thank goodness we have the storage space. If I had a typically sized NYC apartment, I'd be screwed.
Trader Joe's * 20 Irvington St., Westwood, NJ
Maybe moms really do know best. In the '80s, my family would purchase one of those fat square Entertainment Books year after year, though I don't recall ever using more than maybe a handful of coupons. We never went out to eat, only occasionally hitting McDonald's or Taco Time (never Bell), unlike today's kids who are practically brought up on Babbo.
I used to wistfully thumb through the advertising tomb longing for something exciting. Sure pizza and hamburgers were fine, but fondue, now that was exotic. I'm sure I asked or begged to go to The Melting Pot, which seemed like the height of sophistication. But my mom wasn't having any of it, there was no wearing her down. I don't think it was anywhere near our home and I'm certain it was out of the child-friendly price range.
Well, it took about 23 years, but now that I manage my own life I made the magic happen. While hitting the Trader Joe's in Westwood, NJ a few weeks ago, I was shocked and awed to see that The Melting Pot chain was alive and thriving. I vowed to pay a visit on our next TJ's run, which we did. Who knew that their "dip into something different" slogan would prove so accurate.
Things did not start off well when we casually popped in on an early Saturday night. Funny, how in Manhattan all but the most exclusive restaurants are fine with walk-ins, yet a cheesey (ha) chain in New Jersey acts like you're trying to jump a velvet rope. Yes, it takes a lot of nerve. Our flagrant disregard for their rules seemed to miff the blonde Meadow Soprano hostesses. Initial bubbliness turned to haughty dismissal when we said we didn't have reservations.
We were begrudgingly quoted a 25 minute wait, which we naively agreed to not realizing it would be more like an hour nursing a watered down gin & tonic at the bar. And ultimately we were seated mere feet from where we had been sitting in the bar and were told at about the half hour mark whose table we were waiting for. That's probably not the wisest move for quelling antsy diners wanting to eat. We couldn't help but stare at couple occupying our future table, mentally commanding them to move it along faster.
The Big Night Out, a three-fondue-course, $78 per couple barrage that they eagerly push on you, says it all. This is a place catered towards parties and celebrations. So, we ultimately did the Big Night Out, primarily because the menu is bizarrely overwrought and confusing (I refused to believe we were the only ones in the place too dumb to understand the many fondue permutations and combo meals) and about half way through
I was wishing we'd gone a la carte. As the meal dragged on I began feeling punished, and most definitely violated, and no, it wasn't sexy in the least. It was like we'd entered an alternate universe where time didn't play by normal rules. I still can't figure out how we managed to arrive at 5:30pm and barely make it out by 9:00pm.
The swiss cheese artichoke heart fondue was actually pretty tasty, kind of like an Olive Garden appetizer, and came with a pantry's worth of dipping items: French and rye bread, tortilla chips (weird), green apple chunks, baby carrots, celery and cauliflower. Their shtick involves a built-in adjustable heated square in the middle of the table where each fondue course is prepared in front of your eyes. Personally, I'd be just fine with the fully finished version. I was scared the whole time that Oscar, our waiter, was going to drop or break something.
There was fanfare surrounding his additions of garlic, artichoke hearts, spinach and swiss cheese to the broth (no traditional use of gruyere, emmenthaler, wine or kirsch). And then there was the lone bottle of Tabasco sauce that he never added and seemed to have orphaned on our table. About half way through our gooey dish, we asked, "what's the Tabasco for?" to which he dully replied, "I was supposed to put it in the fondue" and then walked away with the condiment in hand. Uh, ok, so why didn't he just put it in? I was so baffled by the customer service at this point that it seemed futile to even ask for a few shakes of sauce. And outrageously, the Westwood specific website is currently featuring that they were awarded top marks by some mystery dining association. Amusing, because the whole time I was thinking about how I would've written this place up if I were a mystery diner (not food critic, mind you–that's a beast unto itself). And the words Top Performer didn't exactly come to mind.
We then got salads (mine California, which meant blue cheese, walnuts and raspberry vinaigrette. James's chef's, which I'm sure you can imagine) that came with a shaker of an oddball garlic and wine powder. Why would you think to make a seasoning from dried up wine and garlic? I figured that my fruity dressing was quite enough and avoided the additional flavoring altogether.
Then came the coq au vin broth, also prepared before our eyes, the final touch a hammy, "here's a little wine" while pouring a dash into the pot, then "here's a little more wine" followed by "and here's a little more" polishing off the half carafe, which was presumably intended to elicit squeals and/or exclamations from the two of us who remained stone faced. All that was missing was a "bam!" We opted for the cheapest (though not cheap) of the three entre fondue mix-ins, which included a hodgepodge of chicken, sirloin, shrimp, kielbasa, potatoes, broccoli, squash, mushrooms, potstickers and pirogies. It's a good thing I like peculiarly colored food because everything came out of the pot crimson-stained.
We weren't asked if we wanted to sit in the bar, and this would've been a huge issue for many since smoking is still allowed in New Jersey. I am a light smoker, but wouldn't feel right puffing away with diners inches from me. Of course, this courtesy doesn't go both ways. Part way through our tortuous meal, numerous loud birthday parties and a DJ took over the bar area. The teddy bear of a guy began playing an amplified acoustic guitar directly behind my chair. Clichd yet authentic accents, evil eyes, menthol smoke, and tan, wrinkled, cosmo-sipping, office managers gone wild (they probably wear those long hideous sweater coats) became the pervasive theme. I was so mad because my camera went dead before I could capture visual evidence that my words can't convey. Usually, I'm not one for photos in a restaurant, but since we were in the party room and all…
There was a group of 40-ish looking ladies who were celebrating a chunky friend in a plastic tiara's birthday. I know I'm warped with ages (I'm always shocked to discover that almost everyone in the universe is younger than me despite looking liney and haggard) so I jokingly suggested the woman was probably only 31. Nope, it was the big three-oh.
By this point, I'd had enough, and absolutely no stomach for a dessert course. But we'd agreed to the whole painful shebang, and I'm too cheap to not get my money's worth, so we trudged through a vessel of chocolate turtle (for the overly cultured, that means caramel swirled not reptilian) fondue with strawberries, pineapple, marshmallows, brownie chunks and cheesecake. I wanted to hurl all over the built in burner, or on Oscar, or maybe on top of one of the many frosted heads of horsey hair. I'm not even sure that my nausea was food induced. It felt more like my soul had been poisoned.
I'm no Brooklyn booster, but no matter how much borough haters claim that if you're going to move to Brooklyn you might as well live in New Jersey, they're way off base. The Melting Pot, at least in this permutation, wouldn't work in Brooklyn. The bulk of busted to middling pockets would consider it too expensive, the gentrified swaths wouldn't stand for the pretension, Emeril theatrics, cigarettes or live Simon & Garfunkel covers. The whole next day James and I were like "what happened?" We felt dirty and victimized. For $125 you can get real food or even good food, that's what I've never understood about these poor value chain restaurants. I'll admit to loving novelty more than any human should, but it certainly can come at a price.
The Melting Pot * 250 Center Avenue, Westwood, NJ
1/2 Maybe moms really do know best. In the '80s, my family would purchase one of those fat square Entertainment Books year after year, though I don't recall ever using more than maybe a handful of coupons. We never went out to eat, only occasionally hitting McDonald's or Taco Time (never Bell), unlike today's kids who are practically brought up on Babbo.
I used to wistfully thumb through the advertising tomb longing for something exciting. Sure pizza and hamburgers were fine, but fondue, now that was exotic. I'm sure I asked or begged to go to The Melting Pot, which seemed like the height of sophistication. But my mom wasn't having any of it, there was no wearing her down. I don't think it was anywhere near our home and I'm certain it was out of the child-friendly price range.
Well, it took about 23 years, but now that I manage my own life I made the magic happen. While hitting the Trader Joe's in Westwood, NJ a few weeks ago, I was shocked and awed to see that The Melting Pot chain was alive and thriving. I vowed to pay a visit on our next TJ's run, which we did. Who knew that their "dip into something different" slogan would prove so accurate.
Things did not start off well when we casually popped in on an early Saturday night. Funny, how in Manhattan all but the most exclusive restaurants are fine with walk-ins, yet a cheesey (ha) chain in New Jersey acts like you're trying to jump a velvet rope. Yes, it takes a lot of nerve. Our flagrant disregard for their rules seemed to miff the blonde Meadow Soprano hostesses. Initial bubbliness turned to haughty dismissal when we said we didn't have reservations.
We were begrudgingly quoted a 25 minute wait, which we naively agreed to not realizing it would be more like an hour nursing a watered down gin & tonic at the bar. And ultimately we were seated mere feet from where we had been sitting in the bar and were told at about the half hour mark whose table we were waiting for. That's probably not the wisest move for quelling antsy diners wanting to eat. We couldn't help but stare at couple occupying our future table, mentally commanding them to move it along faster.
The Big Night Out, a three-fondue-course, $78 per couple barrage that they eagerly push on you, says it all. This is a place catered towards parties and celebrations. So, we ultimately did the Big Night Out, primarily because the menu is bizarrely overwrought and confusing (I refused to believe we were the only ones in the place too dumb to understand the many fondue permutations and combo meals) and about half way through
I was wishing we'd gone a la carte. As the meal dragged on I began feeling punished, and most definitely violated, and no, it wasn't sexy in the least. It was like we'd entered an alternate universe where time didn't play by normal rules. I still can't figure out how we managed to arrive at 5:30pm and barely make it out by 9:00pm.
The swiss cheese artichoke heart fondue was actually pretty tasty, kind of like an Olive Garden appetizer, and came with a pantry's worth of dipping items: French and rye bread, tortilla chips (weird), green apple chunks, baby carrots, celery and cauliflower. Their shtick involves a built-in adjustable heated square in the middle of the table where each fondue course is prepared in front of your eyes. Personally, I'd be just fine with the fully finished version. I was scared the whole time that Oscar, our waiter, was going to drop or break something.
There was fanfare surrounding his additions of garlic, artichoke hearts, spinach and swiss cheese to the broth (no traditional use of gruyere, emmenthaler, wine or kirsch). And then there was the lone bottle of Tabasco sauce that he never added and seemed to have orphaned on our table. About half way through our gooey dish, we asked, "what's the Tabasco for?" to which he dully replied, "I was supposed to put it in the fondue" and then walked away with the condiment in hand. Uh, ok, so why didn't he just put it in? I was so baffled by the customer service at this point that it seemed futile to even ask for a few shakes of sauce. And outrageously, the Westwood specific website is currently featuring that they were awarded top marks by some mystery dining association. Amusing, because the whole time I was thinking about how I would've written this place up if I were a mystery diner (not food critic, mind you–that's a beast unto itself). And the words Top Performer didn't exactly come to mind.
We then got salads (mine California, which meant blue cheese, walnuts and raspberry vinaigrette. James's chef's, which I'm sure you can imagine) that came with a shaker of an oddball garlic and wine powder. Why would you think to make a seasoning from dried up wine and garlic? I figured that my fruity dressing was quite enough and avoided the additional flavoring altogether.
Then came the coq au vin broth, also prepared before our eyes, the final touch a hammy, "here's a little wine" while pouring a dash into the pot, then "here's a little more wine" followed by "and here's a little more" polishing off the half carafe, which was presumably intended to elicit squeals and/or exclamations from the two of us who remained stone faced. All that was missing was a "bam!" We opted for the cheapest (though not cheap) of the three entre fondue mix-ins, which included a hodgepodge of chicken, sirloin, shrimp, kielbasa, potatoes, broccoli, squash, mushrooms, potstickers and pirogies. It's a good thing I like peculiarly colored food because everything came out of the pot crimson-stained.
We weren't asked if we wanted to sit in the bar, and this would've been a huge issue for many since smoking is still allowed in New Jersey. I am a light smoker, but wouldn't feel right puffing away with diners inches from me. Of course, this courtesy doesn't go both ways. Part way through our tortuous meal, numerous loud birthday parties and a DJ took over the bar area. The teddy bear of a guy began playing an amplified acoustic guitar directly behind my chair. Clichd yet authentic accents, evil eyes, menthol smoke, and tan, wrinkled, cosmo-sipping, office managers gone wild (they probably wear those long hideous sweater coats) became the pervasive theme. I was so mad because my camera went dead before I could capture visual evidence that my words can't convey. Usually, I'm not one for photos in a restaurant, but since we were in the party room and all…
There was a group of 40-ish looking ladies who were celebrating a chunky friend in a plastic tiara's birthday. I know I'm warped with ages (I'm always shocked to discover that almost everyone in the universe is younger than me despite looking liney and haggard) so I jokingly suggested the woman was probably only 31. Nope, it was the big three-oh.
By this point, I'd had enough, and absolutely no stomach for a dessert course. But we'd agreed to the whole painful shebang, and I'm too cheap to not get my money's worth, so we trudged through a vessel of chocolate turtle (for the overly cultured, that means caramel swirled not reptilian) fondue with strawberries, pineapple, marshmallows, brownie chunks and cheesecake. I wanted to hurl all over the built in burner, or on Oscar, or maybe on top of one of the many frosted heads of horsey hair. I'm not even sure that my nausea was food induced. It felt more like my soul had been poisoned.
I'm no Brooklyn booster, but no matter how much borough haters claim that if you're going to move to Brooklyn you might as well live in New Jersey, they're way off base. The Melting Pot, at least in this permutation, wouldn't work in Brooklyn. The bulk of busted to middling pockets would consider it too expensive, the gentrified swaths wouldn't stand for the pretension, Emeril theatrics, cigarettes or live Simon & Garfunkel covers. The whole next day James and I were like "what happened?" We felt dirty and victimized. For $125 you can get real food or even good food, that's what I've never understood about these poor value chain restaurants. I'll admit to loving novelty more than any human should, but it certainly can come at a price.
The Melting Pot * 250 Center Avenue, Westwood, NJ
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