Don't Fence Me In

Question: How do you discipline a chicken?

This may seem like an out-of-the-blue question considering my lengthy absence. Working in the wine shop and bartending, moving in with Ben and adopting two new chickens has this Brooklyn Peasant tackling problems never before contemplated: How do you juggle two jobs, marry two kitchens, and more importantly, how do you protect your beloved egg laying chickens from a family of pesky raccoons? Lets just say that in my struggle to answer these questions, I have exhausted my search engine, entertained bar regulars with weekly poultry updates, needs have been met, and questions have been answered...all but one that is.

Combining Ben's kitchen and mine turned out to be easier than I had originally expected. Because together we turned out to have two of many kitchen utensils and appliances, we simply gave a few things away. Two friends of mine inherited my Cuisinart, and my soon to be ex-roommate, after a mini sharpening lesson, inherited some knifes, a steal, silverware, and some pots and pans.

The raccoons, though persistent, were easy to handle. Some two-by-fours, chicken wire, and some green paint was all we needed to keep our prized chick-a-dees from the clutches of the insatiable raccoons. Of course we did feel bad having to fence the girls in,

(See how Sad Buzz looks.)

and so we resolved to let them romp the yard freely on weekends and holidays when we would be around to guard them from potential predators.

This seemed to work just fine for a few weeks. Saturday morning the girls would wake us with their hungry squawks and we would stumble out sleepily to open the coop door. Out they would run as fast as their wirey little chicken feet could carry them and as Ben and I hammered away at the second story flooring,
the girls were free to scratch their way threw the back yard, eating pebbles and rolling around in the dirt to stay cool. During the week, Buzz would demand food and or attention in the morning and for the most part we would oblige her, but she was always quieted when we would come out to say hello and feed her a tasty treat of dried cranberries. We just thought that she was a super friendly chicken with out of the ordinary social needs. Little did we know we had created a monster.

It all started a week ago when Buzz woke us at 6am with squawks so load we figured she must be getting mauled by and intruding animal. Well there was no intruder. As we rushed outside to rescue our dear little chick, there she stood on the other side of the fencing, glaring at us with disdain. Though we fed her and gave her attention, her cries could not be extinguished. We did everything, we talked to her comfortingly, we yelled at her in English and then in Spanish, we even threw water at her, but she would quiet down only long enough to peck at the wire fencing that stood between her and freedom. Over the next week Buzz would wake us every morning with her murderous cries. On Buzz's mornings off Auntie, her feathered counterpart, would take the floor with her raspy chirps. Somehow, by answering every cry, and by giving the girls a taste of freedom, we had created little monsters. So here we are, back to my original question, How DO you discipline a chicken? Only when this question is answered will Ben and I get a full nights sleep.

Exercise, a Palatable Experience

Somehow, most of the events in my life end up being about food. If I visit an old friend, I want to cook them dinner, or they want to take me to a restaurant. If I am invited to the ballet, I immediately wonder where to have diner beforehand. When I go on a trip I always consider taking provisions, and birthday parties and holidays of any kind are inevitably centered around noshing. There is one activity however that I have always figured would have absolutely nothing to do with food and that’s exercise.
Because it stands to reason that during exercise there is little chance of having a culinary encounter - an therefore no chance of coming across material for the blog - I did not think to bring my camera along for Margeaux and my exercise session in the park yesterday. I could not have been more off the mark; as it turns out, along with every other thing in my life, even exercise can be about food.
After a heavy session of step jogging, squats, kicks, and crunches Margeaux and I exited the park straight into the middle of the the Fort Greene Farmer's Market. Having no where else to be, we decided to browse a bit and what do you suppose we stumbled upon but some farm-fresh and glowingly pink rhubarb.
"Three dollars a pound," a handsome fella told us with a smile. Margeaux turned to me, "what does rhubarb taste like?" she asked as though I were the authority on all thing food. "I'm not sure," I told her "I have only ever had it in Pie with Strawberry." The dashing young farmer snapped off two pieces from a stalk and gave it to us to try, not without warning, "its very bitter." We both took a bite and chewed cautiously. It had the stringy consistency of celery, but the puckery flavor lemon. I don't know if it was rosy cheeks of that young farmer boy, or the zesty flavor of the rhubarb, but Margeaux ordered a pound (which is acctualy quit a lot) , what she was do with it, I had no idea.

With our sweaty t-shirts and a satchel of rhubarb we decided that coffee was the next step, but instead got side tracked by a wine tasting at Thirst Wine Merchants that showcased three distinct Rosés. Margeaux liked the Domaine de la Courtade L'Alycastre, a light peach flecked rosé made from the Grenache and Mourvèdre grapes. Personally I preferred The Domaine deFontsainte Corbieres, a rosé bursting with the scent of ripe strawberries delicately brushed with fresh mint and almond.
With a slight buzz, and loaded down with three bottles, we headed to Smooch on Carlton for a much needed coffee. While waiting for our cappuccinos the owner (don't remember his name) curiously checked out our wine and rhubarb stash. "Coffee, wine, rhubarb, What more does a woman need?" he said with a frisky grin. " Chocolate," I replied pointedly. He, with out a moments hesitation, as though he had been diligently anticipating my response, ran out the front door and reappeared within moments holding in his hand a bar of Lavender flavored Degoba Chocolate.
I have no idea where he got the chocolate bar, but I must say, it was the perfect way to end a Saturday day workout. Now I ask you, what more does a girl need?

Navigating Tepid Reviews on Citysearch

Two posts ago I urged all those who take pleasure in lengthy dining to head over to Brooklyn. I listed a few restaurants and feel that it is only fare that I follow up with a bit more detail. Because Aliseo Osteria del Borgo was the most recently visited I will start there.

A week ago I had the pleasure of taking a dear friend of mine, Kara, out for a wonderful meal to celebrate her birthday. If there is anyone that I know that deserves to be taken out to a wonderful meal it's Kara. She is an interesting dining partner having a reciprocal, non-pretentious love of food and wine, and more importantly, she is also one of my biggest heroes. You see, Kara is a special education teacher in the NYC public school system and has been courageously wrestling her way through her first year as a fellow. What that means is, with limited training, she has been thrown into the deep end of the pool and, though sometimes I’m sure she does not realize it, she has been doing a hell of a job negotiating the waters.

I chose Aliseo Osteria del Borgo because I had enjoyed a wonderful meal their back in January and found the compact dining room cozy and inviting, and the service thoughtful and unassuming. Imagine my surprise when I found mixed reviews for the restaurant on Citysearch. I don’t tend to go by reviews, especially when my own experience is contradictory, but I did start to wonder, was my incredible meal simply a figment of my imagination?

Kara and I decided to meet at the restaurant, “Just in case I’m early, what name is the reservation under?” Kara asked me conscientiously. It being 8:30pm on a Saturday night it was a reasonable question for her to ask, but I had done the foolish thing in figuring it would not be a problem.

When we arrived there was of course a wait for a table, but we were offered two seats at the bar, which we gratefully accepted. The bar seemed more like a prep area than an actual bar and Kara and I sat watching a spirited man, the owner Albano, slice prescuitto, cheese, and salami for some wonderful looking cheese and meat plates. After a few moments he turned his attention to the two of us giving us two glasses of wine and a plate of olives, cheese and salami. “I hope you like white” he said with a thick accent. “I trust you,” I replied. He turned to face Kara, “It is a silly woman who trusts a man she does not know,” he declared with a hearty giggle. My instincts were spot on however; the wine had a almost smokey bouquet, and the flavor, reminiscent of lychee fruit and pine nuts, stood amicably beside the pungent and almost melting flesh of the oil and dill soaked Gyeta Olives.

By the time we had finished our glasses of wine the table was ready and we waved goodbye to our new and trustworthy friend . At the table we ordered a bottle of the Montepucciano and perused the menu. There were so many things I wanted to try. I remember the cheese plate was a notable item from my last meal, and there was a superb rustically cut pasta dish served with thinly sliced zucchini, rosemary, and pine nuts that I have never been able to forget. But, I also wanted to try something new.

For appetizers Kara and I skipped the cheese plate (we could always have it for dessert later) and split the Insalada Tricolori and a Parsnip Flan served with a Basil and Mint Sauce and Presuitto.

The salad was served with olive oil and aged balsamic that was almost sticky and sweet like honey.
The flan was light in texture yet retained the earthy flavor of the parsnip. The Basil mint sauce added just the right amount of lift and the Presuitto, which I did not have to share with Kara because she is a vegetarian, added just the right amount of brine to the otherwise subtle dish.
We lingered over the appetizers for a while, sipping our wine and catching up, and when we finished the appetizers we were allowed some recovery time to regain our appetites.
For an entree Kara decided on the Rustically cut pasta, or rather maltagliati, ‘Badly cut,’ as my friends at Chowhound have informed me.
I decided on the linguine with smoked fish, freckled with rosemary and white beans.
Both entrees were good, but I have to say the 'badly' cut pasta dish stole my heart. Here is Kara the school teacher posing crazy-like with her food.
After we were finished with our food, we polished off the bottle of wine then took a look at the dessert menu. At this point of the meal I am always extra thankful to be dining with Kara. Where many dinner partners would shy away from dessert, Kara would never dream of it. For me, not having dessert after an elaborate meal is like skipping the last chapter of an engaging book. Our closing chapter was a grandiose one consisting of a Chocolate Tart and Gorgonzola and Walnuts drizzled with Honey. At the waitress’ suggestion, we had two glasses of the Muscato d’Asti, a lightly sparkling version of Muscat made from the Moscato Bianco grape.

The extremely rich Chocolate Tart was served inside a peasant like crust that sat atop a river of orange zested sauce. Though it was extremely rich, I was happy to find that neither the sauce nor the chocolate was overly sweet.
The Gorgonzola and Honey was a savory and sweet dream and, because the Muscato was the perfect match for both of these lavish desserts, we ordered another round.

One more glass of Montepucciano later, we asked for the bill and checked the time. It was 1am! Neither of us could believe it; we had been eating for four and a half hours. With a pleasant buzz accompanied by two full bellies, we thanked the staff and stumbled out into the gentle spring breeze. Having been received kindly, fed well, and not in the least bit rushed all night, I decided to do myself a favor and for now on to ignore the reviews on Citysearch.

Stepping Off The Assembly Line

If you have ever eaten out in Manhattan at 8:30pm on a Saturday night, then you know what it is like to eat dinner on an assembly line. How does it work? The instant you are seated, you are approached for a drink order, one of the only perks of assembly line dinning as fare as I’m concerned. Once your drinks arrive, the waiter takes your appetizer and entrée orders and within moments you are chomping on bread and your appetizer arrive. This is where the dinning experience turns into a strategic chess match between you the dinner and the wait staff. As you slowly pick at your appetizer, the buss person, who appears desperately to want your plate, continuously approaches you. If you tell them you are still eating and continue talking with your companion you are almost immediately approached by another waiter, ‘finished with that?” they ask helpfully. Finally, after a few more encounters, you place your fork and knife on the plate in an act of surrender and it is whisked away and instantly replaced with your entrée. Having been badgered into gulping down your appetizer, you are now not hungry enough to tear through your entrée. As you leisurely nibble at your food, you become aware that someone is watching your every move. Well, it isn’t a stalker watching you, it’s the host who apparently had plans for your very table fifteen minutes ago.

At this point in the meal you have a decision to make, you can go against the grain as many Saturday night diners determined to have an unhurried meal do and state your intentions. “I’m actually going to take my time with the entrée” you tell the horrified waiter who, hopefully, will carry your message back to the anxious host, ‘table nine isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.’ At this point the host will relinquish the table and make other plans for their unseated and also anxious party of two. Your other choice would be to yield to the busy pace of the restaurant and be ushered hastily through the rest of your meal until finally your dessert and coffee are delivered simultaneously with the bill and you are just about pushed out the door.
Adam Roberts of The Amateur Gourmet writes of a similar experience he had at Babbo in his A Blind Date at Babbo entry, "Almost instantly our plates were whisked away and our entrees arrived. It was 6:15. We'd only been sitting for 45 minutes. We were extraordinarily rushed.” This may seem harsh, and even rude, but clearly it is standard Saturday night service.

Now, by no means am I attempting to criticize Manhattan restaurants for their aggressive tactics; being in the restaurant industry myself I find it hard to point the finger. The waiters, bus-people, and hosts are not all conspiring to ruin your meal, it is only that they are required to accommodate everyone else in the city who is also trying to have an unhurried dining experience between the hours of 8pm and 10pm. Managing the floor on a fully booked night and seating reservations can be a delicate dance. Restaurant hosts are set up from the start to fulfill the almost impossible task of making certain what is infinitely unpredictable. For many busy New Yorkers what I have here described constitutes good service, and a meal in which you are allowed to catch your breathe between courses and are permitted to linger over your meal would be considered inattentive. It is for this reason that I suggest a third solution to Saturday night dining dash, have dinner in Brooklyn. If you are the type of diner that does not want to rush through your meal, go out to dinner in Brooklyn. There are an endless number of wonderful restaurants to choose from, and the pace is just about guaranteed to be more relaxed and enjoyable. Here are just a few places to think about:

• Aliseo Osteria del Borgo, the quaint Italian restaurant on Vanderbilt Avenue is one of my most recent finds. It has received mixed reviews from City Searchers, but I can not find a single flaw in the two five hour, four course meals I have enjoyed there in the last six months.

• Lou Lou, on Dekalb ave in Brooklyn is one of my longtime favorites. The classic French fair includes Steak Frites, Creamy Bouillabaisse, Mussels, a Coriander and Coffee rubbed Rib Eye, and an array of wonderful seafood dishes. The service is extremely friendly, unpretentious, and relaxed.

• Chez Oscar, one of the older restaurants in the Forte Greene area, is more commonly complimented on its funky and inviting vibe than its cuisine. The outside tables are a wonderful spot to spend a few hours, a few courses, and a bottle of wine.

• Po, I hear that the well-known Manhattan restaurant now has a twin sister on Smith Street. I have not been to the Brooklyn addition myself, yet.