For Public Consumption | Seasonal Shift | End of Day Links

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Summer bums me out. It’s hot, it’s sweaty, everything smells and can I please just take a goddamn nap already? Everyone gets SAD during the winter, but between May and September, I’m pretty much the worst.

On an intellectual level, I understand why people love summer. The sun comes out en force and the world has shaken off spring allergies and any of its lingering greyness. Everything is so shiny! Carpe diem and stuff. Well, not for me.

Fall, though. Let’s talk about fall.

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My New Iced Coffee Fix

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On Saturday, I was stumbling around a gray Brooklyn, running around conducting errands. Just my luck, the skies decided to open up right as I exited the subway in Ft. Greene/Clinton Hill.

Mind you, I have about 20 umbrellas at home (just a rough count). Naturally, I didn’t bring one with me.

Sigh.

I decided I needed to feed my sweet tooth with chocolate, and luckily, I was across the street from Greene Grape, a well-known specialty grocer. I ducked into the shop for an impromptu mood-lifter and as I perused the shelves, came across this bottle of Grady’s Cold Brew, a “coffee concentrate.” Look at how pretty!

Woefully under-caffeinated and wet, with a shift at the bar an hour away, I bought a bottle and went back into the rain.

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Mixing It Up: Bartending

Manhattan

“I like bars just after they open for the evening. When the air inside is still cool and clean and everything is shiny and the barkeep is giving himself that last look in the mirror to see if his tie is straight and his hair is smooth. I like the neat bottles on the bar back and the lovely shining glasses and the anticipation. I like to watch the man mix the first one of the evening and put it down on a crisp mat and put the little folded napkin beside it. I like to taste it slowly. The first quiet drink of the evening in a quiet bar—that’s wonderful.”

—Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

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For Public Consumption: End of Day Links

KexHostel

Back in high school, I was one of those earnest little newspaper kids, working with a ragtag crew of other writer-types for the Brea Olinda High School Wildcat. When I wasn’t playing Starcraft with the other dudes in the production room, I was studying for my AP classes, catching up on late assignments or working on lifestyle stories (such as they were at the age of 16).

It was my first taste of food writing.

The Wildcat was published once a month, yet we somehow got it into our heads to create an annual food issue. I don’t remember the details, but we were able to convince Brea’s “top” restaurants to feed our little gaggle—like, a team of 10—for free, wherein we’d review them in the Perspectives section. Journalism!

Looking back, I’m pretty sure our little operation with restaurants like Souplantation and Claim Jumper—it was suburbia, guys—was an upper middle class grift. There were 10 of us! Eating for free! These places didn’t need our reviews—there was only a nascent “online” then, and there’d only be one printed review disseminated amongst the student body. WHO WOULD EAT THERE ANYWAY. Being the only game in town, these places had a constant stream of customers, because the only other choice was Denny’s. They certainly didn’t need glowing prose word-vomited by an acne-pocked, puberty-stricken teen.

We wanted to work the system, and boy did we. Plates of buttery rolls, gooey mac and cheese, and well-done (yup, judge me harshly) steak graced our greasy faces. There was nary a green to be found, and there was always room for dessert. Man, we were damn hell ass kings for an hour or so before regressing back to being nerdy, social-climbing virgins again.

Of course, I know better now than to be a mooching d-bag. Even still, those issues of the Wildcat were my favorite. I got to stretch a muscle I didn’t know was there. Because of the food issues, I caught the bug that took a decade or so to metamorphose into what is now my career path.

Sadly, I have no mementos from that past life. How I wish I had copies to read, if only to laugh at myself. It’d be nice to see what the baby-me had to say about CJ’s seven-layer Motherlode cake, or the newborn-sized éclair.

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Profilin': Mary McAuley of The Ripe Life Wines

Processed with VSCOcam with a6 presetReal talk about blogging: it’s difficult to come up with original AND compelling content on a weekly basis. I’m not a list person, at least online. As I work on this site more, and as I am inspired by some ace Web producers out there (no mere bloggers, these), I realize how much I want to shake up “blogging” as much as I want to shake up my routine. 

In that spirit, I’ve decided I will be pursuing more profile-style posts with fascinating people doing cool shit out there, here in Internet-land and beyond. I’m tired of sitting around, watching passionate people go unnoticed for their work. I’m curious and ripe with questions, but I have the luxury and luck to know So. Many. Cool. People. Let’s try to get them on here, mkay? 

Now that that’s out of the way… 

I first met Mary McAuley a few months ago at Ed’s Lobster in SoHo. There was, natch, lobster and clams and tators, but more importantly, there were bottles of Mary’s wine. Ya see, Mary is a wine-trepreneur: Back in 2013, the Jersey native, former NYC somm/culinary student and all-around badass started her own company, Ripe Life Wines, and released her first vintage of Clambake Chardonnay.

I know what you’re thinking: ABC (“I drink anything but Chardonnay”). But hear me out!

Mary’s first release, sourced from Cali’s Santa Lucia Highlands, was a wallop of a sip. Fresh, minerally, hearty squeezes of lemon: her juice is not that ’90s stereotype of oaky, popcorn-buttery Chard. It is finessed, with tons of fresh acidity that makes it dangerously easy to guzzle. Her 2013 release is from Mendocino and is just as fresh, if a little fuller.

I’ve hung out with Mary a few times now, and lemme tell you, girl knows her way around wine and food. In fact, the Clambake label is a nod to her East Coast roots: It’s meant to pair well with all iterations of clambakes up and down the eastern seaboard.

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Wine Discovery: Louis-Antoine Luyt

Wines of Chile Wine Bar War

So I get to do some pretty cool shit, like this last week: Wines of Chile hosted a Wine Bar War featuring four sommeliers from around NYC. Basically, it was a battle of pop-ups, but in this case, the medium wasn’t food but wine.

“Alright,” you may be saying to yourself. “I can dig that.” Damn straight: there was a ton of talent in that room.

Working with Hector Vergara, South America’s only Master Sommelier, each of the somms took to their corners and built out their wine bar concept that would best evoke Chile’s diversity. Did I mention they started at 9 am? By the time dusk fell, the event (hosted at Villain in Williamsburg) drew a fun weekday crowd of wine lovers, industry pros, writer-types (like me!) and the like. The prize was a trip to Chile for the winning team of somms (score!).

As you’d expect, the wine flowed quite easily.

While a few bottles piqued my interest, only one bottle really stood out at Earth’s End, the pop-up created by Momofuku Ssam Bar’s Anna-Lisa Campos. The bottle: Louis-Antoine Luyt Carignan. Long story short, winemaker Louis-Antoine is a native-Frenchman who traveled to Chile in his youth, found wine, studied it back in France and took that training back to Chile to produce something incredibly unique in a country run by many large producers. A believer in terroir and the natural wine-making philosophy, he set out in 2009 to create the wines he loved. Fast-forward a few years and he’s now rockin’ three lines of vino you don’t often see coming from Chile.

Louis-Antoine Luyt Carignan natural Chile wine

His newest venture, an eponymous Carignan, attracted me first with its colorful label, but the glass was an all-out seduction offensive.

First sniff, swirl and sip: The 70-year-old vines threw off aromas akin to a big bowl of summer berry fruit with an underlying, tell-tale earthy funk. The palate was all ripe red juiciness, with more of that horse-y funk coming in like the goddamn flavor cavalry. To say I was “into it” would be an understatement. If this is how LAL makes all his wine, sign me up. Lest I forget, this wine rocks a $22 price tag. Delicious AND affordable? GTFO.

I didn’t stick around to see who won (papa’s got a bedtime, yo) but for real: This “wine bar war” thing needs to catch on. Can I get a witness?

For the full scoop on the Wine Bar War, like the kick-ass somms who brought their A-game that night, check out Wines of Chile’s site. 

Wednesday Wanderlust: Rural Pennsylvania

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Chalk this up in “places I’d rather be.” Big ol’ sigh.

Traveling down the unpaved road leading to Bird Song Winery. | Muncy Valley, Pennsylvania

Party of the Summer: The Governors Island Jazz Age Lawn Party

Jazz Age kiss

It’s not quite summertime in New York until you dapper up, don an ascot and take the ferry to Governors Island for a day of big brass band shimmying. For hundreds of New Yorkers this last weekend, they did just that.

Held twice a year, the Jazz Age Lawn Party transforms a sun-dappled lawn into a free-wheeling, 1920s-style party, complete with visiting dance troupes, St-Germain cocktails and tasty bites for the most erudite Gatsby fan seeking period authenticity. A highly anticipated event on many calendars, the Lawn Party attracts NYers from all walks to take in a jaunty afternoon of music and dancing, provided by the acclaimed Michael Arenella and the Dreamland Orchestra.

Jazz Age Dancers

St. Germaine cocktails

In fact, the party is the brainchild of Arenella himself, who plays emcee to a host of acts that channel the best talents of the Roaring ’20s. For some fancy footwork and era-spanning spectacle, you’ll see Gregory Moore and the Dreamland Follies take the dance floor, while chanteuse Queen Esther plays homage to classic jazz. Whatever your flavor, you’ll be surrounded by enthusiastic revelers decked out in their peacock-iest finery.

These shots, from the June lawn party, are just a sample of the revelry that goes down at this NYC favorite.

Shrimp Rolls

Jazz Age Lawn Party

Whether you’re wearing suspenders and a natty ascot or swishing around in a shiny flapper dress, you know you done good if the blue clad Bill Cunningham snaps your pic.

Though this year’s events are over for the season, mark your calendars now. If you’re ever in NYC during June or August, it’s worth time traveling back a few hours and soaking in the jazz, the booze and the pageantry of it all.

Jazz Age Lawn Party | Governors Island 

For a weekly dose of big band entertainment, check out the Dreamland Orchestra every Wednesday and Thursday at the Clover Club and Red Room.

Brunching in Fort Greene, Brooklyn

Processed with VSCOcam with a5 presetI’m one of those unlucky souls with only one day off a week. When not in Westchester, commuting, writing or bartending, I don’t usually have the luxury of taking time for myself to, ya know, do stuff.

This isn’t to say I find it impossible, just exceedingly difficult.

Surprisingly, between an upcoming work conference and a move from Harlem to Queens, I found a few Saturday hours with the bf in one of our favorite areas of Brooklyn, Fort Greene.

Tree-lined with BK’s iconic brownstones, Fort Greene is a picturesque ‘hood with a ton of shops, restaurants and bars within a few blocks, great for a meandering weekend’s exploration. It’s one of our favorite ‘hoods for a reason: the Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM), host to a grip of world class culture and art house films, anchors the neighborhood, called home for creative urban-types. The sloping, arboreal oasis of Fort Greene Park and the bustle of restaurants off the main thoroughfares don’t hurt, either.

We planned to meet at the at General Greene, where we’d only enjoyed a cocktail once before. Between packing up our respective apartments and rumbling morning tummies, brunch was clearly required.

I timed it so I’d be a bit early, which always warrants a leisurely stroll through the area. Walking down Dekalb (hell, any street) is almost like walking onto a movie backlot, except all of the details are just right, sans typical H-wood touches of forced authenticity. Everyone is just doin’ their thing: runners through the park, kids playing ball, young (exceedingly/frustratingly attractive) parents taking their kids out, neighbors of all ilk selling wares from their stoops while blasting Whitney Houston… Fort Greene’s got it.

General Greene is a great stop for a quiet afternoon drink, or in this case, a leisurely brunch. Order the housemade lemonade with a shot of jalapeño Tequila. You won’t hate it.

The bf ordered the biscuits and gravy, a cast iron pan’s worth of buttermilk biscuit drowning in a savory sausage gravy and topped with two eggs. I opted for the Greene Eggs and Ham, which did not have the de rigeur pesto this dish often comes with. The poached eggs maintained that delicate balance of runny orange yolk that is not overcooked but miraculously exists between solid and liquid states. That flavor-noise was served atop a buttery (albeit not hot) biscuit and fatty ham with requisite hollandaise. Oh, and let’s not forget the side of fried green tomatoes.

Allz I gotz to say is: Show me a person who hates brunch food and I’ll show you a liar.

General Greene | Brooklyn | 229 Dekalb Ave. at Clermont

New York is Always a Good Idea

Empire

 

Three years ago today, I stepped on a plane and left Chicago—the first home I ever shaped for myself—for the unknown wilderness that is New York City.

With the hubris of a 25 year old, a promising job opportunity, a paper thin wallet and a clutch of friends, I chased the dream of making it as a writer in NYC.

I was a naive cliché, deriding a young Didion for writing her famed Goodbye to All That essay. I thought to myself, “Maybe you couldn’t hack it, Joan, but I will!” I had seen Devil Wears Prada and Ugly Betty, after all. I was plucky as fuck, pluckier than all those underdogs combined. I’d be fine.

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