Girl Gone Globetrotting

To quote our entire group, dinner at Todd English’s Olives in Charlestown, Mass., was “possibly the best meal we’ve ever eaten.”

We sat near the open kitchen, with a full view of the restaurant and the breathtaking view of the downtown Boston visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. The lively, bright restaurant only got livelier as the night progressed, save the intimate, dark back room. Behind us, the open kitchen gave us front row seats to five star cooking. At one point we saw a chef toss a giant, caveman-sized T-bone steak into a frying pan with a slab of butter and thyme (or rosemary, I forget). If our mouths weren’t watering before, they were after that.

We ordered yellowfin tuna tartare, beef carpaccio and the mushroom flatbread (read sauceless pizza) to start with. Mr. English’s restaurant couldn’t have been more impressive from the get-go. The tender and juicy beef carpaccio and tuna were devoured within minutes and only a single piece of the flatbread covered in oyster and shiitake mushrooms, pancetta and fontina cheese was left standing.

My meal was an entire cast iron skillet full of mac and cheese and cauliflower, which I took home and had for lunch the next day. Why didn’t I finish my meal you ask? Because the apps and the sides did me in. We ordered the garlicky spinach and white cheddar risotto tots. Mr. English had me at tots. The spinach dish was just as tasty and rich as I could’ve asked for. We cleared that plate instantaneously.

It was J’s bday and also the night I met his parents (eek!). Our entire party was so pants-splittingly full that we could barely speak to one another.

Though of course we made room for peanut butter ice cream and cookies.

I would love to thank Mr. English in person for making it a night and a meal none of us will soon forget.

Photography by me. January 2013.

Where to find it:
10 City Square
Charlestown, MA 02129
(617) 242-1999

On a Sunday that we decided shouldn’t be lazy, the boy (let’s call him J) and I decided to explore a part of Boston that we don’t visit very often (ever), Somerville. We took recommendations from a friend and after walking around Davis Square for a bit, decided on Flatbread Company at Sacco’s Bowl Haven for lunch and entertainment.

I’m sure you’re thinking that bowling alley pizza is nothing to blog about, but Flatbread uses locally-sourced, organic ingredients to create delicious pies. J and I sat right next to the super-cool pizza oven and watched the chefs construct, cook, and slice the pizzas from the comfort of our table.

After our piping hot veggie pizza, we ordered a chocolate chip ice cream sandwich. Perfect for a not-so-lazy Sunday.

Flatbread was packed with families and children’s birthday parties sitting at community tables that took up the length of the restaurant. Little girls showing off their cute dance moves to (I’m assuming) their adoring grandpa (I hope it wasn’t the dad), while little boys hugged and played with action figures.

J and I wanted to take part in an New England bowling tradition: candlepin bowling. If you haven’t heard of it before this blog post, don’t worry I hadn’t either. (The game is played the same way, but the pins are straight and skinny and the ball is teeny.) But, since it was a Sunday filled with family fun, the wait was an hour and a half to get a lane. We have since vowed to go back with friends on a weekend night for some adult fun.

Photography by me. January 2013.

Where to find it:
45 Day Street
Somerville, MA 02144
(617) 776-0552

Fifth Avenue Holiday Window Displays

A playground for lovers of luxury

The jaw-dropping window displays at Bergdorf Goodman and Henri Bendel are famous for a reason. Every Christmas season the high society shops on Fifth Avenue in New York City go all out on their window displays, and this year I couldn’t help but hop on a bus to check them out.

The French call window shopping “faire du lèche-vitrines,” which literally translates to “licking the windows.” That saying is completely apropos here, since these windows are the ultimate eye candy.

Decadently designed windows, each different from the other, line Fifth Avenue and bewitch onlookers, inspire picture takers, and entrance anyone attracted to shiny objects.

My favorite Bergdorf window was the first one I spotted: A mirror mosaic star spinning against a background made of, you guessed it, a mirrored mosaic. Two mannequins with showgirl plumes stand in thousand dollar dresses made of mirrored mosaics. Over the top doesn’t seem to describe it. You can’t look away from the delicious, luxurious, elaborate display of ostentatious beauty.

Henri Bendel’s in-store display was a giant golden tinsel tree, with a mannequin in a champagne glass hung as if an ornate, silly ornament. I felt like a child in Willy Wonka’s factory, if his factory was filled with shiny jewels and expensive clothes.

If you get a chance, check the windows out. Just leave your pocketbook at home so you’re not tempted.

Photography by me. December 2012.

After being crushed by the summer vacation closure of Big in Japan, my family and I were excited to try Le Comptoir Charcuteries et Vin. We dressed in our finest which means I put on wedges and dad wore slacks that don’t zip off to different lengths. Needless to say, we were lookin’ mighty fine.

Le Comptoir is a teeny rectangular restaurant that seats 30 people max. But the draw to Le Comptoir is that if you sit at the bar you can watch the chefs at work concocting foams and purees that I’ve only seen on Top Chef. The molecular gastronomy, ingredients and flavor combinations confound the mind and amuse the palate.

As we awaited our table we noticed the restaurant is about as cool as the men’s steam room of a local gym. We thought maybe the AC will kick in soon.

I’d like to say that that was the case. However, it was not.

A high of 91 degrees and probably 60% humidity that day combined with no AC and an open kitchen, made this one sweaty meal.

We launched into the grandest food marathon my family has ever participated in with the charcuteries (general French term for meats) plate, which is included delicious condiments, crunchy bread and cretons, a Quebecois pork product so rich they served it in a small cube.

After gorging ourselves on round one, we ordered five more plates which came in waves.

Roasted beet salad with celery, apples goat cheese, watercress and argan oil. It was the perfect way to prep our bellies for the meaty and rich adventure to come.
Roasted squash with fried chickpeas, ricotta, lime, mint and in a surprising twist—a little touch of pig heart confit. Surprising because even though I speak French and know what coeur means, apparently I missed that tidbit of information. And, when we asked the waitress what we were eating, she said tongue. She even made the gesture to her tongue. I’m still not sure what part of the animal we ate, but to be honest, we chowed down on whateveritwas like it was crack.
Lobster pie with onions, tomato confit, tarragon, cream and arugula. There’s pretty much no way to mess this up. It’s a gooey concoction of cream and one of the best meats on earth: lobster.
Crispy pork belly with urchin foam, apples, cilantro and radish. Here’s where the molecular gastronomy comes into play. What they don’t show you on Top Chef is how the foam melts and melds into the food. It’s quite the show.
Shrimp salad with a spicy tomato sauce, basil and horseradish foam. More foam. It was delicious, even if our stomachs were starting to rebel against the amount of rich, decadent food we were ingesting.

We also downed two bottles of wine, which made my 20-year-old sister happy because the drinking age in Montreal is 18. (Another reason it’s like Europe.) The meal was peppered with wishful comments like, “I think I just felt the air come on.” or “Was that a draft?!” Sadly, we were wrong.

When we had finished—and sadly declined dessert because we couldn’t stomach one more thing even though the rhubarb, strawberry, basil and lemon treat sounded fantastic—westepped outside and it was cooler than the restaurant. My advice, go to Le Comptoir, but call ahead and ask if their AC is running.

Photography by me. July 2012.

Where to find it:
4807 Boulevard Saint-Laurent
Montreal, Quebec, Canada
comptoircharcuteriesetvins.ca

On our last day in Montreal, I discovered a hidden gem of a shoe shop. I ducked into L’Espagne à vos pieds (which means Spain for your feet) looking for a gift for a friend’s upcoming birthday. What I found was an adorably authentic store that stocks walls and walls of brightly colored espadrilles from a small Spanish town where the shop owner’s grandfather lived. I met the owner, Diego, and his baby Esteban, who promptly stole my heart by being so chunky and calm.

Espadrilles are traditional footwear from the Basque region of Spain and are popular in the south of France. The versatile footwear with soles woven from Mediterranean grass has been worn since the 14th century.

L’Espagne à vos pieds has feet in modern and traditional worlds. One wall of the store features a touch screen where customers can interact with the shoes Diego hopes they will purchase. Videos of the shoes being made, slideshows of Spanish villages and more are made available to pique customers’ interest. The shop’s website is just as technologically advanced, offering a 360-degree tour of the shop and utilizing Google Maps.

After listening to Diego for a bit, I picked up a pair of denim espadrilles for my friend. She loves them (yay for good gift giving!) and I strongly encourage you to visit the site or L’Espagne à vos pieds when you’re in Montreal.

Where to find it:
4518 Rue Saint-Denis
Montreal, QC H2J 2L3
espadrillestore.com

Photography by me. July 2012.

Scavenging bands of raccoons aren’t what you’d expect to find at a romantic spot overlooking Montreal. But that’s what we found, in addition to couples making out, teens bumping rap music and the smell of funny cigarettes. Though, to be fair, the sign does make it very clear that the varmints are regulars at the Parc du Mont-Royal overlook.

There must have been at least a dozen of the masked bandits roaming around, not giving a single care to people. I’ve always thought raccoons were mean creatures, but nature’s homeless (as my sister calls raccoons) were focused on swarming the trashcans. Though my sister swears she heard one growl or hiss at someone.

Either way, I’d say the city of Montreal’s got a bit of a raccoon problem, but they don’t really seem to care. Nor do the carloads of people that filled the overlook’s parking lot that night.

Though, I bet if the raccoons knew what the sign said (It reads “Don’t touch me, Don’t feed me, I am a carrier of illness.”), they’d be offended and not so apathetic to humans.

Photography by me. July 2012.

Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop

Flags waving on a windy morning in Montreal. Photo by me.

I’ve never known a family vacation that one would call relaxing. Maybe I’m just too young to remember those times, but ever since I can recall my family and I have always taken intense vacations. The kind where you wake up at 8 am every morning (I’m not a morning person, so this is early for me.) to make the tours and trips we have planned. They involve lots of car rentals and reservations. The kind where you better bring walking shoes because if you don’t your whining won’t influence the decision to walk 10 miles a day over cobblestones. The kind where you feel more exhausted when you get back than when you left.

We’ve never slept in and moseyed to the beach whenever we felt like it. That’s not our kind of vacation.

My parents, both from small towns in Montana, apparently got it into their minds that they’ve got a lot of traveling to do and they’re bringing us along.

As a kid, I was always grateful to see new places. But as an adult—with a bit of a shopping addiction—I’m even more grateful.

I guess this is a long way of telling you that when my family visited me in July, there’s no way we’d all be satisfied with just Boston. We took our talents to the Great White North, the French-speaking province to be exact.

We’d heard that Montreal was like Europe, especially Paris. Being Francophiles, we couldn’t wait to check it out.

One Parisian-feeling building near the Vieux Port. Photo by me.

In some ways it was like Paris: I was eager to go to Big in Japan, a bar/gastropub recently profiled in Conde Nast Traveler. So much so that I made my entire family get dressed up after a day of traveling and stress. However, when we arrived the place was dark and a note on the window informed us that the bar was on vacation until the very day we were scheduled to leave. (That was not our first encounter with the European-style vacation notice.)

In some ways it wasn’t: The area we called home felt more like Seattle with the amount of dreadlocks, street art and trash.

Nevertheless, it was a new place for us to explore. We took to Montreal by sea, by foot and by table.

When you’re in your early 20s and just started your first real job, how would you describe your spending habits?

Mine would be: “The cheaper the better.” Unless it’s clothes and then that flies right out the window.

But if I can get gourmet-quality food for pennies on the dollar, you bet I’m making a beeline for that restaurant.

Through the goddess that is Yelp, my friends and I found Prosperity Dumpling in Chinatown in NYC. It’s teeny, it literally has counter seating for eight people. And if you’re one of those eight people who were lucky enough to get a seat, the entire time you enjoy your dumplings and sesame pancakes, you’re going to be bumped, knocked into, trampled and thought of as annoyances by the other patrons waiting for some one-dollar dumplings. That’s right one measly dollar for four or five steamed and yummy dumplings. C’mon, McDonald’s charges more than that for a medium Diet Coke.

On a sunny Sunday, my friends and I waited in the neverending line that forms for the delicious dumplings (thank goodness the line moves quickly) and were rewarded for our patience with inside seats and scrumptious dumplings.

Though my favorite treat was the sesame pancake that I could not have devoured faster. Amazing!

If you’re in Chinatown, look this place up and get ready to have your mind blown by some cheap eats.

Photography by me. April 2012.

As my friends and I made our way toward Washington Square Park one Saturday afternoon, we noticed a strangely large amount of people carrying pillows not of the decorative kind. Just regular sleeping pillows. Not the kind you just bought at a Greenwich Village decor store and want to flaunt on your way home.

Then we noticed a surplus of men in blue and had to investigate. What we found was a flash pillow fight in the middle of the park, right near the Washington Monument that is reminiscent of the Arc de Triomphe. (Certainly the French would never be caught in such folie as a pillow fight en masse.)

We stared, amazed at the commitment the pillow fighters had as fluff from the pillows littered the ground around us. We couldn’t imagine wanting to pillow fight for more than 30 seconds, but some pillow-wielding mad men were committed and looked as if they’d never stop.

Curious as can be about the spark that ignited this flash mob, we asked three policemen “keeping watch” who organized it. One’s response was, “They did.” Another policeman followed up with, “Why don’t you go join them?”

Our response: “We don’t have pillows.”

His response: “There’s a truck around back handing them out for free.”

Touche Mr. Policeman.

We chose to avoid the chaos as our feet had already taken a beating that day and we didn’t need our heads to feel the pain as well.

What topped the experience off was the three policemen watching the mob from atop the monument. (If you enlarge the picture of the monument and look closely, you can see them.) Rough day at work, guys.

Photography by me. April 2012.

The Night My Life Turned Into A Sitcom

My Friday night started out with dinner at Loteria Grill in Hollywood with two friends, including the lovely AJ (also a Tumblr-er). Loteria has some of the best margaritas I’ve had, ever. I’m not a huge marg fan, but these contained just the right amount of tequila and weren’t too sour. So we ordered a pitcher, for three of us.

Then after a two-hour dinner of chatting, gossiping and - most importantly of all - eating (I had delicious tacos and amazingly tasty rice, even though it looks like plain white rice), I exit the restaurant to discover I’ve parked in a tow zone. Awesome.

Perfect way to end a great dinner with friends. Not.

Thankfully AJ knew where the Hollywood tow lot was, and we swung by to discover they had my car and would return it to me for the low low price of $268.

Let’s take a moment of silence for nearly $300 that could’ve been at least three gorgeous blouses from Anthropologie. We could’ve been great together.

After liberating my car from the pokey, AJ and I met up with her guy friends at the original and truly tiny Cabo Cantina in West Hollywood, but decided to walk down the street to Saddle Ranch. Already from the name you can tell it’s a classy joint, so classy there’s a mechanical bull in the middle of the bar.

Little did I know that my car being towed wouldn’t be the only traumatic incident of the night. I ran into a pair of guys who I haven’t seen or spoken to in at least a year. One of whom can only be described by this ADELE song and this Lady Antebellum song. You get the picture. And the other one, well this song describes him perfectly. Not a pair I was in any way prepared to run into, at Saddle Ranch no less.

But I put on my big girl pants, said the obligatory, “Hi!” with big smiles and hugs for both. Then I proceeded to enjoy the rest of my night. Don’t get me wrong, I was shaking (physically and emotionally) but I think that’s a sign of growing up that you get better at “faking it ‘til you make it.” I’ve always been a “heart on my sleeve” person, but lately I’ve come to realize there’s something to putting on a brave face. One of the boys even rode the mechanical bull to cheer me up.

Unfortunately there was no laugh track in the background of this dark comedy, only ’90s music and cheers whenever someone fell off the bull. This was my life that night.

It was raining when I left the bar that night. Straight out of a sitcom.