The Amateur Gourmet

Ok, gang, I'm now en route to the Big Apple! If you're a New Yorker, keep your eyes peeled for a charming lass in a red sweater scrutinizing his kumquats. Au revoir!

Hello from New York!

Well I made it here safe and sound. Here are some noteworthy aspects of my journey:

- The security line at the Atlanta airport was insanely long. It wrapped all the way out to the baggage carousels. I'm still somewhat reeling from the wait.

- The Delta flight boarded by Zones, the first time I've ever experienced anything like this. So instead of saying "Rows 10 through 20" they said: "Zone 3!" I was in Zone 6, which was a good Zone.

- On the plane, I sat between two women. The woman on my left read the Pottery Barn catalogue. The woman on my right read an Isabelle Alende(?) novel in Spanish. I, rather bravely, read the Alice B. Toklas cookbook. Did you know she had a mustache?

Anyway, I went in a Hell cab with 8 near death collisions to Lisa's apartment and now here I am!

And as a special treat, we recorded a Thursday Night Dinner song in the style of college acapella. It's not very good, but at least it's amusing! Anyway, I better be social before Lisa slaps me. More tomorrow!

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Dana and I met our freshman year of high school in Trigonometry with Mrs. * who, by all accounts, was certifiably insane. There was the time, for example, that Mrs. * threw a chair across the room or, more peculiarly, stormed out of the classroom in a fury, slamming the door eight times against the wall and splashing water-fountain water on her face.

Dana and I connected quickly; her father and my father were both dentists. She then took me on as a project, much like Henry Higgins and Eliza Doolittle. At the time, I was wearing jean shorts and champion t-shirts. She introduced me to the mall, and the preppy world of Banana Republic and J. Crew.

That summer, she and I went for a 6 week program at the University of Michigan. Our Michigan summer is a blur, but we followed that up the next summer with 6 weeks at UCLA. The high school years were dotted with adventures in cars, Proms, class trips to Europe and Billy Joel appreciation. The summer after our first year in college (we went to different colleges), we discovered New York together.

Living at NYU (across from Washington Square Park), our summer was spent hiking along Madison Avenue, or exploring SoHo, waiting in the TKTS line and stalking Woody Allen and Harrison Ford (our celebrity heroes). Whether getting caught in rain storms or being blessed by Hassidic rabbis, Dana and I fell in love with New York that summer.

And then time and distance kept us apart. We saw each other two or three times, and then there was static. She went on to Cardozo Law as I continued at Emory Law. We really hadn't spoken in what must have been 5 years when I heard from her a few weeks ago. We struck up an e-mail exchange and spoke on the phone for a few hours. We made a plan to meet today at Gotham for lunch since it's across the street from her law school.

I got there, as I always do, way too early. I snapped a picture of the outside:

I walked around the block a few times. It was during this walk that my love for the city resurfaced. In the course of one block, I saw a group of people petting an adorable dog, a homeless man coughing up a loogie, and two cab drivers having a fight. The first one said: "You are a piece of shit!" And the other one, perhaps not really thinking before speaking, retorted: "You are a piece of ass!"

Finally, I returned to Gotham and saw a familiar figure approaching with a red umbrella. Her fingers lifted and signaled hello. I ran to greet her.

"Well hello!" she sang.

"Hey!" I sang back. We hugged.

We walked inside all smiles. We decided not to check our coats.

The interior was asutere without being intimidating. Huge lamps covered with fabric hung from the ceiling. A mock statue of liberty stood in the corner.

"Roberts, party of two," I said to the maitre'd.

"Very good, sir," he said, "right this way."

We followed him to our table; an elevated two-top by the bar.

I sat facing the door and Dana faced the back.

"So!" she said, "tell me everything!"

"Well, let's see..."

We caught eachother up on eachother's lives. Then the waitress approached. She had an icy quality with a hint of warmth, like one of those sports balms.

"Good afternoon," she said, "Welcome to Gotham. There are two additions to our menu today. The soup is..."

We listened attentively.

"Would you like tap or bottled water?"

This always gets me. If they use the word "tap," it's like they're judging you. "Do you drink from the tap like a dog, you filthy animal?"

"Tap is fine," we said.

We examined the menu. A Prixe Fixe lunch was available for $25.

"That sounds good," we decided.

The waitress returned. I ordered the soup, the duck and the cake. Dana ordered the salad, the duck and the cake.

"Thank you," said the waitress.

A bread boy brought bread.

"Mmmm," said Dana, "this bread is good."

We caught up some more. We even gossiped. And then our first courses arrived.

Here is Dana's salad (fennel and apple with walnuts):

Here is my soup (potato and leek puree with lemon oil, spinach and toast with goat cheese):

We tasted each others. Mine turned out the winner. "Yours has more flavor," said Dana.

The plates were taken away. More catching up was done. And then the entrees arrived.

I think we were both surprised. I think we expected a duck breast; instead we got duck pasta.

"I was expecting something different," said Dana.

"Ya," said I.

We tasted and it tasted fine. Not spectacular.

We talked while chewing about things past, things present, and things future.

"I think you're going to love New York," said Dana, between bites.

"I'm excited," I said, between chews.

We finished our entrees. They were taken away.

Finally, the waitress returned with dessert. Chocolate cake with tangerine sorbet.

"Mmm," said Dana before even tasting.

"Mmm," I agreed.

We scarfed down some cake; Dana ordered tea, I ordered coffee. The waitress snapped a picture of the two of us:

Finally the check came. The meal had come to an end.

"This was fun," I said.

"Ya," said Dana.

We made plans to hang out again Sunday. We left without paying the bill. Just kidding.

I walked Dana to the subway and continued back here to write up this review. Now I have to digest quickly and make room for our 6 pm dinner at Amma. Boy, this New York Spring Break dining adventure is hard work!

In any case, it was great to catch up with Dana. Sort of like a VHS tape that you stopped watching 5 years ago and popped back in again. Except now it's a DVD. And its hair is straighter.

BONUS BATHROOM REVIEW
As part of my New York dining adventure, I will (if the opportunity presents itself) photograph and evaluate the bathrooms at New York's finer dining institutions. Today, we evaluate the bathroom at Gotham:

I think this bathroom was disappointing. The countertops were green marble, yes, but the overall feel was one of a museum. There was no pleasant smell; even the soap didn't smell especially good. The faucet was too high and caused water to splash on me as I washed my hands. The towels were nicer paper, but not anything glorious. All in all, the Gotham bathroom was underwhelming.

Gotham Bathroom Grade: C

If you are a restaurant and you want to piss me off, here is what you should do. Send a waiter over to my table and have him say: "Would you like sparkling or flat water tonight?" Then, when me and my companions say "flat," have the waiter return with a large bottle of water. Have him pour water until our glasses are full and then, when the bottle is empty, have him open a new one and continue filling our glasses. Then, to guild the lily, have him charge us $12 on the bill for two full bottles of what may as well have been tap water.

This was our experience tonight at Amma, an otherwise very good, very expensive Indian restaurant on 51st between 2nd and 3rd.

First, I met up with Ricky and Lisa outside Lisa's office next to Radio City Music Hall.

We walked down 51st towards the Home of Overpriced Water.

Finally, we reached it and Ricky and Lisa posed outside.

Then we encountered a problem.

"How do we get into this restaurant?" asked Lisa.

We attempted the left side, the down side, the up side, until finally we ascended the stairs on the right side. Entering the dimly lit room, the owner approached us as if we were a band of vagabonds there to deflower a virgin on the bar.

"Can I help you?" he asked nervously. I have a very intimidating gait.

"We have a reservation," Ricky said.

He looked us up and sat us in a corner. No one puts baby in a corner.

Already, the room was rather oppressive. It was uncomfortably silent, and waiters and servers and other non-identified employees stood like secret security agents in different corners of the room.

We unintentionally ordered our expensive water and then ordered our food. To start, we ordered a trio of samosas: peas, potatoes and chicken. Soon, a waiter brought out a plate and we cut each in half.

"Which is the chicken! Which is the peas! Which is the potatotes!" worried Lisa who is a vegetarian.

"I think they're all mixed together," I declared sadly.

Lisa frowned. Ricky and I devoured the samosas.

Then a waiter came out with a plate. "Samosas!" he said.

"What did we just eat?" I asked.

"That was spinach and potato (something)," he answered.

"Oh," we answered.

He placed the plate down.

"Which is the chicken! Which is the peas! Which is the potatoes!" worried Lisa.

The waiter pointed out the chicken and Lisa cut into the peas.

They were very good.

Then our entrees arrived. Mine was delicious. Mine was lamb with an apricot fennel stuffing.

Lisa was a little less enthused about her saag (with spinach and chickpeas). She says now: "I thought it was good at the time, I told you it was good at the time. The restaurant itself is what pissed me off. The prices of things and the fact that they don't serve you rice, that's what i didn't like about it. I thought the food tasted good, though."

And so there you have it. And now for the most important part...

AMMA BATHROOM REVIEW

As you can see, the Amma bathroom is quite lovely. I particularly liked the flowers and the zesty citrus handsoap. I did, unfortunately, burn my hands on the incredibly hot water (my fault for not turning on the cold early enough, but still) but overall this bathroom has a lot of character.
Grade: B+

Around the corner from Amma, Ricky dragged us to what had he heard was the home of the best cupcakes in New York.

"But Ricky!" I said, "We're going to be late for our show!"

[We had tickets for WICKED at 8 pm.]

"We could go to four different cupcake shops and still make our show," said Ricky rolling his eyes. It was 7:13.

"Adam you're a little anal with time," said Lisa.

So we went into a lovely-looking cupcake establishment.

"Mmm, look at all the cupcakes," I said.

"So many choices!" said Lisa, excited.

"I know!" agreed Ricky.

"Do you want to each get a cupcake and share?" said Lisa to Ricky.

"Sure!" said Ricky.

Feeling betrayed, I quickly ordered my own not-to-be-shared cupcake: lemon.

Ricky and Lisa split a sour cream something and a devil dog something.

Here is Ricky with our plate of cupcakes:

How did they fare?

Mine was wonderful. I loved it. I love lemony desserts. But even if it wasn't lemony, it was a great cupcake. Definitely the best I've had in New York (and I've been to Magnolia and the Cupcake Cafe). Lisa and Ricky loved theirs too.

Then Ricky went to the bathroom. "Take the camera!" I said.

BUTTERCUP CUPCAKE SHOP BATHROOM REVIEW

According to Ricky, the bathroom was really nice. He said it had a homey feel and that it was very
enjoyable. Unfortunately, the bathroom was out of paper towels.

Despite this, Ricky still enjoyed his bathroom experience. He gives it the following grade.
Grade: B

BONUS THEATER REVIEW: WICKED

At first, I hated Wicked. I thought it was a little cloying. But then Kristen Chenowith sang "Popular" and I got on board. And I had a lot of fun. There were definitely some really bad parts--the ribbon dancer of Oz, for example--but the end of Act One and some of the plot twists in Act Two made the whole endeavor worthwhile.

I regret to inform you that the wireless internet connection I am mooching off will not allow me to upload my pictures from today to the internet. Thus, you will not see the following:

- Pictures of a delicious brunch at Sarah Beth's Kitchen! Oh my God it was so good. But even better, I got to see my other great friend from Friendships past: Marisa. And, lo and behold, I was able to upload a picture of her and I outside after gorging on almond crusted french toast and apple cinnamin french toast.

- A trip to the new Time Warner Center. I enjoyed my exploration but was not blown away or anything. It's a very pretty building, though.

- A fantastic snack at The City Bakery; where we had real hot chocolate (so thick we drank it with a fork) with homemade marshmallows (made NOT in reverse) and a passionfruit raspberry tart.

All photographed for your enjoyment and, unfortunately, completely unuploadable. But do what they did in the 18th century: use your imagination! For then, there was no internet---and images of someone else's cranberry-cherry french toast topping existed only in the imagination.

Taking a leap of faith, I attempted to upload my pictures from yesterday one more time and whaddya know, it worked! So here they are, sans narrative and just a smathering of title cards. Tonight Lisa and I are off to Babbo for our grand New York finale!

Brunch At Sarah Beth's

My almond crusted french toast with cranberry-cherry topping:

Marisa's apple french toast with bananas and raisins:

Walk Through The Met

A Food Related Painting By James Ensor

Snacks At The City Bakery

Outside

Very Pretty Tarts

Our Passionfruit Tart with Real Hot Chocolate and a Homemade Marshmallow

Oh Babbo, My Babbo
Our dinner there is done;
Our stomachs stuffed beyond belief
Our fight with hunger won.

How lovely was your ambience!
How reasonable your check-o!
How lip-smacking our starter drink
of green apple Prosecco.

And then the bread of crusty crust
sparking such debate
Lisa saying: "Eh, it's ok"
And me saying: "It's great!"

The waitress steered us brave and clear
through a menu tough and tricky;
A pasta here, an entree there
and "God, not that, it's icky!"

Beginning with an autumn salad,
Lisa declared: "It's warm!"

Mint Love Letters graced my plate;
Their function quashed their form.

And then the entrees landed fast
our mouths screamed out: "Oh Looky!"
Lisa had the pumpkin lune
complete with grated cookie.

I, in turn, enjoyed the duck
a full-on flavor attack;
when the waitress asked: "How's everything here?"
I could only answer: "Quack, quack!"

Our table cleared, we took a leap
two desserts that we would order:
chocolate hazelnut for Lisa
with a caramel chocolate border.

I, of course, partook of lemon
crostini to be exact;
so tart, so sweet, my soul complete:
our dinner's final act.

Blissful was our countenance,
our faith in life all mended;
We left on wings of glory
Forsooth! My New York trip has ended.

Babbo Bathroom Review

Fittingly, the last in our series of New York Bathroom Reviews belongs to the best: the Babbo bathroom was a bathroom-goers treat. Decorative flowers, a lovely smell, and a unique, quirky space: the Babbo bathroom has it all. There are very few bathrooms that evoke a desire to stay, and part of me--completing my task--seriously considered taking up residence right there atop the toilet. But alas, I returned to Lisa, and completed our meal. A little piece of my heart stayed behind, though. I should probably see a doctor about that.
Grade: A+

Today, on my Delta Song flight from LaGuardia to Ft. Lauderdale, I had a stream of consciousness. Granted, one is always having a stream of consciousness, but this one was a good one. This was a food related stream of consciousness. I will attempt to recreate it for you here.

It began with thoughts of bread. Babbo bread. Lisa and I had a debate about Babbo bread last night. It went like this:

LISA: I don't like this bread.
ADAM: This is really good bread.
LISA: I don't like a hard crust.
ADAM: It's a crusty crust.
LISA: What's the difference?
ADAM: I don't know.

Things got pretty violent. Eventually, Lisa accused me of learning to like foods that I didn't really like.

ADAM: Hogwash!
LISA: It's true!
ADAM: Prove it!
LISA: Olives!
ADAM: Damn you!

Was I the victim of my own impressionability? Am I reacting to foods a certain way because I know that's the way that food experts would have me react?

"Let me give you an example," says Lisa in my head (a story she told last night at dinner). "My family and I went to Mario Batali's pizza restaurant a couple of months ago. The pizza came out and it was dry and we wanted more sauce. So we asked the waitress for more sauce and she said: 'I'm sorry, I can't do that; Mario's very specific about how he likes to serve his pizza.' And I was like: Whoah! That sucks! We want more sauce!" (NOTE: Liberties have been taken with Lisa's story-telling voice.)

I attempted to defend Mario, suggesting that if he were there he would have given her the sauce.

"The waitress didn't make that up, Adam," Lisa retorted.

But back to the Babbo bread. I will admit that pre-food-awareness-Adam might not have enjoyed the Babbo bread the same way that post-food-awareness-Adam did. The process from pre to post taught me that good bread HAS a crusty crust and a soft center. I read 63 pages of Nancy Silverton's "Breads From The La Brea Bakery"! I'm even going to start a starter when I get back to Atlanta! I know about bread!

But why should quality food require a cognitive leap? Is fine dining a matter of intellect?

I've often considered exploring the relationship between class and food. There is no doubt in my mind that if you were to surprise a poverty-stricken segment of society with a week of fine dining at Daniel, they'd be like: What the hell is this? Liver juice? Pig intestines? I liked it better being poor!

My dad, for example, is a meat-and-potatoes guy. Literally. Cut him open, and out comes a cow. My mom often complains: "Your father never wants to go anywhere interesting. He hates anything weird." But truth be told, she's the same way: she worships at the temple of her familiar. (Temple Beth Chopped Salad with Dressing on the Side).

My parents grew up with far less money than we have now. So it makes sense that their tastes are informed by circumstance: they eat what they know. I've been lucky enough to eat for pleasure, not survival. Thus, I can afford to branch out and taste foods that weren't available to my mom in Queens or my dad in Brooklyn. Fennel-apricot stuffed lamb in a curry sauce? Just the phrase itself could get you beat up.

In Pauline Kael's review of "The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie" she writes: "This episodic story is about a group of six friends--discreetly charming amoral beasts whose attempts to have dinner together are always being interrupted: food, that ritual center of bourgeois well-being, keeps eluding them."

I am well aware that a poor person would not be likely to start a website called "The Amateur Gourmet." It requires privilege. Thinking about food is a luxury. Most people in this world would be as grateful for a slice of Babbo bread as they would a slice of Wonder Bread. How can anyone, in good conscience, have a snobbery about these sorts of things?

This leads directly into the second part of the Adam-Lisa dinner debate:

LISA: I love the Olive Garden.
ADAM: I hate the Olive Garden.
LISA: How can you hate the Olive Garden? It's delicious!
ADAM: No it's not! It's all pre-packaged food bought cheaply by a corporation!
LISA: But I like the way it tastes and you get so much of it!
ADAM: But you can make food that's even better for less money at home!
LISA: But I don't want to do that!

I think Lisa's voice is the voice of 95% of the people I know. Young people are more likely to spend money on drugs, drink or a weekend in Daytona than they are a fancy meal at a top restaurant. Why shouldn't they? And, inversely, why shouldn't restaurants show contempt for a group of young people yucking it up in the corner? The process is called "othering" and places like Charlie Trotter's and people like Lisa (and 95% of the people I know) exist in worlds that want nothing to do with eachother.

I straddle both worlds. Truth be told, I actually DO like the Olive Garden. Sometimes you want a lot of salad and greasy chicken parmiggean. Other times, though, I want to try the work of a craftsman the same way I want to watch a great film by Ingmar Bergman or listen to a symphony by Berlioz. Great food is art and the techniques that produce great food are the same techniques that produce great sonnets, great plays and great novels. Inspiration and craftsmanship work their miracles across various mediums of expression, across cultures and across great spanses of time.

Which leads back to the bread. My best defense for the Babbo bread is that it is part of a rich cultural tradition. Mario Batali is an astute scholar of Italian culture and cuisine. The bread he bakes is the bread of his motherland and the techniques he employs are techniques probably passed down for hundreds (maybe thousands?) of years. The sharp crack of the bread surface is the crack of a wood-burning oven, the crisp burnt bits a reminder of the purity and beauty inherent in the inevitable combination of flour and water. The contrast of the softness inside and the roughness outside creates a juxtoposition that mirrors all the great dyads in art: good and evil; love and loss; Adam and Lisa.

"Whatever Adam," says Lisa in my head, "the bread still sucks."

END NOTES

1. Lisa, earlier in an AIM chat, granted me permission to recount our conversation on the condition that I not make her out to be a bitch. "You always make me out to be a bitch," she bitched. "Lisa," I promised, "I will do no such thing." Rereading this entry, I worry that:
a. I made Lisa out to be a bitch;
b. I got her ideas wrong;
c. I intimated that she is a drug user when she is not.
Because of this, I ask you to erase any bad feelings you may have about Lisa after reading this entry. She is a lovely person and plays a mean Tetris.

2. I might have made up the bit about the wood burning oven at Babbo. I mean, maybe there is one, but I have done no research on the matter.

3. I have never seen an Igmar Berman film nor listened to a symphony by Berlioz. My argument attempted to gain heft by brandishing the names of notable cultural figures. For accuracy's sake, the sentence SHOULD read: "Other times, though, I want to try the work of a craftsman the same way I want to watch a great film by ADAM SANDLER or listen to a symphony by MARY J. BLIGE."

Madame Fifi (aka: my mother) and I ventured today to the opulent world of Palm Beach. We lunched at Renato's, a charming place off Worth Avenue where ladies in large hats drank martinis and picked at their salads.

The interior was quite lovely...

...though I felt out of place in my gray sweater. Next time I'll know to wear my white pants and turquoise blue Ralph Lauren shirt with white sweater tied around my neck.

Mother and I split a Caesar salad to start.

Then I had the Sea Bass on a bed of saffron rissoto:

Mother had the seared tuna with a sesame-seed crust:

Ladies continued to pour in with their hats and sunglasses. The Stephen Sondheim song "The Ladies Who Lunch" came to mind:

Here's to the ladies who lunch
Everybody laugh.
Lounging in their caftans and planning a brunch
on their own behalf.
Off to the gym
then to a fitting
claiming their fat.
And looking grim
'cause they've been sitting
choosing a hat.
Does anyone still wear a hat?

Apparently, yes. These hats were outrageous. Large turquoise bonnets with tiny birds around the brim. Our plates were taken away and the maitre'd came over and inquired as to why my mother was hatless.

"Madame Fifi," he chided, "it is inappropriate to dine in Palm Beach without wearing a hat. We must ask you to leave."

"Very well," said mother, "but first we'd like some Tiramasu!"

The Tiramasu was brought, and we quickly chomped down.

"Come," said mother, "let's blow this joint."

Outside, we resolved to Palm Beach ourselves. First, mother went hat-shopping:

Then jewellery shopping:

And I found a winning outfit to wear, our next time out:

We loaded into our car and drove away in shame. We took comfort in the conclusion of Sondheim's song:

Here's to the girls on the go,
Everybody tries
Look into their eyes
and you'll see what they know,
everybody dies!

A toast to that invincible bunch
The dinosaurs surviving the crunch
Let's hear it for the ladies who lunch
Everybody rise!

[Standing ovation, please.]

Mom and I went to Starbucks today. Here's our drinks:

Mine is on the right. It is a simple caramel frappucino. Two words.

Mom's is on the left. What is it? You may want to rub your eyes before you read this:

An iced non-fat decaf sugar-free vanilla latte.

Never have so many words been expended on one drink.

Tonight, instead of documenting our dinner, I decided to do an expose on what my family drinks. We begin with my father.

Dad's Drink: Tanqueray and Tonic

This is my father's signature drink. It is actually many people's signature drink. How did my father come to adopt it as his own?

"I used to drink 7 and 7," he explains.

"What's that?" I ask.

"7-up and 7 Seagram's Rye," he answers. "And before that I drank rum and Coke."

"What changed?" I probe.

"Well, one summer we went to the Hamptons for the weekend," he shares, "and I needed a good summer drink. I think it was 1974. And someone told me I should have a gin and tonic. And that was it."

"Tell the story about the straw up your nose," says my mother.

[Once, my father was on a date and trying to look smooth. He brought the drink to his face and accidentally stuck the straw up his nose. When he quickly pulled the drink away, the straw was still there.]

"Nah," says my father, "I don't want that on the internet."

Mom's Drink: Cosmopolitan

Mom started drinking Cosmos a few years ago. Her drink before that?

"Wine," she says. "And when I was younger, Bloody Mary's."

"Tell the story about when you threw up on your date," says my father.

[When my mom was young and impressionable, she went on a date with a beau who was wearing a velvet suit. Trying to act mature (despite her inexperience), my mother ordered a Bloody Mary. Sipping it down quickly, before she knew it--and without any warning--she projectile vomited the Bloody Mary on her beau's velvet suit.]

"Nah," says my mother, "I don't want that on the internet."

Grandma's Drink: Iced Tea, Ice On The Side

Grandma drinks her Iced Tea with ice on the side because it's too cold otherwise. Her drink before that?

"I never ever drank!" she declares. "Ask your mother!"

"It's true," says my mom. "She only drank water."

"And if I wanted a treat," continues my grandma, "I'd have a chocolate ice cream soda."

"Donald Trump doesn't drink alcohol," interjects my father.

"As a little girl," says my mother, "we couldn't order sodas or anything like that."

"If you had Chinese," explains my grandmother, "you'd have tea, and that was that."

"Oh," remembers my mother, "I used to drink Kir Royale."

"We're not doing you anymore," I scold.

Grandpa's Drink: Beefeater Martini

The most consistent drink orderer in our family is grandpa. His is always the same: "Beefeater Martini, very dry." How did it come about?

"First," he explains, "I drank Scotch. But then the Beefeater martini became popular. And if you smoked, you looked very cool drinking your martini and smoking your cigarette."

"Any other drinks," I probed.

"Well," grandpa explains, "there's also a Rob Roy, which is Vermouth and Scotch. As opposed to Gin, you have Scotch. It's a good drink too."

The Amateur Gourmet's Drink: Iced Tea

My family is very particular when it comes to what I drink at dinner.

"You can't drink alcohol," declares my mother, "you get cranky."

Well, true, but only when I'm with my family. When I'm with my friends, I become a lighthearted, whimsical prankster, with the mind of Groucho Marx and the physical grace of Charlie Chaplin.

("You were staring into space the whole time," said Jimmy, a few weeks ago, recounting my stupor at our birthday bash.)

In any case, Iced Tea is my drink of choice 99% of the time. There are many good reasons to order it:
1) Free refills;
2) Not too bubbly so not too filling;
3) Goes well with any dish.

Yes, grandpa can have his martini and dad his gin and tonic. When my son, The Amateur Gourmet, Jr., writes about what I drink, he'll say: "Good 'ole dad with his Iced Tea. Sure explains why his teeth are brown."

NOTE: DUE TO INCLIMATE WEATHER, THE THURSDAY NIGHT DINNER SONG WILL BE DELAYED UNTIL THE MORROW. MANY APOLOGIES.