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If you know anything about me you know that I love two things more than anything else: (1) cooking and (2) Broadway musicals. A few years ago, I was lucky enough to become friends with one of my favorite Broadway actors, Gideon Glick (we met up at The Russian Tea Room), and over the pandemic we jokingly sent each other funny Broadway-themed dishes for a potential Broadway cookbook: Sunday in the Pork with George. Bundts on this Island. The Sound of Moussaka. At some point, I pitched this idea to my brilliant cookbook agent Alison Fargis at Stonesong and she loved it. Then we hit the jackpot and convinced renowned Broadway illustrator Justin “Squigs” Robertson to illustrate the book for us and guess what? We just sold the book to an incredible publisher: Countryman Press! So look out for GIVE MY SWISS CHARDS TO BROADWAY, coming Fall 2022. 🎩👯‍♀️📚🍴💫

“If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire, I shouldn’t look any further than my own backyard. Because it if it isn’t there, I never lost it to begin with.” – Dorothy Gale, The Wizard of Oz

When I read Frank Bruni’s review of The Red Cat (a two star review, interesting to note because the other two Bruni-inspired restaurants I recently visited–Cafe Gray and Cendrillon–were both, also, two stars) I was surprised and excited to read that this “expert utility player” of a restaurant was in my neighborhood. 10th Ave. and 23rd street: that puts it four avenues away, but it’s a happy walk down 23rd street past old tall brick buildings with lots of character. Lisa’s grandmother used to live in one of these buildings. Lisa was my companion, as per usual, for this escapade. I met her on 23rd after work and we made our way down. It was a bit windy out. When we got to 10th Ave. I spotted The Red Cat flag, making like a Bob Dylan song:

Once inside, we were greeted by a warm professional-looking host who asked if we had a reservation. When we told him “no” he said, “Well I can seat you, but you’d have to be done by 8.” It was 6:20 and we accepted his offer. The place inside was really welcoming: bright enough to be homey but dark enough to be mysterious. I liked it.

Frequently when I suggest a place for dinner with Lisa I look the menu up online to make sure there are vegetarian options. Here, all the entrees were meat or fish-based but the appetizers and sides had some considerable vegetarian choices. We chose the most lauded vegetarian appetizer (lauded in Bruni’s review and on the menupages site): zucchini sauted with almonds and served with pecorino.

At first it tasted really simple—too much of what you’d expect to taste like. But about halfway through the second bite, you start to appreciate the subtlety of the flavors. “I’m really starting to like this,” I said. “Me too,” said Lisa.

For my entree, I had the “sauteed muscovy duck breast with breakfast radish, anchovy, and orange segments.”

It’s peculiar, one might think, to pair anchovy with duck, but I was grateful for it. Usually duck sauces are too sweet (like Chinese “duck sauce” which is supersweet) and the anchovy added a salty briny layer to the flavors. The duck was expertly prepared and the sides were intriguing—I’d never had radish prepared this way. I liked it.

Lisa had two vegetarian sides which was plenty. There was baked polenta with stewed tomatoes and parmesan: (blurry, I apologize)

And totally awesome “light tempura of green beans with sweet hot mustard”:

I declared these the best part of the whole meal. They were crispy, salty, and bright and the sauce was sweet and hot. I ate more of them than Lisa did.

Leaving the Red Cat, my primary emotion was one of possessive gratitude. This place is in MY neighborhood. I’ll come here someday to celebrate my first Broadway show or my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah. (Did I mention I have a daughter? Her name’s Simcha and she’s imaginary.) But, like Waldy’s Pizza, I wouldn’t tell someone from far away to journey to Chelsesa just to eat here. It’s special enough for ME to return to, but not special enough for someone to make a pilgrimage. Well, I mean, you could make a day of it. Go to a gallery or something and then go to The Red Cat. But when I think of places worth journeying to—Prune, Peter Luger’s, Pearl Oyster Bar–they all start with the letter P. Red Cat does not. But it sure made me purr. [This is the worst concluding paragraph I’ve ever written.]

For those of you who don’t live in the Tri-State area, here’s an opportunity to post some comments too. I may be opening up a big fat can of worms here (insert appropriate graphic)

but I’d like to open up the floor for comments and/or suggestions regarding the site. More podcasts? Less movies? More nudity? I’m all ears. Or eyes, as the case may be. Ok, happy suggestion making!

After much fanfare, today I finally went to the doctor to have my cholesterol checked. An inept nurse weighed me first and told me I weighed 140 lbs which was shocking because I don’t weigh 140 lbs. Then I realized she had the marker in between 100 and 150 and the small marker on really high. I fixed it and revealed my true weight: 450 lbs. I prayed this woman wouldn’t administer the needle.

She didn’t. A nice much more competent nurse drew blood and caused me little to no pain. The results will be in on Wednesday. Stay tuned for that!

The hardest part of the ordeal came the night before (last night, to be precise). I was told not to eat after 10 pm in anticipation of the cholesterol test. That would be 12 hours of not eating. How might I endure this hardship?

I decided to race the clock and throw together a pound cake at 7 pm. If I could have the cake out of the oven by 9, I would have one hour to consume as much of it as I wanted. Plus, I had a nifty new tube pan that I bought at the Broadway Panhandlers near Union Square. I used a recipe from “The Gift of Southern Cooking” but you can use any old recipe. As Giada de Laurentis on TV taught me: the term pound cake comes from the old formula for it–a pound of butter, a pound of flour and a pound of sugar. Perfect right before a cholesterol test!

So there’s the batter in the tube pan. It goes into a cold oven (this is Scott Peacock’s method) and the temperature is first raised to 225 then, after 20 minutes, up to 300 and finally, after another 20 minutes, up to 325. This lets the inside cook before the outside. Here it is out of the oven:

I then prepared Scott’s lemon butter glaze which I spooned on to the warm cake after flipping it over.

As you can see, I’d alreay cut myself a slice since–by the time everything was done–it was 9:40. I had 20 minutes to eat it.

The reason I made pound cake, really, is because it’s a great vehicle for various toppings. I saw Giada toast pound cake and then spread with marscapone, apricot preserves and amaretto. I decided to top mine with fresh raspberries:

A delicious treat, just in the nick of time. And then 12 hours of pure deprivation: I barely made it through the night. But made it I did and the results will be in soon. Who’s betting it’ll be too high? Or who thinks I’m just fine? Wagers are encouraged.

Long time readers of this site will recall my classic post “On Napkins” in which I wrote:

“It’s my grandmother’s fault.

Back in the day, we would go to Wendy’s and she would say: ‘go get us some napkins.’ I would come back with two or three and she’d say: ‘No, no, no! Here, let me show you.’ She’d hold my hand and lead me over to the napkin dispenser. “Like this,” she’d say, sticking her fingers deep inside and yanking out 40 or 50 napkins. ‘That’s how we do it.'”

That (admittedly wasteful) method has served me to this day. Until the advent of this:

Is it a coincidence that my grandmother spent two weeks in my apartment while I was in Europe and that now that I’m back I see these dispensers all over Chelsea? Ok, it probably is a coincidence. But these dispensers are brilliant in how they prevent you from grabbing handfuls of napkins. Go ahead, try to reach in and pinch a cluster of napkins, you won’t be able to do it. Believe me: I tried. There’s really no way to get napkins out except one by one. The grandmothers of the world have been foiled. But not for long. New grandchildren are being grown in labs with narrow pointy fingers for this very purpose. These are the Children of the Napkin Revolution. T-shirts available shortly.

If there were no Shake Shack, I might have different feelings about New York Burger Co. Shake Shack is on 24th and Broadway in Madison Square Park. New York Burger Co., a chain, recently opened up near me on 21st and 6th. So you see one avenue behind this facade and three avenues up is the best hamburger in New York. How can it compete?

The answer is: it can’t. I mean, it’s fine. Really. This burger, called the Chicago Burger, has Applewood smoked bacon, cheddar and 1000 island dressing. Perfect for the health conscious:

According to their informational pamphlet, “New York Burger Co. is keeping it real: starting with Coleman All Natural Beef, we’re trailblazing and doing things the old-fashioned way. No artifical anything!…Our Idaho fries are freshly cut & prepared in cholestral [sic] free soybean oil.”

Well that’s their first mistake (and it’s the same mistake they make at Good Burger): what’s the point of eating fries if they’re healthy?! Please, bring on the cholesterol (or cholestral) and make your fries better.

As for the burger, it cost $7.75 and in combo with drink and fries $10.75. Shake Shack charges $4.16 for a Shack burger which is “ground daily from sirloin and brisket.” I realize I ordered a special burger at NY Burger Co. so, to be fair, a plain “New York burger” costs $5.75. But that’s still more money than a special Shack burger and a million times less good.

If you live in an area with a NY Burger Co. and without a Shake Shack, I don’t frown upon you if you eat there. You’re doing what you must. But for me, it’s basically sacrelige. NY Burger you are dead to me. Long live Shake Shack!