Nova Clutch

Amai Tea & Bake House

On a busy avenue in a nondescript neighborhood that's not quite the East Village and definitely not Gramercy Park, Amai Tea & Bake House is an oasis of taste. While they offer a wide array of tea and herbal infusions, the real star is the baked goods. Tea is incorporated into most of their handmade goodies, but the infusion is subtle and never heavy handed. The slight bitterness of Earl Grey accents the sweetness of the currants. White tea mellows a strawberry cookie; rooibos tea and vanilla are incredibly smooth and sweet. My all time favorite? Hojicha sesame. A winning combination of roasted green tea and carmelized sesame  seeds. Not too sweet, a little savory, perfect with a cup of anything. And the packaging is beautiful, too, making Amai's cookies the perfect present to pick up on your way to a dinner party, baby shower, or for movies in the park with friends.

Stinky Brooklyn Weekend

As Natasha ran off this morning to contribute to a struggling American economy and the need to put food on our personal table, I was left here at my computer to contemplate our weekend. Or as voiced in a more simple directive from Natasha, "Isn't it about time you did a post for the blog?"

I sit here now, well into my second cup of tea, attempting to pen an ever-so-brief and compelling documentation of our weekend together, I begin to wonder why we write these posts at all. Where do we find the value in throwing out photos and snippets of our lives and experiences into the flotsam and jetsom of a self-important and indulgent sea of blogs? Are we modern day Samuel Pepys or pathetic individuals tossing out keywords and topics into the void in hopes of finding ourselves on the top five listing of someone's Google search, or at the receiving end of a reader's comment?

By creating content, do we create meaning for others, or even ourselves? By showing our person do we create friendships or only networks that offer our art and opinion as just another way of creating commerce? When does sharing become a labor, and not a love?

Anyway, here is something I did love this weekend, a treat well-deserving of my labors in the form of pictures from "Stink Fest 08" that took place yesterday on Smith Street in Carroll Gardens. Plenty of New York City-style street fair crap, but also some rather good eats offered up by The JakeWalk on the second day of summer. Fish tacos, fried cheese curds, fresh coleslaw and pickles and even Raclette served up by a guy Jen thinks is hotter than the strange iron that heats up the cheese into a bubbling goo.

Au revoir Florent!

It was 1985, Reagan and Bush were in power, the yuppie scene was exploding, there were million dollar restaurants, and the “design of the year” was passé six months later. I was appalled by it all.

I decided to open a restaurant that if possible didn’t need any design; a place that was already in existence, and looked as though it had been, and would be, there forever. Somewhere that was not on a main street. If you tell people that you know a restaurant on, say, Broadway, they won’t really listen. But if you say that you know a restaurant that’s impossible to find, that‘s in the weirdest place, people will be curious: “What? Where?” The more difficult it is to find, the more a certain clientele will be tempted to go, and in another way it stops the wrong people coming. So it’s a way of having an invisible velvet rope with bouncers, and choosing your customers.

The diner that I found fulfilled all my dreams. It was unpretentious and out of the way, in an eccentric neighborhood—New York’s meat district (like les Halles, in Paris—though I left Paris because it was too pretentious, and not eccentric enough). The American diner was a perfect setting, because it made people feel very comfortable, in the same way that a bistro makes people feel very comfortable in Paris. The only thing I did to the place was put a banquette with a mirror along the wall, which is very French, so people facing the wall could see the rest of the world and not feel like they were in purgatory. I kept the counter, the Formica tables, the stools, the fluorescent lights and that was pretty much it.

The most important ingredient of a successful restaurant is that the food is good, and worth the price. the second most important thing is that the place has a feeling of being a home, an environment where you feel comfortable as soon as you set foot inside the door. here, it’s the decor and the politics. People know that Florent is a bastion of liberal ideas. It’s a place you know you’re not going to be judged, whatever race you are or sexual preferences you have. It’s a place where you go to take a bus to demonstrate in Washington. It’s the physical and the abstract place, the ideas behind it, the mirth and the glow. Some restaurants have it, and some don’t.

The graphic design very much fit with spreading the message of the restaurant’s environment. Tibor and I hit it off very well; he was smart, and good at pushing me. For a restaurant my size the amount of advertising that was done was absurd. I was M&Co’s wild account and in return we fed them four days a week, from 1985 to 1993. Since then I’ve worked with other people but there has never been nothing like that relationship.

—Florent Morellet, from Tibor Kalman: Perverse Optimist, edited by Peter Hall and Michael Bierut

We went to Florent last night to say goodbye to a place that not only represents history in many New Yorkers' lives, but one whose iconic design/food relationship stands true today, and outshines a lot of the work I see still. At the counter we sang our hearts out with the waiters to Spandau Ballet, ate our chocolate mousses and stumbled out, a little drunk, one last time. New York is steadily becoming like London – there's no room for the small institutions that make up a city's fabric and history. As Muji, Topshop, Mango and Zara take over Broadway, our city center is becoming a mirror image of our European counterpart. First CBGB's, now Florent, what's next before we lose our character entirely?

Dinner at WD-50

I'm not one for 90s style stripes on plates with a tiny cluster of edibles that is supposed to be a meal. And that's what people think they are going to get when they go to WD-50, although a fantastic meal of decent proportions is what you actually get. And if you expect either one of these things, you will still think you have walked into the wrong place when you enter the dimly lit room in which a local interior design student has obviously experimented with. Picture a flashy bar in a small town ten years ago. That's the décor.

But forget it, that's not why you're here. We were there for my birthday a few weeks ago with my lovely, lovely neighbors Darren and Lizz. Michael and I had been to WD-50 a few years ago and had dinner in what they call their private dining cellar, which is really someone's genius stroke of getting people to pay way over the odds in the cold room where they store the wine and hang their coats. My only memory of that night was not of the food, but of a hirsute Frenchman removing all of his clothes and sitting at the table entirely naked. The waiters didn't bat an eyelid.

This dinner was basically a blank slate thanks to the former experience. We started with some fantastic cocktails – a strong rye cocktail, a pumpernickel stout cocktail, a pronounced beet cocktail. And then we ordered and shared the food, pairing with it with a fantastic Châteauneuf du Pape. I won't give you a blow-by-blow of every single dish like I did to everyone else in sight over the following week, but I will give you a synopsis. It was fantastic. In New York we are spoiled with good food all the time. We are over-promised, pampered, whiny children when it comes to good meals. I realize this when I go back to London and have to pay Gramercy Tavern prices for mediocre food. But this meal was fantastic even by New York standards.

My foie gras looked like it had been freeze-dried and smashed all over the plate. It was served with miniscule meringues, which gave the right amount of sweetness and a fantastic textural contrast. I just sighed heavily at my computer remembering it. The popcorn soup was the embodiment of all that is popcorn, without the crunch.

When Michael asked if he should get the scallops or the monkfish, the answer was the lamb. Which was so amazing it could have been entirely unadorned and would have still knocked us over. But Dufresne's take on ball field fare mixed barely cooked "noodles" made of strings of potato, crunchy mustard crumbs and a bold pretzel consommé. Wagyu beef with coconut cream and coffee gnocchi was stupendous and balanced, and a turbot with wafer thin cauliflower and barbecued lentils flawless. The pork belly with a mind-blowing caper emulsion led me to pick the pieces of fat off the plate that the waist-watching boys left. I know, but it was worth it.

Jack the Horse Tavern, Brooklyn Heights

Brooklyn Heights repels and attracts me. I half see it as an enclave whose sole purpose is to house rich white families who can't quite bring themselves to move to the suburbs. I half see it as one of the few places in New York City that you can go and wander around the streets and feel like you've stepped back in time, to a place where you can peer in the windows and see people sitting down to dinner or watch them ensconced on a sofa watching 60 minutes.

Either way, it's quiet. In my beloved DUMBO, it's also rather quiet. And we don't have any restaurants. Sure, sure, we have a few, but we can count them on one hand. And once you've been to each of the five restaurants, oh I don't know, 25 times each, you just give up and never go again.

Jack the Horse Tavern isn't somewhere I would normally go. It looks like a typical Brooklyn Tavern, and it's full of people that either look like they live in Brooklyn Heights (they do) or like they have just come from the small but beatifically art house cinema on Orange Street (they have).

But in their very standard tavern-ness, JTHT appeals to me. The food is rather good, and I can't argue with a good steak, cooked exactly as I ask for it (rare, rare, rare) and their cocktail list. Due to the seeming ubiquitousness of it, they have dispensed with their very nice Brooklyn, a version of the Manhattan, and replaced it with the Man of Leisure. Which I took great pleasure in ordering, you know, being a girl. It's the small victories, I guess. Apart from their signature layer of ice on the top of each drink (it looks like a mistake), the cocktail was right on, and it was all I could do to not order a Red Hook as well. But there's no point in overdoing a good thing on one night. I'll be back to sit with the proper people that live up the road, and share a drink or two at the bar. Perhaps tonight.

Homemade English Muffins

Prune, a pipsqueak of a place on New York's Lower East Side, is an incredible place to brunch. Small and sunny with a good naturedly surly menu (no substitutions, no additions, don'€t ask!) and a blockbuster menu of bloody mary options correctly served with a beer back. The Chicago Matchbox with its relish stick of pickled brussel sprouts, caperberries, and green beans ensures a good day ahead or at least a good long nap. I love brunching there, so I was very disappointed when I realized that they had stopped making their own English muffins. Which were one of the best reasons to go. While I have fond memories of sitting in my grandmother'€s kitchen eating Thomas'€s English muffins with their nooks and crannies toasted and filled with butter, they just aren't the same. Finding a recipe was harder than I expected and when I did find a recipe only then did I realize how hard it is to find something so seemingly basic as powdered milk in New York. New York is odd like that. You can find twelve different types of organic agave syrup, but powdered milk? No. When I finally did track some down (on a weekend trip upstate) I had to buy in such bulk that I am now prepared to make my own English muffins for years. Which is a good thing, because homemade English muffins are amazing.

Making English muffins is time consuming, but well worth the effort. The batter is left to rise once, punched down, sprinkled with cornmeal, and then rolled into small balls that are cooked individually (according to the recipe; I crammed a bunch in the pan because I am impatient) in a cast iron skillet. The balls get smashed down with a spatula and turn a lovely golden color. The resulting muffin is excellent toasted with jam, split and filled with sandwich fixings, or just shoved into your mouth. They store well, freeze well, and last as long as you can keep your greedy mitts off of them. I can honestly say I am never going back to Thomas'€s.

A Balthazar breakfast

I thought yesterday's breakfast was good. Look at we just got from Balthazar. We should have kids or something, to eat this kind of thing on our own is ridiculous. Brioches, scones (oh my God), cannelés (double that joy), Danishes (the Apricot Over-Easy is gorgeous) and cinnamon rolls. Needless to say, I have eaten way more than my fair share. These beauties are so perfectly formed, I think I may hang up my baker's hat and use my wallet instead to conjure such goodies.

City Bakery

City Bakery is one of those New York institutions heralded and made famous by Sex in the City. You would have thought that something so lauded and popularized would slide to the naff side of popular. But no. City Bakery still has it.

Walking in there on a boiling hot New York Saturday we were greeted with a full shop. And walking in can be a little disconcerting; City Bakery is extremely large, has two levels and a huge counter in the middle, laden with baked goods. At the back lies a salad bar so varied that I almost didn't know what to do with it (I chose a plate of beautifully blanched black radishes with sunflower sprouts). Having got myself a very good latte – I opted out of the requisite hot chocolate as it was such a hot day – we pondered over the baked goods. I'm a sucker for the miso muffin, but wanted to try something new. Clutching two cookies, one melted chocolate, one coconut we also grabbed a baker's muffin (see image below).

I'm not sure if "baker's muffin" is something found outside of City Bakery or not. As you can see, the muffin looks like the Mad Hatter of muffins, and is bready as opposed to muffiny. It isn't very sweet, and it feels like it is madeup of tiny pieces of bread dough all squished together. The effect leads to a crunchy top and a soft bottom, with the odd piece of fruit thrown in. Although all of us said we would just have a bite, it was gone in minutes. I'm looking forward to returning to City Bakery when it's a bit colder to get some of that hot chocolate.

Birthday dinner at L'épicerie

We like birthdays, well other people's anyway. And we had to do something special for Thérèse's birthday, particularlybecause she hates her birthday. Dinner at our place was an option, but isn't that what we do all the time? We wanted to go out for a meal, but wanted to keep the intimacy of having dinner at home, just without having to load the dishwasher. A fancy meal in an uncomfortable setting with mediocre food seemed to be what the options were, and that didn't sound very special.

Then Sweetu told us about Brooklyn's best kept food secret. L'épicerie is a small French grocery (hence the name) in Fort Greene. Small, quaint and surprisingly rustic considering the location, L'épicerie serves sandwiches, charcuterie and produce during the day. And if you have a party of ten or more, you can book a dinner in the grocery where they put a large farmhouse table amongst the produce and they will take care of everything.

This doesn't sound so unique, but what's lovely is that it isn't too fancy. It's done in the way we would do it – they go to the farmer's markets, go to the Bronx to the fish market and make everything from scratch. While you're at work that day, unable to be shopping for fresh food and scouring the city for the best of what's in season, they do it for you, and they start cooking a few hours before you get there. You work out the menu with them the day before and they take care of the rest, and you bring the wine. A perfect situation when we brought two bottles each, picked for the birthday girl's taste.

What was lovely about this was that it was really simple, food we may have made ourselves, and just very good, very fresh ingredients. We started with some champagne and olives, milling around the baskets of peaches and potatoes. We then sat for our first course, placemarkers being Simpsons avatars of each person. Jen's avatar was complete with a moustache tattoo on her finger, Michele's with a blonde stripe in her hair (don't ask).

We started with a summer vegetable risotto which was simple and cooked perfectly al dente. The bottles were being passed and emptied very quickly at this stage, everyone trying a little of each bottle (the glass debris was quite amazing at the end of the night). We then had slow cooked eggplant, tomato and onions with roasted cod and deliciously creamy mashed potato. Basic, hearty and lovely. By this point we might have been quite raucous because the neighbors upstairs asked us to turn our music down (bring your ipod to L'épicerie and you control what you listen to. We listened to a playlist I quickly remembered to put together on the subway on the way there). After this a beautiful lemon cake arrived at the table, complete with a candle and a birthday song that must have really bothered the neighbors. The cake was definitely the pièce de résistance, and they had just taken the layers out of the oven when I got there to set up the meal. Springy, fluffy cake with beautifully tart-and-not-too-sweet frosting makes my mouth water thinking of it now. I asked for the recipe, but was denied. Perhaps they knew I would put it on the blog...

We left in a haze of good food, too much alcohol and a lack of understanding of where we actually were in the world. We were unfortunately thrown out of there a little before we were ready, but with a baby on the hip that really needed to go to bed, we kind of understood. I guess it's just like at home.

L'épicerie is at 270 Vanderbilt Avenue, Fort Green, Brooklyn. The phone number is 718.636.1200. All photos by Michael or Jane.

Los Dados opens in the Meatpacking District

I'm going to get right to the point: $15 tacos. $5 chips and salsa. "Mexican Home Cooking". Isn't cheap the definition of Mexican home cooking? Perhaps this is different? Perhaps it is expensive for a reason and it's going to blow our minds.

The first few cocktails weren't bad at all – cucumber margheritas, strawberry basil julep (we substituted Jack for Maker's) and a concoction spiked with jalpeño. A decent start. We were seated in a booth obviously upholstered by a waiter with a staple gun and attempted to read the menu under a light fitting made from leftover Jenga pieces. I seemed to be the only one to balk at the $12 guacamole that I assumed would be suitably massive. When a 2-inch ramekin arrived, I balked further, taking solace in the fact that the chips were actually rather good. Salmon carpaccio was really lovely, tuna tartare on crackers yummy, but spare.

We glanced around the room and realized, considering it was a preview night for a new restaurant and a Friday at that, it was sort of weird that half the tables were empty. I was excited to go because Los Dados has been lauded by everyone out there as the new 'design' restaurant. We even ventured into the torture that is the Meatpacking district at the weekend. It's like being in Ibiza during Ibiza bachelorette week. But we thought that Los Dados would be different. It wouldn't cater to people with too much money and no idea what they're eating. It wouldn't try and pull the wool over our eyes with bad upholstery, slapdash paint jobs and suburban lightfittings. It would be different.

Entrées were bland and certainly not worth their exorbitant prices (yes, I know that $15 an entrée is standard fare, but not for food like this) the sides appalling. An espresso saucer of sodden spinach vaguely upstaged the disgusting pickled vegetables that must have been giardiniera from a jar. My skirt steak was actually disgusting, but although prompted to send it back, I didn't. What's the point? It was disgusting in their intention. They hadn't made a mistake in their preparation of it. Bad cuts of meat plus a plentiful but tasteless, muddy sauce with yet more giardiniera is just gross food.

Los Dados was so bad that we barely glanced over the unexciting desserts, and got the hell out of there, drowning our sorrows in a few cognacs at APT around the corner. That's the thing about restaurants, don't you have to do something to make people want to come back?

Bastille Day in New York City

Fortunately or unfortunately, I seem to know a lot of French people here in New York. And the thing with the French is they celebrate this sort of Independence Day (independence, uprising, whatever) but they actually have good food (I'll always go for Merguez over hot dogs I'm afraid), lots of wine and pétanque. So I have to say, I prefer it to July 4th. Sorry.

Our Bastille Day weekend began with a sublime evening on our friend Francoise's roof in TriBeCa. We had a lovely summer evening listening to French music (including a few tracks from our beloved Stefan), eating fantastic food and drinking beaucoup de French wine. How can that ever be bad? The views are incredible from there – the Worth building, all of downtown and my favorite, the Woolworth building. The roofdeck has also been redone very well, complete with a herb garden, cloudy puffs of bamboo and towering birch trees.

We awoke in the morning to go and meet some friends a few steps away from DUMBO for more Bastille celebrations. The whole street had been cordoned off and turned into a sandy Pétanque pitch. We started our celebrations off at Provence en Boîte, which was swarming with people and we ate crèpes, frites and drank some white bordeaux and beer. After this we only made it a few blocks before turning into the very fun Bar Tabac, which I have to say was far better. So we ordered several Lillets, some Ricards, more frites and threw in some fromage and moules, just to be sure. Smith Street was heaving but was tons of fun – plenty of live music, grilling, drinking...there was even a guillotine in there. I'll certainly be back next year. That's if I'm not in France of course...

Build a Green Bakery

Walking down 1st Avenue in a little bit of a daze from seeing our friends' new baby, we stumbled upon a little green oasis in the midst of sensory hell.

Propelled like a magnet into the store, I noticed the recycled countertop and reclaimed floorboards. Upon walking in you find out that they give you a 25% discount if you arrive by bike or skateboard (I was walking, but I don't know if that counts). Their walls are wheat, the cups made of corn, they compost their coffee grounds everyday.

But that's not the reason they're appealing, not to me anyway. I appreciate the awareness and the effort, no doubt, but what drew me in was, of course, the food. All organic food, the array is beautiful and palpably earthy. I bought a corn muffin and a miso muffin, trying hard to not buy anything more. Unfortunately there are no pictures of the corn muffin because I ate it on the way to the subway.

Crunchy stone ground corn, not too sweet, studded with organic blueberries. It was gone in minutes. The fact that you could actually taste the corn and weren't overwhelmed by sugar was so gratifying. I managed to get the miso muffin home and photographed before that too was devoured with a nice cup of bog standard builder's tea (that's this for you Statesiders).

Made with spelt flour, kamut, miso, apple and sprinkled with sugar, it does sound like a treehugger's dream. Don't let that put you off. BAGB is not like BabyCakes – it's not about it being good for you, or not even about it being green. It's great that they're doing their bit and all that, I'm just focusing on the fact that although they have a good marketing story, they support it by having a genuinely good product. Too many people are jumping on the green wagon, but the wagon is all that anyone is going to be driving in the next ten years. BAGB stands apart by excelling as well as having a conscience. Let that be a lesson to all you crappy wagon hoppers out there – get a good product to begin with!

Daytrip to the North Fork Table and Inn

There are days when things don't go so well. And you wallow in all the different incarnations your life could take – a different career, partner, country. And then there are those days where you can't believe that this is your life, the things you get to do and the people you get to do them with.

Saturday was one of those days. It was so idyllic it was quite sickening. I promise there is no candy-coating here, it really was that good.

We started off with egg sandwiches and iced coffees (it's 30°C here in NYC at night for all you Europeans reading this) from the corner deli and trundled off in Jen and Tom's car to the highway. We were there in no time, and sipping wine at 11am at Jamesport winery (although the wines we went there for, Pinot Noir and white port were not available). In lieu, Cinq was not bad and the Cabernet Franc (which tends to be one of the few red wines that do well in Long Island) wasn't either. Their late harvest Riesling is also rather nice (don't look at the sugar content, it will put you off) but at $44.95 a bottle, you can get better for the money. I mean, four of those and you've got yourself a Chateau d'Yquem.

The Old Inn on the Green – Night 2

I was rather disgruntled that people seem to think me too high falutin to be camping. And this really seemed to be the general consensus. So I dug myself in deeper to this reputation by organizing one night at a B&B next to the one night camping. That move didn't do me any favors. So I can still proclaim low maintenance, but obviously need to take low-maintenance actions to support my hypothesis.

But it was a very good idea, if I do say so myself. K, M and I woke up pretty early in the tent and wondered why our chatting and laughter wasn't causing any stirring in the Scandinavian camp. Michael braved it out into the cold and realized it was because the aero bed (used because S is 8 months pregnant) had deflated and our friends had resorted to sleeping in the car.

Michael stoked up another campfire (it was cold, we definitely needed it) and we ate pork tenderloin and goat cheese sandwiches for breakfast. The chargrilled loin was even better the next day, and tasted of the hearth. Then we were off again.

We drove for miles trying to find a diner for brunch. It seems New Englanders in these parts don't eat. Or at least they make their own pancakes on s Sunday. When we finally found somewhere we were very close to our destination, New Marlborough. For four New York residents and a Londoner, New Marlborough seemed like the most idyllic, quaint countryside, the true embodiment of rural life. Not that it wasn't, but after a long winter, we were all a little jaded and probably were more impressed than someone that doesn't live amongst concrete.

The Old Inn (I don't know how they got that URL, it's very impressive) is so much of a find that I am almost loathe to write about it. It's beautiful, it's perfect, it's completely intimate. They don't even have locks on the room doors or, I think, the front door. It's owned by husband and wife Peter Platt and Mereditch Kennard. With Peter as one of the region's best chefs, and Meredith's hospitality, humility and garden-tending, it's quite a combination. When we walked into the Inn, we shared looks of "I can't believe we're staying here" reserved usually for places like this. The interior is worn, used and comfortable and the dining room furnished with welcoming Windsor chairs, that we found out were made especially for the Inn. We took respite in hot showers and lay out on the grass in the sunshine for a while, idly watching Meredith snip herbs for dinner from her garden. We then gathered ourselves up and went for a walk, hoping to see another beaver but finding snake ferns instead.

When we got back, the English amongst us (that would be Karen and I) decided to order tea on the porch, but were swayed the other way when Michael ordered a well-deserved g&t. Just as it was getting too cold to sit outside, we went into our private room for dinner cooked by Peter. We ordered a gorgeously earthy and very smooth Domaine du Grand Tinel Chateauneuf du Pape 2001 that we're still thinking about (actually it led to a purchase of more Chateauneuf from here).

I thought that the best course was actually the starter, which was a crispy-skinned filet of black sea bass with a delicate asparagus terrine. It was one of those oh-I-wish-it-wasn't-so-small-dishes. The fish was delicate but really flavorful and the terrine was fresh and tasted of Spring. The entrée had the opposite effect – I couldn't finish it. I unusually found it difficult to choose from the menu (everything looked good) but finally settled on a seared New England artisan beef tenderloin with braised shortribs. Oh dear, my mouth it watering now thinking of the shortribs...On the whole it was very good, just a little skimpy on the vegetables and rather heavy on the meat, which left me more in Winter mode than Spring. But I'm being finicky. Karen pronounced her duck the best she's ever had.

Dessert was actually quite disappointing. I know that Peter doesn't make the desserts and that may have had something to do with it. A tarte tatin was passable and my pear tart ok, although the marscapone sorbet was good. But the best thing about this meal was that, having eaten and drank to our hearts' content, we could all stumble upstairs to our rooms (one of which had a fireplace) to pass out contentedly.

I came downstairs in the morning to find M & T playing soccer on the lawn, and the girls chatted sitting in the sun until we remembered the breakfast was awaiting us. A good strong cafétière of coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice, freshly baked scones, danishes and muffins. It was delicious and a perfect start to the day. After sitting on the stoop in the sun some more, I almost had to be dragged away from the Old Inn. In fact, Karen's flight home to London that evening was my only motivation.

Meredith had recommended Rawson Brook Farm in Monterey for goat's cheese which we set off to find. We found goats roaming around in a field, a strange milking machine and a large fridge full of goat's cheese for sale with a pile of money left in exchange. Yes, you leave money, you take cheese. As simple as not locking the doors in the Inn. So I bought some olive oil and thyme cheese and some plain and left my $22 (yes, I know), adding it to the basket piled high with notes.

We stumbled onto one of Massachusetts' ubiquitous maple farms shortly afterwards, and headed in lured by the "buy MA maple syrup here" signs. Once again, rows of produce, a handwritten price list and a pile of money. We put our money on the pile, chuckling at the "I.O.U" that someone had candidly left.

By this time, it was almost time for lunch, and we had been saving this space for the Barrington Brewery, and a place in the car for the growlers of stout that we were no doubt going to buy. Alas, no growlers when we got there, so we savored our stout and bought a massive slice of chocolate stout cake for Lizz and Darren. And all too soon we were back on the road home, to make sure we got Karen on that flight back to London. It was such an amazingly relaxing weekend, it felt like we had been away a week. We chatted about meeting the Scandinavians in Norway and Sweden in the summer when they do their big vacation with the new baby. I don't think it will happen, as Karen and I are taking a little jaunt to île de Ré in July. But our little weekend away was enough for now...

Click continue for more photos.

Camping in the Berkshires – Night 1

My friends are dropping like flies. Everybody is pregnant. I mean everybody. So much so that the Midwich Cuckoos have been going through my mind, so coordinated were the pregnancies. Not that I am unhappy to see little versions of my friends running around, but I must say there are a few things that I feel the need to do with my friends before the gestation period is over.

And one of those things is camping. As one of us is due in June, we were running out of time, but we scheduled this past weekend as one we could all fit in. When Karen emailed and said she would be doing a photoshoot over the same period, I instructed her that she would have to come too. Happily she was up for it.

Zipcar as our carriage, we set off for one night of camping and one night of B&B in the Berkshires. We Zipcared it fairly quickly through Massachusetts (I disagree with Woody Allen, Massachusetts is much harder to spell than Connecticut) and found ourselves in Northampton. Right during Northampton gay pride festival. The state of MA (I got bored of spelling it) was obviously trying to ingratiate itself with us liberal New Yorkers. Or something.

We fought our way through the lines at Sparky's on Main St in Northampton, and settled down with hotdogs, sublime fries, just-tart-enough strawberry lemonade and knee-quivering blueberry milkshakes. T tried to resist the milkshakes but ran back in after we had left to partake in some cheek-hollowing goodness.

On the way back to the car, S's nose started sniffing and she shouted out "bread!" Sure enough, we were passing a tiny little hidden bakery, the smell its only signage. At the hub of the Hungry Ghost is a wood burning oven out of which comes loaves and loaves of delicious smelling bread.

We all stood there in awe, hands reaching for our wallets. We bought two loaves of bread (fennel semolina and a dark rye) for our night in the wilderness. Clutching the warm loaves (they were so fresh that they were still warm when we came to eat them a few hours later) we headed over to the campsite. Which is off a random road, then down a bumpy dirt path, past a strange sign that read "camping*swimming*fun". The word "picnics" had been crossed out and fun had replaced it. Thank God they did that, or we would have been stuck with a picnic and no fun.

We came at the right time – Berkshire Camping must be a bloody nightmare in the summertime. We judged this by the aerosol cans, batteries and metal that were left, burned out, in the fire pits. They had been there all winter. So we cleaned out the toxic material and started ourselves a huge perfect-for-witches fire (we were in Massachusetts after all). After being treated extremely rudely by the campground's owner, we were then left completely on our own, just us, our fire, our Muji tent and the beavers.

We had stopped off in a supermarket on the way (which was actually very difficult to find, we had to drive for about 30 miles to find somewhere that sold food that wasn't Spam) we had provisions to make some vegetable kebabs and baked potatoes, which we wrapped in foil and threw straight into the hearth. While the kebabs cooked in the flames we dug into our spectacular bread. I had also brought with me a frozen pork tenderloin (there was no way we were buying meat from the Stop 'n' Shop) and it was perfectly thawed by the time we were ready to eat (see image above). It went straight onto the flames and was charred and smokey and went amazingly well with the fennel semolina bread. We did try some fancy s'mores after all this food – though by this time I think beer and wine was all we needed to consume – but these got quickly laid to the wayside in favor of the good ol' roasted marshmallow.

We went to sleep with pregnant S on a sinking aerobed in her tent and me, M and K listening to the peepers , snuggled down in our sleeping bags. Apparently it went down near 0°C that night. No matter. We stank of smoke, had leaves in our hair, and we slept like...well, people sleeping outside on the hard ground, of course. That's what we were there for afterall.

Monday at The Monday Room

I love going out on Monday nights. None of the crowds, hustling for a table and a judiciousness of knowing that it's a school night and you couldn't care less. So when Therese suggested going to The Monday Room, I jumped at the idea.

As you can see from the photograph (taken from their site) it's an intimate space, evocative of a gentleman's club with bank overtones thrown in. It's pretty, it's comfortable, and the chairs are of the sort of padding you expect in the manager's office. I don't believe they allow standing room – there is no bar to stand at as such – which means that even on a busy night it probably doesn't feel clasutrophobic. The Monday Room achieves what The Back Room does not, undoubtedly due to Avroko's involvement. It feels pretty real, pretty believable, where a lot of places, such as The Back Room, fall down by feeling contrived and reminiscent of an adult's Disney World.

It took us about half an hour to choose something to drink and eat (in that order of course). Because although the wine and food menus are very well thought out, I think they are alienating. The food menu is interesting and what you would expect of a subsidiary of Public next door. But it isn't really right in such a cosy, dark atmosphere. I am not sure I want to be futzing about with minute, pseudo-haute cuisine in teany portions when I am cosily esconced on a Chesterfield. The addition of a Scotch egg to the menu was cute, and had something of a nod to the past in it. The rest was all nouveau, precious and predominantly cold. I wouldn't normally fault this, but for a menu whose bites change very frequently, I think you would allow for some sub-sub-zero temperatures outside to influence your menu a little.

The wine list probably took us longer to wade through, with the white wine list being somewhat friendlier than the red. And it took us a good fifteen minutes to realize how shockingly expensive the list we were looking at really was. The trick of this menu – and I do mean trick – is that it ranges from half glass prices, glass, half bottle to bottle. However, you look first at the half glass portion to gauge the price of the wine you are looking at, as it is on the left. It slowly dawned on us that the wine prices ranged from $9 a glass to $37. Sixteen out of the twenty-two wines by the glass were over $16. We realized we were going to spend a lot of money whether we liked it or not.

As I'm in the business (as they say), I can't go without mentioning the branding of TMR. The premise is very intriguing and works themetically very well with TMR. However, it was very difficult to discern in the low lighting of the bar, and the brand name looked as though it just had black blobs around it, and you couldn't see the detail of the expensive looking printing. The two circles aren't in line either, but that's just me being pedantic. The graphic language is that of stocks and bonds, which is nicely in theme with the interior design and much better illustrated on their website than on their cards. All of this ties in nicely to their choice of name, which comes from a distinguished gentleman who had a room he would go to to drink in on Mondays, situated in his offices. And that's exactly what it feels like.

On the whole it was a pleasant experience, I'm actually going back there tonight and I think it would be worth trying the tasting menu. Perhaps Friday will be different at The Monday Room.

Monday at The Monday Room: Wine + Food (in that order)

On a whim we decided to visit The Monday Room, and sample our way through some old- and new-world wines. This beautifully designed enclave boasts impressive shock value on two levels: the first being a few out-of-character expressions of some standard-issue varietals, the second being sticker shock. It's rare to see half-glass prices go for what you'd expect from a bottle, which is well out of order in my book.

First up were the whites. I opted to go the Kiwi and Italian route, and Natasha the French. The 2005 Isabel Sauvignon Blanc (Marlborough, New Zealand) was far more off-dry than I'm accustomed to, with heaps of pineapple and starfruit on the palate - but balanced nicely by a mineraly clay finish. The 2004 Cayega Roero Arneis (Italy) was more true to form, tasting of honeysuckle and little white flowers, with a finish of almonds. N. had a 2002 Les Perrieres Pouilly-Fuisse, which was a giant white. Viscous and full-bodied, with an amber tone and floral nose and overtones of dried fruits and raisins and unmistakable oak. This wine could stand up to some serious food.

To accompany our whites, we ate glazed eel with pickled bean sprouts topped by a lone, perfect little soft-boiled quail egg. The quail eggs will most definitely be making their way into our respective kitchens. Also, raw Tasmanian sea trout with piccalilli, shichimi and the most incredible toasted bread, as well as a dashi custard with lobster and lime (a bit too-too). On a Monday? Sure, why not. Life's short.

Then for the reds. I'm on a Blaufrankisch kick these days, finding this Austrian varietal sharing some of the unusual characteristics you find in northern Italian reds from Friuli-Venezia Guilia, Trentino Alto-Adige and other hyphenated regions. This particular version, a 2004 Glatzer Blaufrankisch (Austria), is hyper-concentrated with tart currants, raspberries and heaps of jagged tannins. N's foil to mine was a 2004 Costières de Nîmes, Domaine de la Petite Casagne (Languedoc, France).

Then for a new-world Pinot Noir taste-off. From Oregon, a 2004 Cristom Pinot Noir (Willamette Valley, USA) with a nose that that Natasha adroitly identified as "house paint," which was spot on, along with more predictable raspberries and marjoram on the palate. The other contender was a 2003 Ata Rangi Pinot Noir (Martinborough, New Zealand) from a very small growing area in the North Island that is producing some of their best Pinots. Once getting past the strong petroleum on the nose, we were treated to a spicy, herbaceous and balanced expression of this noble grape.

Accompanying these wines were an ultra-tasty smoked New Zealand venison carpaccio with licorice-pickled onions, and grilled chorizo with a puree of black beans and chocolate, plus an exquisite pickled pepper. For a last-minute whim, it was indeed a happy Monday.

Blue Hill at Stone Barns

Sometimes you have an experience that just blows you away and means that you never think the same way after it. That's how I felt after leaving Blue Hill. Blue Hill at Stone Barns, every thing that you come into contact with, from the farm, to the waiters and chefs, holds the same integrity and reverence for the ingredients. This is a place with a philosophy about food and what we eat. This is not a restaurant (and I dare not even call it a mere restaurant) that swaggers with gratuitous expectations like truffles and foie gras. BHSB is above that. The ingredients are king, the terroir the showcase and the courses the product of real, old fashioned hard toil. And my God, does that make a stunning difference.

It ended up taking us 3 hours to get there, and 35 minutes to get back. Our getting lost ended in us losing our lunchtime reservation (strangely the kitchen closes at 2pm, and our reservation was for then) but they managed to squeeze us in for a 5pm dinner. I have to say this is the first time I have had a 5pm dinner, and I would highly recommend it at BHSB, as we were there for 4 and a half hours.

So we made a day of it. We trundled into the village of Sleepy Hollow, starry-eyed as only city dwellers that recognize folklore from a movie can be. Alas it wasn't what we expected (no headless horsemen or creepy ruins in sight), and we visited the wine store to buy prosecco instead. Giddy with hunger, we arrived at Stone Barns with only nuts in our bellies all day and an hour and a half until dinner.

Let me explain a little about BHSB. It is a farm upon whose land sits a restaurant. The restaurant cooks food from the farm and the surrounding land. What is unique is that everyone here shares a dedication and palpable passion for what they do on the farm and the ensuing restaurant. What is spectacular about this is the belief that trickles down to every single person you meet on the grounds and every facet of the experience there.

We warmed our frozen hands in the bookshop – it was 3°F in the Pocantico Hills that day – and then walked gingerly over the snow to the greenhouse. Row upon row of baby greens and turnip heads greeted us and almost held us captive. But then we saw the pigs. The boars were separated from the sows, who had just given birth. Unfortunately we didn't see the piglets, but were then distracted by the chickens who lulled us with their clucking into forgetting how frozen we actually were. The sheep were fiercely protected by a very elegant-looking dog, who growled at us when our cameras got too close.

When we made it up to the Barns to thaw, we were greeted by the genuine enthusiasm of each person that works at BHSB. We thawed quickly in the toasty warmth of the barn with elderflower and sparkling wine cocktails in hand. We very easily chose to have the Farmer's Feast, a tasting menu where the chef decides what you will eat. It ended up being a huge list of very different – and magnificent – tastes. Before we began the meal, a basket of winter vegetables was brought to the table, harvested from the Blue Hill farm. It was what was going to be transformed into our meal that night. This is the second time I have been to a restaurant where the food I was about to eat was so fresh that it was bought to the table. And both times I did not choose what I ate, it was chosen for me. The first time was at Beach Wadiya in Sri Lanka, and the fare was seafood just caught from the ocean. This meal had the same philosophy, but with the added improbability of the stark cold outside, and the miracle that anything could be harvested in these conditions.

Tocqueville

I don't think I like restaurant week. I thought I did. I was wrong. You get the worst of the best restaurants, a prix fixe in a place where you feel you shouldn't be presenting the culinary equivalent of a coupon. And they tend to give you coupon-worthy food. And you end up spending $50 on lunch. Even though you're saving a lot of money, you would save more if you hadn't embarked on restaurant week in the first place. Lesson learned.

Our experience with Tocqueville was slightly marred by the fact that the person we were meeting was waiting for us at the Gramercy Tavern. Unfortunately, I wish we were the wrong ones, and that we were supposed to be at the Gramercy Tavern instead of at Tocqueville.

While Michael was calling to see where our missing guest was, I sat at the table, drinking overly iced water. No menu, no bread. For 15 minutes. In which time I was able to observe the skittishness of the head waitress and her telling the other waiters what to do, whilst standing too close to an unfortunate woman trying to eat her lunch.

We were easily the youngest people in there, by about 10 years, and the two of us sat there at our table for four, nestled amongst business men and society ladies. Michael longed to be a society lady, and I wondered why there weren’t any business women.

We ordered exactly the same thing from the Restaurant Week menu, apart from I had a glass of delicate and refreshingly naughty (it was 12pm) glass of Grüner Veltliner which Michael drank most of. We started with charred cuttlefish, which I think we ordered because we rarely see cuttlefish as an option and it reminds us of Sri Lanka, where it’s common. And not as fancy as at Tocqueville. But this cuttlefish, which arrived very, very quickly, was ontop of a mound of goo – as Michael called it – which overpowered the whole dish. It was actually crème fraîche, and it was cloying. The dish had a good spicyness and delicate charred peppers, but really, all you could notice was the goo.