By Aliy Lane

In my life, people have told me to follow my heart. No one has ever advised me to follow my stomach, but I just might start suggesting it. I’ve learned that good food (or lack thereof) can shape your life just as family, friends and all the other important things in life can.

Growing up in Southern California in a family of seven meant a lot of outdoor meals (not because of the nice weather but because of the easy clean-up), minimal fine dining and very limited fast food unless it’s In-N-Out Burger.  

This wasn’t nearly as bad as it might sound because we grew up with a live in-chef – or as I like to call her, Mom (owner, Bless the Cook Catering). I admit it, my siblings and I have been spoiled when it comes to food. We always had a five-star meal waiting for us when we got home and there were usually extra kids at the table – it seemed to be one of the most coveted dining spots in our neighborhood.

When I moved to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, for college, my life changed considerably with the realization that the cheese and brats weren’t all they were cracked up to be. The negative-26 degree weather made me miss California, but even worse was the downgrade I took in terms of food. Meat and potatoes and unhealthy casseroles galore were enough to make me consider moving back home. Luckily the people in the MidWest and at Marquette University made up for the climate and culinary sacrifices I had to make. While making a connection with the food in Milwaukee was challenging, the beer was another story. Miller Lite will forever be my cheap beer of choice and even my fellow alumni in NYC get excited when we walk into a bar that serves it.

My empty stomach brought me to New York where I am now lucky enough to have a job that leads me (and my stomach) all over Manhattan. Not many of my friends can compete with a job where I get paid to eat and drink – okay, we do much more than that! I’ve lived in New York for one year now and in that time I’ve tasted food prepared by some of the best chefs in the world. My first week on the job coincided with the opening of Ed Brown’s eighty one, where I was treated to a meal that included Poached Hen Egg, Warm Smoked Salmon with Private Label Caviar, Dry-Aged Black Angus Sirloin, and Bittersweet Chocolate and Hazelnut Mille-Feuille. Not bad. At the same time, I’ve discovered that street food can be quite delicious. I’ve had a few meals that cost me more than my first-year salary would be able to afford and many more that only cost me a few dollars. There is no denying that New York is one place where you can always find a good meal, no matter what time of day.

My mom doesn’t understand how I manage to eat out as much as I do. If only she could experience the temperature my apartment reaches every time I turn my tiny oven on – maybe then she would understand why eating out is even more appealing in this city than in others.

Just in case I ever get sick of dining out in New York (is that even possible?), I know I always have a VIP table waiting for me at my favorite chefs kitchen in SoCal.

What I’m:

Reading – Moneyball by Michael Lewis
Listening to – Natasha Bedingfield
Drinking – Rosé
Eating – All kinds of summer fruit

By Amanda Hathaway

I came of age in the time of pre-made cocktail mixes and margaritas in a bucket that you put in the freezer. My idea of a fancy drink was a rum and Coke (and a sophisticated drink was wine or something “manly” like Scotch)! Because of that, I didn’t think of bartending as a profession to aspire to – more as last-resort work for those who didn’t want to get a “real” job. If I hadn’t already started to see the error of that thinking, last week’s Tales of the Cocktail convention in New Orleans confirmed how wrong I was. Being a bartender has taken on an aura of respectability that we should all be so lucky to achieve.

A sampling of the seminars held at Tales reflects the seriousness of the drinks business and its acolytes: “Research Drink Recipes and Collecting Drink Books,” “To Have and Have Another: The Hemingway Bartender’s Companion,” “Potions of the Caribbean: Lost Cocktails from America’s Post War Playground” … Research? Hemingway? Post war?!? Since when did Liberal Arts students get into the mix? And let’s not forget the science geeks: The Molecular Mixology seminar taught me that 50ml of alcohol plus 50 ml of water equals 99 ml of liquid… Really! I can’t make this stuff up.

In the midst of my time at Tales, in between wiping NOLA-in-July perspiration from my brow and reluctantly spitting out 21 Year Old Macallan Fine Oak Single Malt, I found myself in awe of what a great time we’re in if you like some craft in your glass. To witness the likes of Jim Meehan, Eben Freeman and Ryan Magarian not only whip up something delicious, but also hold forth on a panel in which they reveal their extraordinary intellects to the benefit of fellow mixologists is a beautiful thing. And to watch the inherent collaboration of brands as they come together in a drink that benefits their respective business goals without even a tinge of cutthroat competitiveness… it warms the cockles… let alone the liver!

Perhaps buoyed by their joy over devoting their professional lives to making drinks that lift the spirits, the people in the cocktail industry exude warmth, support and mutual respect. They are the very essence of bon vivant. Now if someone could just figure out how to bottle that and serve it over ice… what a drink that would be!

What I’m:

Reading         Gary Regan’s The Joy of Mixology

Eating           Alka-Seltzer Morning Relief

Drinking         Jim Meehan’s Beer Cassis at PDT

                   (Dubonnet Rouge, beer, cassis)

Listening to    Portishead’s Third

 by Molly Kinsella

When New Yorkers turn on the television in the morning to find Sam Champion telling us that this week is going to be a “steam bath,” it becomes apparent that a summer getaway is more of a necessity than a luxury.

So, you can imagine my excitement this past winter when my parents decided to buy a house in Harwich Port (on the tri-cep near the elbow on Cape Cod) – the perfect spot to take a break.

You can also imagine my excitement when my sister and I decided to rent a car and drive out to the Cape for 4^th of July weekend.  For those of you who weren’t lucky enough to sit in traffic for seven hours (both ways!) this past weekend, I’d like to share a few of my favorite things about Cape Cod, so you can live vicariously through me (minus the peeling, sunburned skin). 

My favorite spots, which are, conveniently, within walking distance from my house:

The Hot Stove:  It’s a little like a high school keg party in your parents’ basement, but you can get a Bud Light for $3 and a White Russian for $4 – just ask Lori, the woman who spilled one all over me last weekend – and it’s always packed with people looking to have a good time.

The Improper Bostonian:  If you like cover bands, waiting in line on a Saturday afternoon to get into this enormous renovated barn to see Jim Plunkett play some Jimmy Buffett is totally worth it.

The Port Restaurant:  No jean shorts or cut-offs allowed here.  The Port is unexpected and delicious – the perfect place to go with your family to take a break from the barbecue.  Their new raw bar is amazing, with more than 10 types of oysters. 

Isabel’s:  Because there aren’t enough boutiques in New York, Isabel’s carries lines from Miami, which include adorable dresses (in case all of the clothes you brought are covered in White Russian – see The Hot Stove.)

The Mason Jar:  The best sandwiches on the Cape.

Sundae School:  Who doesn’t like an ice cream sundae?  Or an ice cream pie?  Or an ice cream cake?  You have to have dessert.

What I’m:

Reading         The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory

Watching       reruns

Eating           George’s Pizza (Main St., Harwich Port, MA)

Listening to    New Kids on the Block, Summertime – and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

By Susan Gross

In my last blog entry, I wrote a major kvetch about my lack of cooking skills (which, alas, still stand in the same inept state as they did 6 months back.)  This time around, however, I decided to write something in an entirely different direction --- a love letter, if you will.  A love letter to my neighborhood, where I was born and raised and, all these many years later, still find myself living.  This, is my public declaration of love to the shifting face of Ditmas Park.

Having grown up here, sure I see endless changes.  My kid can’t run up and down the street by herself like I could – but then no city kid can do that without a parent’s eyes super glued to her. And, sadly, no Good Humor Ice Cream man shows up every afternoon at 4 so chalk stained fingers might grab for a Candy Center Crunch Bar. But then, no more methadone clinic around the corner nor the stinky bodega that only sells over ripe bananas and expired milk either.

In place of that, and most importantly to me, we have some real food stores dotting the area. Our one tiny hole-in-the-wall food co-op recently became an enormous large one and I can now get more than the occasional lemon in there.  I can purchase milk that not only has a proper expiration date and is organic but  fruits and vegetables…and meat? Is it true?  I must be dreaming.  And since competition can sometimes bring out the best in people, Natural Frontiers Market, another organic market chose our little neighborhood to open it’s first Brooklyn shop.  Us!  Here!  Ditmas Park!  We got it!

We have some restaurants.  The Farm on Adderley (about whose burger and fries I waxed poetic last blog around) and now their sister restaurant, Pomme de Terre that has some damn good Steak Frites  and Croque Monsieur on the menu, thank you very much.  Sure, the crummy Chinese take out restaurant is STILL there but there’s also a terrific taqueria, Cinco de mayo that serves a mean quesidilla.  There’s even a coffee spot or two – a Connecticut Muffin shop showed up nearly a year ago but that’s always bested by Vox Pop where dark rich coffee comes with a side of crazy political ramblings by the tattooed staff.  The kid and I love it there.  And the latest addition of NYC Icy has us ambling over nearly every evening for some mango basil ice for me and some hazelnut chip for the kid.

And then there’s literally the face of the neighborhood itself.  People of, ahem, a decidedly somewhat mature age  such as myself with kids live side by side with much younger folks who are renting floors of the sprawling Victorian houses.  Indian, Bangladeshi, and Jamaican neighbors, all of us coexist pretty happily with each other, adding interesting spicy aromas to the air – nearly every house you walk by has a different cuisine being cooked inside. (Mine, of course, only has the occasional smell of Amy’s Mac and Cheese wafting out…)

It’s a different neighborhood from the one I grew up in, though frequently memories come flooding as I walk down the street with my family, the very same sidewalks I walked down as child with my own siblings and parents.  Strange the way a place can feel so new and familiar all at the same time.  My Ditmas Park. I love you.

What I’m...  

Reading:      My Sister’s Keeper by Jody Picoult

Watching:    “Law & Order: Criminal Intent” re-runs

Eating:         Organic Dark Chocolate Covered Almonds

Listening to: Golden Silence