I'll have the sea bass, medium rare

A few weeks ago I went to New York. I did not expect to love it, but I did. (The last time I was there about five years ago, there was a garbage strike amidst intense July heat. Before that, I spent a summer in the East Village on a photography program during college. A boyfriend and I had just broken up and I stopped eating and sleeping. I poked at white rice and wandered vacant-eyed through Strand Books. And somehow, amidst my angst, I managed to pick up another, even more temporary boyfriend. I miss the resilience of Youth.)

I was there to celebrate the elopement of two college friends who have stuck together lo these many years. Manhattan was great, but Brooklyn (where they live) was even better. Blue Sky Bakery, if you ever read this, please send me your recipe for banana-bran-chocolate chip muffins. Their warm, melting toastiness haunts my dreams.

Also, I wish I could start an Arecibo in my neighborhood. I call cabs and they just never come. They hate me. I'm talking to you, 333-3333. But Arecibo, and its cutely-named competitor Evelyn, are now programmed into my phone in the vain hope that they will come to my house in San Francisco. They'd be like, "Five minutes, darling. What are your cross streets? San Francisco and San Francisco? Ok, honey, five minutes," and then a Town Car would emerge magically out of the ocean fog and they would drive me where I want to go quickly, and at a reasonable price. Dare to dream.

We also hit the little wine bar incarnation of Al Di La and Franny's. I thought SF was supposed to be the capital of strident locavoristic over-sharing. But Franny, you guys take the cake.

Don't be upset. I can poke fun at you because your pizza is superior. And your drinks as well. You redefined gin and tonic for me. And that olive-oil drenched asparagus was delightful. But really. I would have liked to have known exactly which quadrant of the patch my asparagus came from. Soil conditions, sun exposure, bird species in the area. Next time please give me more information.

In Manhattan, we enjoyed the incredible $28 lunch at Jean-Georges. I don't recall where anything came from, but I don't much care. It was staggeringly good. I had a piece of halibut that redefined fishitude. It was bathed in a sunny lemon broth and studded with tiny Japanese mushrooms. We ate foie gras perched atop a little raft of brioche that arrived accompanied by a tiny pot of Meyer lemon jam. We had smokey squab, which was delicious until I noticed a very active robins' nest outside the window and began to ponder the similarities between the proud parents atop their home and the pan-seared carcass atop my plate. And dessert... well. Some sort of icy jicama and citrus thing. Refreshing but a little too austere for my taste. Then things got more interesting. The marshmallow sommelier pulled up with his pretentious cart and with his gleaming scissors began to snip and clip long strands of guimauve into manageable pillows of cherry and apricot. And tiny macarons appeared, the size of pinkie nails. And bonbons. Pretty, pretty bonbons.

We also had lunch at Les Halles, which I will happily admit was damn solid and authentic, even though I was fully prepared to be snarky. I don't know why I expected less. I am not ashamed to admit that I love Anthony Bourdain. Afterwards we visited Laboratorio del Gelato, which was good, but not as mind-boggling as people claim it to be.

I felt like I got in a lot of sights (read: restaurants) and spent some good quality time with old friends, so the New York experience was a winner. Next time, however, nothing will stop me from visiting this place. NOTHING!

Cinnamon Buns and Burnout (Oh yeah, and French Laundry)

You know a food blogger is burned out when she doesn't even write a real post about her recent trip to the French Laundry. What to say? It was enormously expensive. Almost all of the food was quite good, except for a hunk o' beef that had too much of the sous-vide thing going on (flabby, no crust). Dessert was forgettable (I can say this because I've forgotten it), and the winter squash soup was so good that I will never look at a squash dish again without feeling short-changed. I grappled with pangs of guilt for spending that much money on food. They shoved us out of there in 2.5 hours, which stank, and did not even offer us any coffee after dinner. Can you believe that? Can you believe that? Me either. Anyway, I would still go back, if someone else was paying. I guess this indicates that my sense of self-respect defers to my sense of gluttony.

Now, on to more interesting topics--to me, anyway. Cinnamon buns. Every single time I walk past a Cinnabon anywhere in the world, I feel compelled to stop. But I never do. I suspect they taste like chemicals and contain 1000 grams of fat and frankly, the chain reminds me uncomfortably of the '80s.

You know what else reminds me of the '80s? Palm Springs. Which is where we went last weekend, and which is where I encountered a roach the size of my fist in the bathroom of our adorably hipster modernist hotel. I also encountered a cinnamon bun the size of my skull at Rick's. Here it is, with a knife stuck in it right where one might stick a knife into a skull, if one was so inclined:

Our waitress asked if we wanted it warmed and slathered with butter. You already know the answer to that one. Additionally, my breakfast came with these:

Am I bad food person if I confess that the sight of the cinnamon bun and its knife and the biscuits with Knott's Berry Farms jam and the plop of whipped butter made me at least as happy as many of the beautiful items on the menu at French Laundry?

It's been so long since I posted that I will throw in an extra bonus cinnamon bun photo for you; these are made from Molly's recipe in Bon Appetit, which was truly a gem. Give them a shot.

Bluth bananas in LA

We went to Los Angeles a few weeks ago. We did many things, and most of them involved eating. In between mouthfuls of food, we occasionally managed to converse with our friends Jake and Lexi. Here we are at the Farmer's Market, eating perhaps the most well-documented chocolate-covered frozen bananas EVER:*

There's no way to eat a frozen banana suavely. You just have to go for it, assuming a position not unlike the Al's-Italian-Beef-Eating Stance: hunched forward, raining detritus all over yourself and on the floor, gnawing away.

Bananas and I have a complicated relationship: I never ever eat them, except in airports. (There's quite a bit of neurosis lurking behind that statement, but I'll save the explanation for another date.) I don't care for that pasty texture. But, like raisins, I enjoy bananas when they've been gently coddled in a nice warm bath of butter and sugar, and even better, lots of booze. In LA, I learned that I really like them frozen, too. The pastiness becomes rich and creamy, and dark chocolate tempers all that fruity sweetness.

Jake was full of great suggestions for us, so during our short stay we managed to eat piles of strawberry pancakes and huevos rancheros at The Alcove (where everyone was extraordinarily good looking); heaps of yummy spaghetti and meatballs at Il Capriccio; out of control gelato at Pazzo Gelato; strange BLTs in the middle of the night at Piper's; and last but not least, an enormous box of Stan's Donuts. Their specialty? Imagine a glob of peanut butter squished into the pocket where the jelly would usually be, and you get the idea. One bite, and you too will come to believe in the power of the chocolate chip peanut butter donut.

*Except for the Bluths', of course.