April 2007 Archives

A friend emailed to ask if I wanted to go to a wine tasting. Without thinking I said yes.

Then I looked at the link he sent. More than 200 selections were on offer during Pinot Days at the Javits Center.

After learning to mix cocktails for several hours the day before (and as with all things foodish, product sampling was absolutely necessary), how would one survive such an event?

Swirl 'n' spit.

It's funny that something so snobbish like "wine appreciation" involves an activity that in other circumstances would be considered bad manners.

After attending a running mechanics seminar a couple weeks ago, I decided I should get myself a new set of shoes.

One of the top-rated sports stores in town is JackRabbit, which was started by a triathlete in the tony Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn. Fortunately, there's a shop on the island as well, so I dashed down, hopped on the treadmill and started running.

"Nice form," the sales guy said.

Sixty seconds later, we looked at a playback of my stride, which confirmed what I discovered during the Nike Half in October: neutral on one side, slightly pronated on the other.

After trying on a half-dozen pairs of shoes, I left with the Brooks Glycerin 5. Having started my second running career in Brooks about eight years ago, I figured I'd stick with what worked in the past and keep a log of my progress.

A half marathon is an awfully long distance, particularly for someone who until last year, never ran farther than six miles. This year, the plan is to do things right, starting slow, cross training (everybody say "om") eating well and remembering to rest.

I normally wouldn't do this, but this is so awesome, I couldn't pass it up.

The L.A. Philharmonic is holding a contest in which the winner gets a Theremin.

What does a Theremin sound like? Most people will recognize it from that "oo-WOO-oo" sound in the Beach Boys song "Good Vibrations."

Enter the contest. And good luck!

On several nights during the Shadow of Stalin festival, Disney Hall will ring with the incomparable sounds of the Theremin (Léon Theremin's amazing invention). DeVotchka's Nick Urata plays it on May 24. And on May 26, don't miss a re-creation of the 1930s Carnegie Hall performance, featuring 10 Theremins conducted by Steven M. Martin (award-winning documentarian, "Theremin: An Electronic Odyssey"). Answer the following question for a chance to win your own Theremin, courtesy of Moog Music!

Question: Why did Léon Theremin abruptly (and mysteriously) leave America and return to the Soviet Union in 1938?

Reply to contest AT laphil DOT org with the correct answer and your name will be entered in a drawing to win a free Theremin. Drawing will be held at Walt Disney Concert Hall during the May 26 Pravda event.

Some time ago, I attended a meeting of the American Society of Business Publication Editors and met a bunch of interesting people, including John Emshwiller, coauthor of "24 Days: How Two Wall Street Journal Reporters Uncovered the Lies That Destroyed Faith in Corporate America." (Amazon|BN|Powell's)

Emshwiller revealed the methods he and his reporting colleague Rebecca Smith used to uncover Enron's corporate shell game. It was a truly fascinating presentation, and I spent at least half an hour afterward talking with him about it. Yes, folks, I love a good hunt.

That evening, I also met a 30-something woman who stood out in a black jersey sundress. She was hauling an enormous canvas totebag stuffed with folders, pens, notebooks and a tape recorder, as well as what seemed like a gazillion men's magazines.

Curious, I asked her background.

"I'm a freelancer," she said. "I specialize in writing for men's magazines from a woman's perspective."

When I asked if she found it difficult being a woman writer in a men's mag world, she said not at all: "The editors, for the most part, are pretty nice and very professional. As for the stuff I'm writing, I like that it's straightforward. I mean, compare Esquire to Cosmo or Glamour. They're all the same topics, but at least in the men's magazines, the articles don't hide what they're after. In the women's publications, it's all about 'how to please a man' or 'how to be more attractive to men.' Where's the empowerment in that?"

She had a point. There was no shame in writing for — or reading — men's magazines.

On the nightstand:
• Esquire
To many readers, this is the crème de la crème of men's publications. Smart, classy, masculine, Esquire attracts top writing talent and offers tips on everything in the realms of dressing well, living well and loving well. If Esquire were a person, it would be James Bond, circa the Pierce Brosnan era.


• Best Life
I'm somewhat surprised Best Life has survived as long as it has. But at least it's a magazine that knows who it's talking to: affluent married men somewhere in their mid-30s to early 50s. The pub doesn't do anything new, it just does standard stories well and differently.

My major complaint is I can't tell the different issues apart. The cover always features a celebrity wearing an impeccable suit and two or three days' worth of stubble (photogs prefer men not to shave for a day or so before a shoot — it gives the face definition under bright lights and the photographs come out looking more manly). As beautiful as the clothes are, and as much as I love guys in well-tailored clothes, it's a little boring month after month.


• Men's Journal
Whereas the first two pubs on this list are all about sharp-dressed men, Men's Journal takes the rugged and ready approach. No suits here: the Men's Journal man drives fast and seeks adventure. He's more likely to be found grinding away at the coffee cans of a catamaran in an America's Cup qualifier than lounging on the deck of a yacht off the shores of some tropical paradise. Though of course, he's capable of doing that too. It's just not a priority.

I like the profiles in Men's Journal, usually because the writers always put their subjects in motion. Sitting in a restaurant inevitably leads to a dull interview. But when people move, stuff happens.

This entry was going to be called "The Good, The Bad, and the Inedible," but given the number of restaurants I've been to in the last few days, the more active-sounding "tablehopping" won out.

First, the bad:
• Route 66 Café
The first time I dined here, I ordered one of the specials: baked grouper with garlic mashed potatoes and sweet corn. The garlic mashed potatoes were great, with small chunks of potato in a beautifully smooth and well-seasoned base. The corn on the cob was crisp and very sweet. But the baked fish tasted like styrofoam and had the texture of a nonslip bathmat.

The kitchen might have been having an off night, so I tried again later in the week, ordering a calamari appetizer and lobster linguine.

It's now confirmed: The food is awful; the servers, pointedly annoyed at your presence.

Don't be lured in by the homey decor and the fact that there are people at the tables. Take a detour around Route 66.


Then the better:
• Cilantro
It's the New York version of Southwestern food. A basket of chips — tortilla, plantains and (wild guess here) yucca — come accompanied by salsa Mexicana. A dash of salt and things were looking up.

The shredded pork flautas were slightly charred, but the apple-chili brined double-cut pork chop was very tender, and the margaritas sweet and strong.

Go on a nice day and ask for a table on the back patio.


• Buona Sera
The servers seemed confused as to who was responsible for our table. Fortunately, it meant that we had a lot of servers instead of none at all. My supremely picky, narrow-palated dining companion did not once complain about the food, and ate everything but the green salad (spaghetti marinara, chocolate mousse cake, diet Coke).

I ventured forth with polenta, crumbled sausage and onion; broccoli rabe and an almond and pistachio "drop," which I should have taken a photo of, given the art that went into it.

Not cheap, but not bad.


Now the best:
• Primitivo Osteria
This morning I indulged in what some have called a rite of New York: Sunday brunch. By chance I passed by Primitivo Osteria on my way to Union Square. The sidewalk blackboard announced what sounded like a too-good deal: a $12.95 or higher entree plus a choice of two Bloody Marys, two screwdrivers or unlimited mimosas.

I took a seat at the bar and ordered a meal washed down with mimosas (I like orange juice. I like champagne. I like them together) and a glass of water.

A crisp English muffin with a pat of butter was accompanied by three slices of Canadian bacon that had char marks from the grill (a nice touch). The large portion of fluffy scrambled eggs was garnished with chives — the menu said two eggs, but they must have been laid by ostriches. The home fries could have been crisper, but it was a minor complaint. And at $13.95, including the mimosas, it was a nice deal in the city.

Sure, breakfast like that can probably be had cheaper elsewhere, but Primitivo was filled with happy, slightly buzzed people enjoying good weather and a nice breeze. What more could you ask for?

Lately, I've noticed a proliferation of the term "sneak peak."

Guys: It's sneak peek.

Please!

Kind of a fun way to raise people's awareness of sea creatures: The Great Turtle Race

After spending most of the day at home, something in me says it's time to go for a little walk.

Outside it's bright and blustery, the last sunny day before a major nor'easter threatens to flood most of the region. I hurry around the neighborhood running my weekly errands and dropping in on one of the few CompUSA stores that won't be closing in the next 30 days.

I return from dinner at a local diner that had great atmosphere, fantastic garlic mashed potatoes but overcooked and therefore chewy grouper, and mentally settle in for a night of reading. But before I part the pages of "The Children of Men," I flip open my laptop and check email.

A friend who's been out of the country for several weeks asks if I'm free to see "The Lives of Others" ("Das Leben der Anderen" - QuickTime trailer) at the Angelika in SoHo.

The runtime is 2 hours, 18 minutes. Oh, what the heck.

I dash for the subway with instructions from Hopstop — instructions that turn out to be unreliable due to rerouted train service and my own disorientation at being south of 14th Street, where the grid stops and directional hell breaks loose.

I am above ground and realize I have no bearings. I am late. I am lost. And then, a sign: I am approaching the Lincoln Tunnel. If I keep going in this direction I will walk to New Jersey. Wrong way.

My friend is patiently waiting for me as I race to the theater steps, apologies tumbling out of my mouth.

The cinema is jammed and the room is dark, so we pick two seats together at the back, behind a rather tallish couple whose heads keep swaying back and forth as though buffeted by breeze. I find an eyeline I can keep, but my poor friend plays a dodge game with the guy in front's head, which means the people behind my friend have to do the same.

"The Lives of Others" is slow. Deliberate. And not to everyone's taste. Some in the audience leave, rising quietly from their seats in ones and twos like hot air balloons that float toward the exit.

I keep my focus on screen, trying not to miss anything, taking in as much of the German dialogue as my weak grasp allows me. (Translations rarely equal what's actually said.) But what I do understand is that this film without special effects, fancy set design or flashy celebrities is art.

(Listen to "Die Sonate vom Guten Menschen" by Gabriel Yared)

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I use to put together an audiocast — usually mixed tapes, though I also had an answering machine message that sounded more like a radio station than a standard recording.

Having online music resources and programs like GarageBand, Audacity and AudioHijack makes these things a lot easier, so I'm working on a few collections — something uplifting, like the chicken soup from one of the local diners.

Meanwhile, here are a few mixes and tracks to do with what you will:

• "Early April, Still Cold" from Robot Blair

• "Hypnotic Tango" from My Mine

• "Live à Plagessss" from Scan-X

• "Decibelly" (40 oz. Re-edit) from Chris Fortier | NYC

Though the weather is refusing to cooperate, it's officially running season. Therefore, it's time to get inspired into getting in shape after a real winter's worth of hibernation.

I've got my iPod nano and my Nike Plus — though instead of springing for a whole new set of Nike shoes, I'm attaching the Marware Sportsuit Sensor+ to my Mizunos instead.

Now I just have to figure out how to keep the iPod attached to me. Too bad the Nano doesn't come with a clip like the Shuffle does ... but there I go digressing in an effort to distract from the real task at hand.

When it comes to getting back into the spirit of the sprint, inertia is the toughest thing to overcome.


• The Non-Runner's Marathon Guide For Women
(Amazon|BN|Powell's)

The book takes a very tongue-in-cheek approach to marathon training. Which is just as well because I know I'm going to be in agony otherwise. They say when faced with daunting prospects, it's best to laugh, cause otherwise you cry. This book will be a big help when the time comes to push, shove and otherwise coerce motivate myself to go just a little but farther.


• Runner's World
(Website)
The granddaddy of running magazines, Runner's World has an interesting mix of first-person essays, interviews, training information and gear reviews for all sorts of runners. Plus there's a whole lot of other running-related stuff.

I started subscribing eons ago, and I've kept it up. Not sure if you want to drop the $20 on a subscription? Check out the website.


• Yoga Life
(Website)
I haven't seen Yoga Life on newsstands recently, which means either people are buying it like crazy or the mag's about to fold. Nevertheless, the magazine's editorial focus was pinpointed at runners, with plenty of articles about poses to help open the hips, stretch the hamstrings, and loosen tense neck and back muscles.


• What To Read When You Feel You Can't Go On
There are those days when I doubt that running is really worth all the pain. After all, my knees get sore. I get blisters. Then there's the chafing, and sometimes, sunburn. (Ouch!)

At times like those, I turn to my colleague and fellow runner Dan McQuade's acid, funny blog, Phildelphia Will Do, and read "How I Learned To Stop Running And Just Play Wii Sports."

When you live in California, it's natural to pick up an interest in wine. Even if you don't like wine, the state produces so much of it that it isn't hard to develop knowledge by osmosis.

But having left all that behind, I'm trying to learn a whole new world of wine. I was told local liquor license laws prevent chains from invading the city, which explains the proliferation of one-off stores and the ability of mom and pop shops to survive.

One of the newer boutiques to open is Pour on the Upper West Side. Most bottles are less than $30. The owner selects wines by small producers, most of whom I've never heard of before. In the fashion world, they'd call this a well-edited shop.

There's something quaint and personal about the store, in contrast to, say my former hometown staple, Wine House, which would have been more appropriately named "Ginormous Wine Warehouse."

Since there are so many small wine shops here, they all compete to draw clientele. How to do that? Tastings.

They say most people in New York spend a lot of time and money in bars. But traipse around town and you'll find free or cheap booze and vino almost any night of the week.

For seekers, check out My Open Bar with Chicago, L.A., New York and San Francisco listings live now and Boston, DC and Seattle pages to come.

And don't forget to check in on wine shop tastings.

Had a late dinner at Spice Market yesterday, the oh so trendy see-and-be-seen restaurant run by Jean-Georges Vongerichten.

The menu is South Asian with a twist. The red curry duck was very spicy; the sticky rice, not so sticky. My companion had something I couldn't recognize and don't remember, but it looked good, nestled between two rows of lightly fried tofu.

The only downer was the coconut sorbet I'd ordered for dessert. The light, grainy texture made me miss terribly the handmade coconut ice cream from Thai Dishes in Santa Monica and Redondo Beach -- a slightly icy treat shot through with chunks of tender coconut and garnished with peanuts.

Perhaps it's time for me to put my ice cream maker back into action.