1) I am effing done. Late, late, late, and very anticlimactically, but the damn Moon New Mexico manuscript is in. (“Wow–all the letters are worn off your keyboard,” remarked Tamara with awe.) Chew your nails in anticipation till September…
2) The jamon is done. Well, at least seriously cut down to size, and the bones stuck in the freezer for later soup-making. That pig leg has been hanging around our pantry since October, and I despaired of ever seeing it go. Not only did it add some heft to a hotel pan of mac-and-cheese, but our pantry is incredibly roomy now.
3) We had a fine housewarming party finally, one that employed all the talents of resident Astorians and honorary Astorians: Peter did some masterful work with lightbulbs, Karine dressed up the buffet table in only the way she can, Tamara and Nicole made a fine floor show, and Bob bid everyone “buh-bye.”
But enough about my little house… On to the greater neighborhood, on which I have barely set eyes since December, due to my miserable slog toward (and then past) deadline.
4) Il Bambino Cafe really exists! I mean, I knew it did, abstractly, because I ate a delicious fig-and-gorgonzola panino from there back in early February, but that was only because flu-ridden I sent patient houseguest Laura out–on the coldest day of the year–to forage for me. So I didn’t see the place in the flesh until last week, when I had yet another tasty sandwich, as well as a little salad of gigante beans, pesto and chorizo–v. savory. And very friendly staff. It’s in the place that Martha’s Bakery was in, way back, on 31st Ave. Perhaps in homage to that, it also serves ginormous cupcakes, some even trimmed with cookies, which scare me a little. Cupcake escalation is getting out of hand. Better stick to sammies, which come in a dizzying range of possibilities.
5) Aces, on 36th Ave between 32nd and 33rd Sts, looks very promising. I had a super-tasty mojito there last night for $8, which is fantastic, considering it’s the size of a Big Gulp. It helps that the owner, Miguel, is also the bartender. The decor is bare-bones, but the food is solid: I shared a romaine salad with buttermilk dressing and poached egg, and a little bowl of clams and chorizo, which were drowning in butter. After Tamara and I had slurped up all the clams, we then took turns picking up the bowl and actually drinking the stuff left in the bottom. We’re not proud. But it did prompt the waiter to arrive at my elbow with a fresh plate of little toast crisps, so we could go back to more dignified sopping. Maybe they were just embarrassed by our desperate devotion to butter, but in any case, it came across as attentive and thoughtful.
6) Island Eatery, on 36th St. just south of 35th Ave, is totally bizarre. Objectively, it may be perfectly normal, but Tamara and I were coming off a near-three-hour movie (Zodiac), and a slog through the theater lobby that made us feel like we were back at a mall in the Southwest, and I had read a mention of the place on Joey in Astoria, quoting Time Out, that had made me imagine a cheery little womyn-owned eclectic cafe. It was clear Time Out was just working off a press release, because once you go there, whoa, the four-head espresso machine is definitely not one of the main things to mention.
Instead: “I feel like I’m in Beirut,” I said to T. as we staggered in, blinking, through the little vestibule filled with baggies of herbs growing hydroponically and hanging from the ceiling, and into a huuuuuuge, soaring white space that had been stuccoed about four inches deep all over. It was glowing with flattering light and resounding with a vaguely jazzy beat. I’ve just spent three weeks copy editing a spring home-design magazine, and it was deeply disorienting to see all that stuff I’d just seen in photo shoots, such as white swag canopies and square pinstriped patio pillows, all in real life in front of me. It was a little like that scene in Fight Club, where all the prices pop up on his furniture. T. and I were standing there looking baffled, and I was having a flashback to Lebanon c. 1999, the single flashiest-yet-not-completely-tacky place I’ve ever hung out, when the managers/owners swooped down and introduced themselves to us. I was fingering a newly discovered hole in my sweater as we were seated next to a trio of insanely well-groomed ladies doing the underwear-as-outerwear thing.
Did I make it clear it was Sunday night?
Anyway, it looks like the place is another endeavor by the folks who own Cavo, up on 31st Ave–in fact, I think they own that whole giant building there on 35th Ave, including the diner Cup. So it’s huge, it’s glam, it’s filled with glossy Greeks. The bartender even gave us the bill all curled up in a shotglass, Athens-cafe-style.
But the menu is a lot broader, and it actually looks promising: full menu till 11, bar menu 11-1am, and it’s all tapas-y things, with a few big plates. Tapas run $8-11, and are things like bacalao fritters, cockles, merguez-and-couscous salad, and I can’t remember what else. Lots of hearty ingredients, in the home-style Mediterranean vein, so definitely worth a re-visit once the kitchen gets up and running next week. And I’ll make sure I dress a little nicer.
(The Joey in Astoria mention is here, where Tamara has added an extended comment, particularly on our less-than-awesome $11 cocktails.)