Silly me–years and years ago, I joined a CSA (community-supported agriculture) group here in Astoria, thinking it would be a great way to meet people who also liked food, and get a great batch of vegetables every week. Instead, the members seemed to be largely of the wan, food-as-nutrients type, and I overheard many heated discussions about homeopathy as I quickly stuffed my burdock, kale and carrots in my bags and ran from the fluorescent-lit community center. And that was on the weeks I was able to get my stuff–a three-hour window on Tues afternoon wasn’t exactly friendly to anyone with a job. (Not that I really had one–but _sometimes_ I did, honest!)

Well, hooray to say that organization has been replaced by the livelier, hipper Astoria CSA, who have moved the drop point to chummy little Cafe Bar on 35th Ave. In an extra-smart move, they’ve partnered with some meat-and-dairy farms as well–the meat doesn’t come as part of your weekly share, but you can order it separately, and it will be delivered along with your veggies.

For those who haven’t heard of CSAs: you pay a lump sum at the beginning of the farm season, usually starting in mid-May, and every week a selection of vegetables (looks like the new group will do fruit as well) is delivered to a drop point. The selection is different each time, and you get stuff usually through Thanksgiving, though that period sees a lot of curly kale and brussels sprouts. Because you get a surprise selection of five or six things every week, it’s a great way to make you creative with your cooking–“It’s like Iron Chef, every week!” said my roommate Aaron the summer I did it at our old place.

_Don’t_ do it, though, if you’re thinking it will somehow magically be cheaper. Not that it’s outrageous at all–it’s just that unless you’re used to paying for organics, you’ll have a little sticker shock. In fact, considering Astoria has some of the best produce shops in the city (as well as a small Greenmarket, over on the west side), you’re probably wondering why you’d join a CSA at all…

Well, Astoria’s best is never organic, and it’s local only during tomato season. Plus, everything’s been sitting around for who knows how long. Your CSA share is picked the day before you pick it up, max. So, bottom line: you get Greenmarket-quality veg, without any schlepping (and actually, to get back to price, the CSA is often cheaper than buying at Greenmarkets).

Get more info at www.astoriacsa.com, and if you’re interested, stop by Hellgate Social Wed. at 7:30 for a movie screening (“Future of Food”) or Cafe Bar on Tues, Mar 27, at 7pm for a Q&A session.

(Despite the meet-up at Hellgate Social, this group is distinct from the Hellgate CSA, which mostly serves the Ditmars area, though of course it’s open to anyone anywhere in the neighborhood willing to stop by Cafe Bar once a week.)

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.)

I talk a lot about the fabulous produce of Astoria, and how a pile of eggplants made me decide to move here. But I’ve never shown photographic evidence before.

Look at that. It’s nighttime. The veggies are beautiful. And it looks like that all night long, because it’s open 24 hours! And there are about three more places just like this one on the same street.

Here it is during the day:

One day I was standing on that corner, mooning over some piles of peaches or something, when this troop of out-of-towners (you can tell by the white sneakers and sweatshirts) went by–it looked like maybe a resident was showing his family from Iowa around. The little brother said, in a voice dripping with scorn, “Geez, and everything’s always on special here.”

Boy, no city slicker’s gonna put anything over on that little brat.

But it was funny, because I’d until then I’d never even noticed the “SPECIAL!” signs. That’s how distracting the produce is.

And then there’s this. (Squeamish people, don’t scroll down!) As with produce, I have a choice of at least four butchers within a ten-block stretch, plus the all-halal butcher department at the Trade Fair. This sort of selection is an average day–when it gets to be any holiday period, there are double the number of carcasses crammed in there.

Astoria: it’s not just for vegetarians.

While I was driving around rural New Mexico and eating meals that made me say, “Well, I guess this is pretty good, considering…” all of Astoria was on fire with news of the new French bakery, Le Petit Prince, on Broadway–where things are honestly good, with no qualifications whatsoever.

I can’t tell you how jealous I am that I missed all the initial flurry. Especially because I biked right past it the day before I left for New Mexico–but for some reason I thought that picking up my sewing machine was more important than discovering real French baguettes and buttery treats in my very own neighborhood.

I’ve complained about the faux-bistro phenomenon here in Astoria before, and I got burned at the supposedly authentic French bakery that was down on the other side of Broadway a couple of years back. But this is nothing like either of those things. This is real. The guys who run it are French. They’re selling French things. They’re using buckets and buckets of butter.

When I looked in the cases, at the pains au chocolat and the almond croissants, and the little pistachio macarons, I couldn’t help but gasp and clutch my hands together with glee. Tamara and Karl, who are already getting jaded, just sat and laughed while I did my little dance of joy. (For some pics, see Joey in Astoria.)

Then it was so heartwarming to sit there, sipping my espresso and nibbling my little raspberry-almond cake and watching people look in the window and react just the way I did: eyes widening, excitement growing, a half-smile conveying “I can’t believe I’m really seeing this.” And there were of course a few crotchety old ladies, who sniffed with scorn and kept walking–but they’re just part of what makes Astoria great.

For a while, I guess I wanted Astoria to have a little hipster scene, and maybe some more stylish, real-bistro restaurants. Now that Le Petit Prince is here, I realize that’s the only element of gentrification that I really wanted: great bread and pastries. And it’s a fantastic miracle that Astoria can get that without all the other byproducts of economic growth, such as cool home-decor shops, tapas bars, double-wide strollers, and lounges in converted factories. I will even quit complaining about the insanely ugly Pistilli/Eagle Electric building.

Astoria is complete.