Fresh and the UES

So I was out dining at the Upper East Side's Cafe Greco tonight on Second Avenue between 71st and 72nd streets with friends (more to come on that later) when the waiter asked if I wanted fresh pepper on my side of spinach, carrots and string beans ( I sound like a health nut, I know..far from it, believe me).

Seemed like a fairly simple question at first, until it got me thinking of my new friend, Fresh Pepper. No, I did not develop an obsession for the spicy condiment overnight. It's (or he's, i should say) a blogger with a really funny, witty, almost daily blog about.....um, not sure what it's about, but it's very funny. And the posts are short. And did I mention funny? He's a patent attorney who lives on Staten Island with his mom and dad. Sounds like a loser, but I promise you, he's not as far as I can tell. Oh, and he's an aspiring chef, which is a man after my own heart since the Food Network slipped into my number one favorite network on television.

So we e-mailed back and forth a bit to kill time in between hours of researching and editing copy. And his e-mails were funny (just like his blog) and he had quite a few interesting things to say about some of the places I've written about on the Upper East Side...his former stomping ground before he decided Staten Island was wayy cooler.

Fresh: "When I lived in Manhattan, I spent approximately 20% of my take-home pay on the omakase at Sushi Seki. I was never a big Rosa Mexicano fan though. But maybe that's because I went to the one in Lincoln Center.Your pictures are full of attractive people. When my girl leaves me next month, I am going to call you."

I hope he has my number and I sure hope he doesn't mind me selling him out. I just couldn't resist posting his quantitative analysis of where his paycheck went in the time he lived in Manhattan. I love it!!!!! And I love Fresh!! He is hilarious...and my new favorite blog.

Would post the other 20 funny things he wrote me about, but like I said before, this is a PG-rated blog.....for now.

Jokes y Jaiba

"What did the math book say to the other math book?"

"What?"

"You've got problems"

"Are you sure you don't have problems?" I asked my roommate and best friend since college.

We both laughed, knowing that we never run out of things to talk about, but a few corny jokes to break up our usual conversations about guys and work couldn't hurt.

We were at dinner at Rosa Mexicano, on the fringe of the Upper East Side on First Avenue at 58th St. I had wanted to try it since I moved into my apartment a year ago but the strange facade of the building that prevented passersby from seeing in and the lack of a menu posted out front always deterred me. I'm a menu reader anytime I'm walking by a place that looks semi-nice.

So I took a chance, and it was well worth it with only a few things that may have me running back to Manana the next time I'm in the mood for a margarita.

Rosa Mexicano is not for the Mexican food lovers who want to roll up their sleeves, chug sangria and dig into a plateful of refried bean covered enchiladas. It is, however, for the Mexican food lovers who enjoy fine dining and gourmet food (and gourmet prices).

The meal began with an avocado-lover's dream: Guacamole en Molcajete (not sure what that translates to, but it was made fresh tableside in a huge bowl and damn good). It was very reminiscent of the waitressing job I had one summer in college where I had to make tableside Caesar salads and dressing from scratch and filet fish tableside for everyone to watch. They ended up with something with greater resemblance to tuna in a can than beautiful filets of red snapper.

During our guac party we ordered up some drinks. Sangria for my friend and a margarita for me. I'm never one to insist on an ice-cold glass of anything but I had to ask the waiter to bring a glass of ice because my margarita was warm (they must have forgotten to cool the Hibiscus tea that was infused throughout it).

Moving on to the next course, we split an appetizer: Empanadas de Jaiba, or three soft corn empanadas filled with jumbo lump crabmeat, fruit pico de gallo and avocado-tomatillo salsa. I thoroughly enjoyed mine, which tasted like a Mexican version of a Chinese dumpling. My roomate, on the other hand, whispered: "It tastes like B.O."

Before going to just about any NYC restaurant, I do a quick web search, usually ending up on menupages.com, where I can glance at reviews of previous diners. And the one thing I kept reading about was the Filete de Hongos, which I automatically recognized when a plate of it was set down in front of the man at the table next to us.

Jill and I locked eyes and had the same thought: we are ordering that! And so we did, and it did not disappoint. It sounded fairly simple: pan seared filet mignon covered with a wild mushroom-tequila sauce. But it was anything but simple when it went into my mouth. Tender, juicy filet that you barely needed a knife to cut, firm, perfectly cooked mushrooms and a sauce that was tangy, creamy and savory all at the same time.

I was pleased. Very pleased. Until the check came. I won't get into the specifics, but I will say Rosa Mexicano is worth the small splurge, if only for the quality of the food. The service was efficient, even though neither of us could understand one thing one person said (and Jill lived in Barcelona and I have five years of spanish under my belt). And the restaurant has a nice lively atmosphere. Not in a loud, somewhat irritating mariachi-band-playing-over-your-shoulder-while-your-beef-taco-breaks-in-five-pieces kind of way, but in a way that confirms how great of an experience it is and how glad you are that you listened to me and made a reservation before going....even on a weeknight!

"Why did the boy blush when he opened the refrigerator?" (my roommate, the budding comedian, again)

"Why?" I asked.

"Because he saw the salad dressing."

Ba-dum-ching.

Go ahead. Laugh at the sheer stupidity of it. You know you want to.....

SATs and the UES

The Upper East Side is known for its bevy of trust fund babies and parents willing to buy their children’s way into the Princetons and Harvards of the world. So I wasn’t surprised when I saw this article in the New York Post, with dozens of UES references.

I couldn’t imagine spending $5,000 to buy the latest Balenciaga bag, let alone to pay a tutor to take my son or daughter’s SATs for them. That would be the same as telling your child, “Child, you don’t have a brain.” And no admission to Yale or Stanford will ever change it when the brainless ninny is flunking out first semester.

I’m not frowning upon SAT prep or LSAT prep or any other combination of alphabet soup prep. Dropping a grand on a reputable course could be considered a good investment as long as you do your homework in between classes.

I am a Princeton Review graduate myself, although I’m not sure I could tell you the meaning of 90 percent of the words in the dictionary.

You never saw me sitting on the beach the summer between my sophomore and junior year of high school with my vocabulary binder on my lap. I preferred soaking in the sun…not soaking in every10-letter word I could get my brain around. But when I wasn’t in hot pursuit of the Jersey shore’s hottest Friday night party or dishing out Kasha and bowties at a Jewish deli near my house, I did spend time on reading comprehension and analogies. I can’t say it did me much good, but I am a college grad – a cum laude college grad, so I must have done something right.

And I’m sure these kids could too without mommy and daddy’s help - or wallets.

Hasta Manana

When my former co-workers (and current friends) suggested getting together one night for drinks and Mexican food, I was automatically in.

"I know this great place, Manana, on the Upper East Side that's so cute and quiet where we can actually talk and hear each other," my onefriendsaid. "And they have great margaritas..."

Sounded perfect to me. I had walked past Manana on First Avenue between 62nd and 63rd many times, always making a mental note to try it or at least see what the inside looked like at some point. With the exception of a large picture window in the front, the exterior is fairly non-descript with its white stucco facade and big brown wooden door.

We met around 7 on a Tuesday night, and when I walked in, I understood what she meant by quiet. With the exception of the bartender, we were the only other people in there, which kind of concerned me.

Prime happy hour time at a Mexican restaurant in New York usually includes a busy waitstaff or at the very least a busy bartender. But this guy's only task at hand was making sure our pitcher of margaritas never ended.

As the night rolled on and we exchanged stories of engagements and break-ups, I began to see why my friend chose Manana.

First of all she was exactly right about the margaritas. They were good. Almost too good judging by our four (or was it five?) pitchers.

She was also exactly right about the noise level. So what if it wasn't jampacked with after hours drunk people dancing to La Bamba and spewing their sangria all over the floor with each hip shake? People came. And they ate. But they did it quietly. And with no more than eight or so tables, there's no way even an authentic Mexican party complete with a pinata could have prevented four people like us from hearing each other at the bar in the front of the place. And it was nice to be able to sit there, relax and talk without yelling over the sounds of Shakira.

And although she didn't mention anything about the food before we went, judging by the tasty calamari and nachos we ate, she was right for choosing Manana.

I guess the thing that sold me most was the homey, friendly feel to the restaurant, which became even more pronounced with Reuben, an obvious Manana regular whose Spanish and bubbly personality added an interesting element to what had already been a fun night. Bubbly is an understatement. I consider myself bubbly, but I've never hugged complete strangers and told them I wanted to marry them.

I was flattered by his proposal, but alas I had to decline. A ring would have been nice, but I settled for the smile he put on my face.

"Maybe some other time," I told him. "Maybe manana....."

Speaking of the Sopranos

Friday night I decided to stray from the Upper East side scene and ended up at Marquee.

I've already seen and met over a dozen celebs there in the last two years I've been going. So bumping into someone like Zach Braff and having an in-depth convo about his idea to write Garden State (my favorie movie...see my profile) really didn't phase me anymore.

This probably explains why I couldn't have cared less when my friend shrieked and pointed to Meadow Soprano herself dancing in the banquette across from us. Jamie Lynn Sigler didn't interest me all that much, but the guy doting on her and talking thisclose to her did.

It was Lance Bass of NSYNC fame. Now I was interested. The reporter within came alive and I immediately started questioning people around me. "Is that Lance Bass? Are they kissing? What's going on? Can someone get me a vodka and club??"

Suddenly they got up...hand-in-hand...walked through the crowd and right over to the booth we were sitting on. And it was then that we noticed Jaime Pressley was the person they were coming over to see.

Jamie (Lynn Sigler) sat on Lance's lap talking with people in the booth and Lance would momentarily kiss her back in a very sweet, affectionate way. It looked like they were definitely an item and like he definitely forgot to consult his stylist when he chose the hideous leather jacket he was wearing....

A blonde, a redhead, a brunette and some damn good yellowtail...

I know I crowned Sushi of Gari on 78th street and First Avenue “the Nobu of the Upper East Side,” but with your permission, I’d like to rescind that initial statement.

Sushi eating hasn’t been the same since Sushi Seki on First Avenue between 62nd and 63rd streets.

In fact I’ve opted out of two sushi dinners since my experience there because I knew the quality would disappoint.

I met up with my friends there, Marni and Jess, and settled in for a sushi dinner. Marni, a fellow blogger (click here to check it out...hilarious perspective of a single girl..who isn't one?... in NYC), treated us to tales of her weeklong stay at the famed Bunny Ranch in Nevada. I can’t really go into the details of her trip, given this is a PG-rated blog, but I do want to clarify she was working “behind the scenes” and leaving the performances to the women living there.

We started off with edamame and hijiki salads and continued on to the chef’s special for two to share. The fish is air shipped into the restaurant from Tokyo’s Tsukiji Market, which I know nothing about…only that they must have the freshest fish.

The sushi was so tasty that for the first time I opted out of wasabi and ginger and barely used any of my soy sauce.

As we enjoyed salmon, shrimp, tuna, yellowtail, eel (you name it, we ate it) on beds of the fluffiest little rice patties that melted in our mouths, the conversation turned to text messaging.

Only one day earlier my friend Alana had left me a voicemail scolding me for not having text messaging because she wanted to text me something from a noisy bar.

And only one day before that Mark Cuban…yes, Mark Cuban, of HDTV and the Dallas Mavericks…yelled at me for not being able to receive a text message from him.

Oh and then one day before that, I got the same song and dance from my best friend, Beth, because something funny happened in her third grade classroom that she was just dying to tell me.

When the girls recovered from the initial shock of me not having text messaging on my phone, the scolding began.

And so did the stories that completely supported my decision….stories of guys who are serial text messagers…guys whose hands haven’t dialed the numbers on their cell phones in years.

As we polished off the sushi…every last bite of it…paid the bill and hopped in a cab to head downtown, my one friend decided against calling – or texting actually – the serial texter of the moment.

Glad my perspective could help. We ladies gotta take a stand somewhere…..

Alligators and amigos...

I woke up on the Seis de Mayo very confused.

Fishing through my purse for my cocoa chapstick, I came across a bright green plastic alligator.

Needless to say my Cinco de Mayo consisted of one too many margaritas and Coronas.

Once I had a large glass of water and a bowl of cereal and came out of my fog, I traced the little critter (or “fritter” as my friend Lauren was hellbent on calling them) back to Brother Jimmy’s, an Upper East Side barbeque joint turned dive bar at night on Second Avenue between 77th and 78th streets.

Slowly…verrrryyy slowly….it all came back to me. Sombreros…group of guys….group of guys wearing sombreros…group of guys carrying around little green alligators…fixation on stealing little green alligators…little green alligator sneaking into my purse…rejoicing in the cab over the mission accomplished.

Life really is all about the little things.

We got there around 11…or was it 12…after an extended extended happy hour at the Boat Basin directly cross town on the west side.

At the Boat Basin we sat outside around a circular table with the sun setting over the Hudson River. We shared pitchers of margaritas, appetizers and an interest in our friend, Adam’s hilarious stories about lost cats. We were relaxed. We were comfortable. We were crazy for leaving and going to Brother Jimmy’s.

One ride on the crosstown MTA bus later (complete with stares and laughs from our fellow passengers), we arrived at Brother Jimmy’s and the bar was in full swing.
The overwhelming smell of stale beer and cologne made it seem like a cross between a college frat house and a department store fragrance counter….in Mexico…given the plethora of sombreros floating through the crowd.

There was hardly a place to stand, let alone dance, though we couldn’t help ourselves when Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” came over the loudspeaker. We were bumping into each other…bumping into other people…we were spilling our drinks….drinks were getting spilled on us.
It definitely felt like we were back in college in a good way, reminiscing about Cinco de Mayos from the past.

And here we were…all friends from college…all living and working in New York, stealing plastic alligators from drunk men and having a ball doing it.