Locanda Verde: Possibly the perfect brunch menu in Manhattan

Okay - I know this blog is coming across as food obsessed right now, but that's partly because I am in the country writing with no social life right now and partly because I am cooking. All the time.

I'm also reading a lot of food stuff on-line to assuage my restaurant cravings, and that's how I came across the new brunch menu for Andrew Carmellini's Locanda Verde, which has recently opened in a revamped space (formerly the dreadful Ago) at de Niro's The Greenwich Hotel in TriBeCa.

Gabagoul & Grana 14
Our Crostino of the Day 7
Granola Parfait with organic yogurt and berries 12
Black Fig Insalata with arugula, Asiago, and duck brasaola 12
Sheeps’ Milk Ricotta with truffle honey and burnt orange toast 11
Local Tomatoes with watermelon and smoked ricotta from Abruzzi 13

Red Mill Organic Oatmeal with stewed fruits and almonds 11
Wood-Fired Uovos Al Forno with carona beans and black Tuscan kale 14
Zucchini Frittata with roasted tomato, goat cheese, and fiore di zucca 14
Uova Modenese with cottechino hash, spinach, and tomato hollandaise 16
Soft Scambled Farm Egg Crostino with leeks, mushrooms, and speck 15

Lemon Ricotta Pancakes with local blueberries and Meyer lemon curd 14
Crispy Polenta Waffle with local strawberries and mascarpone 15
Hazelnut Crusted French Toast with Sicilian citrus salad 15

Fed up with mediocre $10 plates of eggs & potatoes that I could knock up at home for pennies, I've been running a personal boycott against brunch in Manhattan. This, however, is making me drool. It may well be the most delicious brunch menu I've read all year. The full menu & wine list is here You can read Frank Bruni's two star review in The New York Times

Today's indulgence: Cupcake Stop

As I pedalled down Fifth this morning I wasn't just keeping a look out for kamikaze taxis and suicidal pedestrians: I was searching for a large white truck which I knew was parked up somewhere near Madison Square Park.

A couple of weeks ago I'd seen a piece on the Diner's Journal blog on The New York Times website about Cupcake Stop, a new food truck prowling the mean streets of Manhattan, selling frosted cupcakes from its window.

I immediately started following its Twitter feed and started to get tweets telling me where it was parked (usually mere blocks from my apartment) and which flavours they were pushing. I was sitting at home filing copy, dreaming of frosting.

So today, when I had promised to return to Jersey with Red Velvet cupcakes for Y,

nothing was simpler than to click on Twitter, pin down the location and cycle up to the truck. $10 bought me a dozen mini cupcakes in the flavours of the day:Red Velvet (as requested), Key Lime Pie, Oreo Crumb & Chocolate Mousse

An added bonus was meeting Lev Ekster, the man behind the cupcakes who was lurking in the back of the truck and came to say hi when I mentioned finding the truck through Twitter. He immediately won me over with two free mini cupcake vouchers. Who says journalists can't be bought?

And the taste? Y cldn't get the box open quick enough. And I am presuming the frankly indecent sounds he made as he inhaled the Chocolate Mousse mini were appreciative. The crumb is incredibly moist, the icing smooth and not too sickeningly sweet. I like the little well of icing inside each cake and, in the case of the Key Lime, the green gooey stuff.

Win or Fail? We say WIN. Yet another reason not to eat those awful dry Magnolia cupcakes ever again.

Oreo Crumb Cupcake Stop cupcakes

No more burgers

Oh God. I tried on some shorts today in glamorous Old Navy in my usual size and they were a little tight around my middle. So I hopped it across to banana Rpublic on Fifth Avenue. Same story.This is not good. I refuse to go up a size.

So, I did my usual act upon realising I need to stop eating: I walked up a couple of blocks to Madison Park where my beloved Shake Shack resides. As I sat there twittering about Michael Jackson (RIP), I shovelled in crinkle cut fries and a shroom burger. Strange to think that I will probably always remember eating that burger because of Michael Jackson.

It's all salad from now on.

Eating & dating: My first week back in Manhattan

I’ve been back in New York for ten days, & it’s rained every one of those ten days. Fortunately, as wellies are obviously impermeable, they are one of things that weren’t ruined in the employee-caused flood at Manhattan Mini Storage in Chelsea, so I fished them out of my locker and have been wearing them every day to splash around the streets.

That said, I’ve also been dating and, whilst my wellies are certainly practical, I’m not wearing them to dinner. This has led to several near arse over tit, knickers in the air moments as I’ve picked my way Downtown over wet, slippery cobblestones in stilettos.

Date number 1 was through my online dating site, & was the first person who’d got in touch with me for several months that I wanted to meet. We’d arranged a drink in New York whilst I was in Lausanne, which I then promptly forgot.

Still, I’m glad that he reminded me on the day as we had a hilarious conversation, fuelled by rather too much Pinot Noir, and I actually lost track of time, so much so that I ended up dashing from our date at SHO Shaun Hergatt's bar at The Setai by Wall Street to Café Select on Lafayette to meet a charming & brilliant English architect friend of a friend for dinner. I arrived a shockingly rude 45minutes late. Fortunately he had a friend from London in tow, and managed to recognise me when I finally pitched (I didn’t have a clue what he looked like), and we ended up having a hilarious evening of beer, perfect rosti and god knows what else.

A group of girlfriends & I convened at Double Crown on the Bowery for dinner on Tuesday. I gave the restaurant a rave review for a US publication when it first opened but it’s gone steadily downhill since. Sometimes the food is good, but the service is execrable, which takes the shine off the whole experience. Notable ballsups have included a two course meal which took 2 ½ hours to be served and was cold when it did arrive last November, and the sloppy, graceless service and tasteless shredded green bean salad on Tuesday. The whole sorry affair was rounded off by this episode at the bar afterwards.

(I should add though that I still believe that Double Crown’s interior is one of the best in NY. The bar is great for drinks, as is its sister bar Madame Geneva next door. Just order carefully in the restaurant and maybe take a good book & a sense of humour for the longueurs in service.)

Wednesday had one of the few sunny interludes of the week, and was warm enough for Francoise & me to take to the roof deck at Soho House. I live two blocks away & there's wireless access, so we’ve decided that it will be our summer office, and, when it finally stops raining, will be found most days under the third umbrella from the left, by the pool, in our bikinis, with laptop (me) & sketchpad (F). Was also very pleased to bump into charming architect & friend from Monday on adjacent sun loungers.

Having spent a large part of the previous days dealing with the aftermath of the storage container flood, I spent Thursday & Friday writing like a fiend, and emerged, blinking, for al fresco drinks with JK on, yup, the roof at Soho House. I know this is getting repetitive, but it is lovely up there, the people watching is second to none, it’s practically next door to my apt, and they do a sublime chili cilantro margarita that knocks your socks off after a hard day. So much so that we ditched our smart dinner plans and retired to PopBurger for burgers & fries instead.

And that was my first week back in Manhattan.

The Last Supper

Ah. Shake Shack. Pretty high up on my last list of great New York eating places, this stand-alone, low key hut from restaurateur Danny Meyer (Union Square Cafe, Gramercy Tavern, The Modern), is situated in Madison Square Park & surrounded by skyscrapers.

All year round it serves burgers in greaseproof paper bags, hot dogs, trays of fries & ice cream sundaes in soda cups. And a Pooch-Ini, of course (vanilla ice-cream, peanut butter & dog biscuits). That's it. All immaculately sourced, perfectly composed in their simplicity and delicious beyond words.


So, of course, that's where I headed tonight in minus temperatures to order my last calorie-laden to-go bag of supper before I start my Lenten fast tomorrow.

The Shroom Burger is a deep fried and breaded portabello mushroom filled with an inch of molten muenster & cheddar cheeses, enclosed with tomato & lettuce in the freshest, softest griddled potato bun. (The first time I bit into one I thought I was getting a bog standard vegeburger. Upon hitting the crispy, mushroom-y, cheesy heaven I actually groaned aloud in pleasure.)

French fries are crinkle cut for extra fluffy insides & perfectly crispy exteriors. I may also have added the ludicrous Shack Attack to my order: dense frozen chocolate custard blended with Valhrona chocolate pieces, fudge chunks, truffle cookie dough and chocolate sprinkles. There are no words.

Lent: here I come in style.

The only drawback to Shake Shack is the wait outside for your hand-held order buzzer to start vibrating when your food is ready to go. In midwinter it takes about five minutes, plenty long enough to stop feeling your toes. In summer it takes so long (at least thirty minutes) to queue & to order that you are drenched in sweat by the time your food comes.
Shake Shack - with no queues. A sight so rare it had to be recorded.

(Click on images to enlarge)

Les grandes bouffes

I really don't feel particularly splendid today. I'm known for my dormouse habits, (head in teapot, tail wrapped around face) yet I just don't seem to be sleeping soundly right now, and I awake early too. I also feel somewhat bilious. This is not good. I had an Americano on Monday and, as I never drink coffee, I'm wondering if that has buggered up my system.

Then again, I have been living the life of Riley since last week. Friday my beautiful friend F was back in town (almost recovered after being precipitated down the stairs at The Mercer Kitchen), so six of us convened at Waverly for Champagne in the tiny, noisy bar before walking down to Bar Blanc for an exceptionally good meal. My risotto primavera was probably the best I have eaten anywhere. Certainly on a par with Neil Ferguson's at Allen & Delancey. The addition of a bright green spinach and cream puree made every mouthful taste like spring. I drank too much of a fantastic Pomerol, & we ended the evening drinking cocktails in Soho House until 2.30am

Saturday I headed to Beauty Bar on 14th to meet two old friends from the Condé Nast magazine I laboured on for five years back in London. I do like Beauty Bar, but a drinking spot whose USP is manicures whilst you drink and drying hoods above the seats was an odd choice for a Saturday night with boys in tow. Wonderful to see my friends though, although I had to leave to go to a party at a loft in Nolita, followed by bar hopping with sexy S in Soho. I walked home singing to myself from West Broadway in four inch heel black patent ankle boots. Christ, my feet hurt the next day.

Sunday has already been discussed, and last night I hopped on my bike down to Nolita to meet Sexy S at 24 Prince for a party to celebrate the restaurant's second birthday.

The restaurant is in the public eye right now as chef Nikki Cascone is competing on Bravo's Top Chef at the moment. I never, ever watch reality TV in the UK, but Top Chef has changed my viewing habits: talented & interesting chefs cooking amazing food. What's not to like? I was introduced to the absolutely charming Nikki (very pretty, tiny, wee in the flesh) and ate an outstanding salad of grapes & grated ricotta.

Then it was back on my bike to the West Village to Waverly again for supper with a recovered X, her sister & L&J. Lovely round table in the corner of the main room so we could people watch, and a close encounter on the way to the loos (so small they should be counted as a triumph of optimism over reality) with Salman Rushdie. On the way back to our table I spotted two plates of the off menu $90 mac and cheese being showered with grated truffle for a couple of over-entitled Euro types.

Not being in the market for $90 plates myself, I really wish they'd change the standard menu: there is only one vegetarian main course, a creamy curried quinoa risotto. It was very good first time around a year or so ago, but I can't face eating it over & over. Our lovely waiter took pity on me and produced some delicious off menu fat grilled porcini on spring onions with sea salt for my first course, so I could have the grilled vegetable salad for my main dish. All excellent and very healthy. Pud was a glass bowl of immaculate berries with a little porcelain jug of rosemary infused simple syrup. Clever.

We drank French Bulldogs at the bar, and then a bottle of Rioja with the meal, which meant I was sober enough by the end of the meal to bike home again. A vain attempt to ameliorate the fat-making effects of the meals I keep eating.

Over rated & Over there

Every time I return to London I feel completely food-ed out. Although I am a good cook (I'm writing a cookery book and am obsessed with food), I eat or take out from restauants, bars & cafés in Manhattan maybe eight or ten times a week as my apartment is just too small for entertaining.

Many Manhattan-ites (especially the single 30-something variety) are in the same boat, which seems extraordinary to Londoners who eat out maybe once or twice a week: with a two course meal with a single glass of wine for one at, for example, Pizza Express (an average upmarket-ish chain) costing approx £30/$60, it's just too prohibitive to eat out in good restaurants frequently unless you have a generous expense account.

So in London we eat an enormous amount of more inexpensive cuisines: Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Malaysian, Indian and more. For me it's not just a financial thing, it's a taste in part fuelled by the travelling I have done all over the world, both for pleasure and as a travel writer for a Sunday broadsheet and a major glossy travel mag.

These small, often family-run UK restaurants turn out extraordinarily good food, equal to the dishes you are served in resturants, hawker stalls, markets and street corners in Bangkok, Mumbai, Cochin, Hanoi, KL, Singapore and the rest. The Vietnamese restaurants on the Kingsland Road in Hackney, Indian in Southall...Chinese in the West End...

And goodness, I miss this in Manhattan where the food from these cultures is sub-par every single time. Greasy, soggy Chinese; Thai green papaya salad with no balance of flavour and shockingly, no chili; a Madras curry with no heat and no perfume; flaccid pad thai; Pho with overcooked noodles; dumplings with wrsppers seemingly made of shoe leather. I just do not understand why it is so, so, so bad, so inaccurate. All the spice and chili is stripped out of iconic dishes, leaving them as pale imitations of themselves. The only exception to this litany of execrable food is Mexican, which explains why I eat Mexican food maybe six times a week.