A Very Schuster Thanksgiving Special

(Sorry no photos, folks. When I get the scanner. I'll add Dave and Carlotta to the top of the post). 

I remember few Thanksgivings prior to 1989, and no, it's not the whisky. It's just that is the year that what has become our annual tradition truly took shape. It was my freshman term at NYU and it snowed. My two best pals, Allan (my future ex-husband) and Jason (my then pseudo boyfriend and now brother-once-removed) made the trek out to CT, where my family lived at the time. Our good friends Chris and John, as well as a couple of my father's graduate students (my dad is a chemistry professor) who had arrived earlier in the day also joined us, as did family friends Paul and Nesren Salkin and their son David, who is my age. Grandma Nina lived with us; Grandma Cele drove out from Long Island. I picked Allan, Jason, Chris and John up at the train station. They had all somehow met and sat together on the huge train, not realizing till halfway through the trip they were going to the same place, and were already joking together like they'd known each other forever. When we arrived at the house, ascending our long winding driveway, the lawn, the trees, the roof, the glow of the interior, were an idyllic New England early winter wonderland setting. Everyone caught their breath at the same moment.

Which is good, because my dad decided to greet everyone at the door by shoving our 18 year old, long, gray-haired cat, Mabel, belly-up in their faces. "Look. Smell her. Smell my cat. Doesn't she smell like talcum powder? Doesn't she smell like a baby?" WHAT? I was mortified. But just as I contemplated running for the hills, Jason nearly fell over laughing. "Smell my cat! Doesn't she smell like a baby, like talcum powder?" my dad repeated to everyone over and over, thrusting all six pounds of poor defenseless Mabel right under people's noses. My dad's student George said, "Dave. Only you would greet Amanda's new boyfriend at the door asking him to smell your pussy." And thus, 20 years later, Jason's love of my family is entrenched.

Then the meal, Mom's chestnut soup, the family recipe turkey, corn pudding and all the sides, my pumpkin pie with pecan brittle, everything all came together. Paul was horribly allergic to cats and asked that Mabel be kept out of the dining room while we ate. "Has the cat been removed?" He asked in a oddly James Bond villain manner. Throughout the evening we kept erupting in waves of laughter at any little thing, especially when my mother slapped her shoulder, which she does any time someone says something peculiar. Like, say, "My cat smells like talcum powder." The grandmothers just shook their heads and chuckled as they held court on their end. Our fun lasted well into the night when Chris sat at the piano (at the time he was the saloon talent at Windows on the World) and the boys and I stood around and sang Monty Python's "Lumber Jack Song." Then we went outside and made snow angels on the lawn and got into a snow ball fight. The next morning, Jason and Allan, who slept on the foldout couch in the office, were greeted by my dad knocking on the door, "Rise and shine, boys." And Allan let out a very audible fart on cue. 10 year relationship, people.

In years to come, we repeated various elements of that night. It was a revolving group of students, but Allan (now my boyfriend, still my future ex-husband), Jason (it would never have worked), Chris and John had become our regular crew. The cat was dead, but the Salkins decided to do things at home from then on. For some reason, for three consecutive years, we kept having little natural catastrophes that would always occur On. That. Day. One year the Koehler faucet in the kitchen broke and my mother declared a "state of E-German-cy" when we had to keep washing and schlepping everything to and from the downstairs utility sink. Another year my dad made a fire and forgot to open the flue, so the house filled with smoke. Jason said it gave the term "flame retardant" a whole new meaning. (Double shoulder slap). Each house in that town had its own well which was electrically pumped. Wouldn't ya know it, the next year, the pump went on the fritz and there was absolutely no running water for 3 days. We managed anyway, using a lot of jugged water and flushing toilets with pool water. No one stayed over.

While dinner was cooking, we would sit around the large living room by the fire (it was only that one time), drinking cocktails and grazing on snacks. We used to play games like "Dictionary" where we agree on a word no one knows and come up with our own definitions. My favorite was John's for "repoussage," which is of course what happens when someone is assaulted using a jar of French mustard.

My grandmothers both died within a few months of each other, between 2000 and 2001, which was also the year my marriage to Allan finally choked on its own vomit. But we managed to get the rest of the group together, plus a new cat. My dad provided the running gag of the evening as he tried to work out his new digital meat thermometer that kept chiming even though the turkey wasn't close to being done. And luckily for Bruce the cat, he doesn't smell anything like talcum powder. Though it was hard for me to ignore two of those empty places. A toast to you two great dames.

My parents finally sold the house in 2005 and permanently moved to a duplex in Manhattan. The first couple of years in that apartment, they had Korean neighbors who occupied the top two floors. My folks kept complaining that the doorbell would ring at all hours. In 2007, our friend Malvina said this van drove up to the apartment as she was leaving. She heard someone say, "Yep, this is the place," and then drove off. By Christmas Eve, the neighbors were all arrested in a prostitution bust. Yep, happy ending massage parlor right above my parents! When my dad greeted me at the door the next day, oh, how I wish I'd had a camera. The ideal Kodak moment, police tape emblazoned with "PROSTITUTION" covering the door leading upstairs. Their landlord was cleaning out the place. By Christmas night's end, the sidewalk was strewn with used mattresses, satin sheets and a lot of clocks.

This year it's nearly a whole new crew. John still joins us, but Chris has to go to Maryland to be with his ailing mother. Jason is spending the holiday with work friends but has already checked in. Malvina, a wonderful lady who gave up a cushy career to become a Bronx public school history teacher will be there. The new upstairs neighbors, Padma and Oskar, who are my age, (They're bankers. For real. Nary a satin sheet up there as far as we know) will be coming downstairs for the festivities. Over the years we got another John, my now ex-boyfriend. So we have gay John and English John. And get this, English John's other ex-girlfriend, Anastasia (we bonded) will be here visiting from Seattle, and her lovely 22 year old daughter Liza visiting from Moscow, and her friend Vanessa (no idea where she comes from) will all be present. English John has to work at the Harefield Road in Williamsburg and will be missed. Yes if I could, I'd draw you all a chart.

What am I thankful for this year? Well, it definitely was one of the worst ones of my life, have to say. But there is no way I'd come out of it OK without my crazy parents and all the love, support and patience they have shown me and the people around me. No way. No way at all.

WhiskyFest!

 

Just as Thanksgiving comes upon us every fourth Thursday of November, WhiskyFest, the triathlon of booze trade shows, open to both the trade and public, is the first Tuesday. I apologize in advance for lack of other images, as I was a tad, busy, as you will read.

Getting a ticket this year was a real nail-biter, seeing as my liquor peeps don't have as much to gain by my attendance as in years past when I was a spirits buyer. But one did thankfully come through, perhaps mostly due to my Patron Saint of Brown Spirits. Unfortunately, this was not a VIP ticket, which meant losing out on the first hour of the event, when all the high end drams are available to taste. The anchor was cast with my friends Stephanie and Leo at P.J. Clarke's (my first trip there, and I WILL be back!) for steak and fries right before the event. But once we arrived, I had to wave goodbye to my friends as I stood outside the ropes in the cattle pen, pathetically watching them enter the room like a Kindergartner abandoned by its parents on the first day. I vow next year to buy my own if no one gets me one in time.

I was furious to see that some people had gotten in at that time, only to take advantage of the outside bouffet table!! People, you could be tasting Trace Vintage Collection! Michter's 25 Year! Highland Park 30 Year! Dalmore King Alexander, Papy Van Winkle 23 Yr and countless other gems I am salivating to try and may not get to because they will be hidden from me in an hour. But no, you eat. Way to live up stereotype. You know who you are.

But my time finally did come. Registration. Wrist band. Let the bulls run!

What to drink first? So much build up, so much expectation. I was immediately greeted by my pal Dan Fisher, who had just purchased a VIP dram of Highland Park 1964 and was generous enough to offer a sip. A beautiful way to start. My favorite scotch flavors: a little briny, sea-salty, kelpy, then dark chocolate and yeast. Chocolate covered pretzels with smoke. Love at first sip. Next, my new tasting buddy, Rob (via Twitterati) and I headed to the Heaven Hill table. Met the man, Parker Beam again, he seemed to remember me, unless he was just being polite, which I'll take. I shook his weathered hand and was given a glass of the new Parker's Heritage release. Sharp pie spices, brown sugar, tempered by nuts and sherry. Gets better by the year, I say. Rob had the Evan Williams 2000, which I decided was the dram of the night. Yeasty, a bit like a sweet mash, cinnamon buns, balanced by salt and leather. Mmmmm. We then met up with Stephanie and off to Wild Turkey! Managed to elbow our way in and try the last drops of Tradition, which was also glorious. Pecan brittle, but not too sweet or syrupy, heather and hay.

From there it starts to get fuzzy. I know we made it to Michter's, where my pal Kenny informed me he had been holding a taste of the 25 Yr for me, but couldn't find me and let it go!!! Quel disappointment! Yep, gotta be a VIP next year. The Dalmore table yielded a taste of the King Alexander from Jura distiller Willie Tait. Gloriously mellow, but flavorful, nutty and deep. The 15 Year was pretty awesome too. I could spot my friend Dave, an excited, curious first timer who bought his ticket early on my suggestion. He weaved toward me and said, "You didn't warn me about the pacing!" He luckily had a couple more tastes in him and I steered him toward Andrew Gray of Bruichladdich (pronounced "Brook-lahddy") to taste some of the new finishes, and made sure he went to Wild Turkey. A very quick visit to the Maker's table, with John Henry making cocktails. I got a Mark and Stormy. Nice idea. But I needed this like Liberace needs a sequin.

It was time for Pappy. Pappy, ohhhh, my Pappy! Hello to Julian and right to the 20 Year. But hold on, Dave from Buffalo Trace is here. Would I like to taste the Vintage Collection I missed during VIP hour? Does the Pope shit in the woods? Ok, give me your glass. With half a dram of Pappy 20 left in it. Dave dives under the table. I take a long sip, tip the glass over the bucket, closed my eyes and let go. The shame. Where did my life take a turn that I dump a precious Pappy 20 to taste something else? But my palate and what was left of my sobriety thanked me. Rare, wheated William La Rue Weller softly kissed my throat and hot, tangy Sazerac 18 Year rye jolted me back. Oh yes.

My favorite moment of the night, among many, I spot Macallan master distiller John Ramsey, whom I had just met for the first time the day before at a special tasting at Astor. Wave hello and he warmly greets me and says my name without anyone prompting him! 

The room is steaming, no air anywhere, but we keep going. A quick bite at the bouffet and suddenly it's 9:30. Last call! Scrambling for a final dram, I want to end on a high, sweet note. Highland Park is in its dregs and brand ambassador Martin is elsewhere. Glenrothes already packing up. Yamazaki too crowded. But score back at Heaven Hill! My own pour of Evan Williams 2000. As good as the beginning. A righteous way to end. A final gathering of various Twitter folks and friends. So good to meet you. So good to see you again. Lynnette with her Irish handcuffs, holding two early birthday drams in each fist. Most of us are surprisingly in command of our faculties. Maybe it was the steak. The descent down the escalator and in minutes Steph and I are back on the C train to Brooklyn. Another year gone by. My sticky souvenir glass for 2009 will be washed tomorrow, joining 2007 and 8 in my cabinet like long lost family. Thank you John Hansell and Malt Advocate for just being you.

Crap! Forgot to taste the Jefferson's Reserve!

Where the Month Went

I have been remiss.

Well, I have been busy.

Instead of my usual essay on a single topic, I present to you the entire month of October in a nutshell.

Patti Kelly's stained glass studio. I'm working here two days a week now. Patti is a friend of friends who has had her own studio in the East Village since the late 80s. She recently took on a big project to restore 20 windows for a church in New Jersey. "Restore" means that the windows from the 1960s, which were badly put together in the first place, need new support bars, new frames, new lead phlanges to hold the glass in, which involves soldering, some glass replacement and a lot of puttying and polishing. The windows come four to a box, which weigh upwards of 300lbs, and the windows themselves buckle and sway when they are handled and the glass makes scary, pingy-cracking sounds. Very nerve-wracking when that time comes, and it takes at least 3 of us to flip them over. When they are re-boxed, there's a lot of carpentry involved creating holes in the wood with power drills and saws so the boxes can be handled, and then drilling the pieces together. It's a lot of hard, physical labor and hours on the feet, (at the end of it and for days after my arms feel like dislocated noodles and the bottoms of my feet burn) but I'm loving it. My bod is getting buff too! Patti is very cool-headed and snarky, and our cast of team members - local artists and barflies - are so much fun to be around. Through them, I am learning all about the neighbors, the cops, the worst odd jobs ever, the best parts of human nature, how to swear in Italian and where to get the best sandwiches in Alphabet City. None of us on this church project is a believer. We are sooooo getting smote upside our heads! But if not, we are all planning a field trip to Jersey to see our hard work in place at the end of December. That's me with power tools working on the window boxes. Groovy! Fall colors unintentional, yet timely.

Food Writing class at Media Bistro taught by Andrea Strong. Though in the course of 8 weeks we are only responsible for two articles and two pitch letters, somehow, this seems to suck a lot of my concentration, but in a good way. There are ten of us, all girls (there used to be a boy, Peter, a chef, but he hasn't shown up the past two weeks. I think he felt overwhelmed by the estrogen-charged attention, poor guy). Usually in a class that size there is always "That Person" you don't like (you know the one). But I am happy to report we all really get along and genuinely enjoy hanging out. We read out writings out loud, but we also spend a lot of time just gabbing and giggling, as a group of gals with common interests will do. We are of diverse backgrounds, but we all love food. It is the ultimate bonding agent.  Andrea is super cool too. So glad I decided to do this. I'm learning a lot.

Last week I got to go to a taping of the Daily Show! If I was attracted to Jon Stewart before, I am now officially smitten. So worth standing out in the rain for. It was a total blast.

Tried out Henry Public. Met a cute guy. Who called me immediately and did a lot of enthusiastic texting. Then bailed out of our date when the weather was crappy and hasn't returned my subsequent texts. All I did was mention when I next had a free night, nothing beyond that, nothing stalker-iffic. Sigh. It was indeed too good to be true. But I still like the bar, the cocktails and look forward to tasting their turkey leg sandwich. Maybe he'll show up again. If my life had a soundtrack, this would have been "Da Doo Run Run" followed by the Smith's "Never Had No One Ever." Or maybe just the sound of the trumpet, "Wha Wha Whaaaaaaaa..."

Still looking for work. Joy. More too good to be true scenarios. What's that trumpet call again?

Revisited Saul with my parents and experienced wonderfully-prepared dishes and fantastic service. And ate my first baked Alaska in like 15 years! Hadn't been back there since my 29th birthday. I'm not doing the math for you.

And finally, my uncle, whom I love dearly, has been very sick. It's been an unsteady battle that experiences the occasional cease fire, but doesn't end. We have become close over the years and it's been pretty nerve-wracking. I can only hope this ends up OK.

MCC

Here's my only photo from the Manhattan Cocktail Classic. Blind tasting of 4 cognacs and armagnacs during a class moderated by Da Man of the Spirits Journal, F. Paul Paccult, with cocktails by Clover Club and Flat Iron Lounge's Julie Reiner and sexy spirit slinger Charlotte Voisey!

I need a new camera. The iPhone just isn't cutting it for these events and my 5 year old Nikon is too clunky to travel and has weird, useless settings. Now that my computer might have been saved, I think I need to invest in a Cannon Sureshot. Anyone know where this never-retail-paying Jew can get a good deal on one? Please comment and let me know.

Great weekend. Sarah, my close friend since we were 11, came to visit and participated in some of the MCC events with me. It was great to get an outsider's perspective about the industry and just wind her up and watch her go. She didn't know who any of these people were, or who represented what spirits or what the politics of the cocktail bars were about. For her, it was just delicious drinks. By Sunday afternoon she was getting her cocktails directly from Jim Meehan and Guiseppe Gonzalez at the bar, charming them with her high pitched giggle and enthusiasm, and just having a great time. As it should be.

I also got to meet some of you fellow Tweeters! May you lush long and prosper, great to put a face with a chirp, ladies. 

On Sunday, still buzzed from the afternoon, (I went to Wondrich's class on the History of the Cocktail in NYC and then stayed at the bar way too long), Sarah and I met our friend Jason at Po, stupidly drank a bottle of wine with our pastas and fish and went to Clover Club as the rest of the cocktailians attended the gala. I almost had free tickets, but alas.

So we drank at Clover and nearly spent as much on drinks as on a gala tickets. Brilliant. And let me tell you, if any of you catch me asking a bartender for "...the liquor equivalent of an amuse bouche... for the road..." Please make me go home. Please.

October, It's the Tenth Month!

Sorry posting has been so sporadic this month. Been lots going on.

I'm taking a food writing class at Media Bistro, taught by Andrea Strong, of the Strong Buzz. In it, we are writing two food articles and two pitch letters, in hopes that these actual articles will be published in actual publications! Seems like a good move in the right direction, yes? A lot of energy and time and been put into this so far, hence less writing on the side.

The other fun hilarious news is that my laptop has been acting up. It's a Mac iBook, three years old. And running great until I spilled water on it over the summer. Like half a glass. And here I am reacting, furiously trying to dry the keyboard and underneath, without thinking to maybe turn the MACHINE off so it doesn't fry. Then I watched in horror as the screen image literally just slid off and went black. I think there might have been a quick flash of two x's for eyes and a bottle of poison with a skull label, but not sure. Then, because clearly the women's daily multivitamin I've been taking was laced with a 500mg of Idiot and 750mg of Technological Helplessness supplements, I called Apple Care in a panic to see what could be done.

Big no no. Apparently, as nice as they are on the phone with the, "It's going to be OK. Let's just get you into an Apple Store and take a look. No really, you'll be fine." It's so not fine. As cute as they sound over the phone, with the flirting and the helpful calm assurances, once they know you've gotten your machine wet, basically, all your Apple Care is negated. In reality, the flirtatious geek on the other end is a vengeful enfant terrible who knows you need his expertise and gets paid to make you need it and that extra $200 (cost may vary) you spent useless. They wear headsets just so they have their hands free to rub them together premeditatively as they speak. Apple doesn't cover water now because all those people who bring their laptops to coffee shops have had too many liquid-related "accidents" (as well as the countless times other people have most likely dumped stuff on their computers on purpose for snarky comments and bad tipping). And they flag your account in case you try to bring it in for maintenance down the road, if it lives.

Well, somehow, my trusty iBook awoke from the spill and was working fine. But I was warned that since they wouldn't open it up to check, could be some water still inside that will eventually rot and fry the machinery. So it could be fine one day, and not be fine another, with no guarantee of time or extent of damage. In the meantime, back everything up like an Oxycotin addict.

That day started to come last month. It basically regressed, but way faster and more entertaining than Benjamin Button. First it had trouble waking up, then sometimes it got cranky and didn't want to stay awake or perform on command and crash in the middle of activity, sometimes it forgot passwords and couldn't sleep properly, I think it actually tried to shoo me off the keyboard and shake its mouse at me, then one day it simply wouldn't start at all.

Luckily, my friend Max, bless him, knows A LOT about Macs. Max for Macs. So like the uber-sweetie he is, dropped everything two days this week. Unsuccessful first attempt first day, was here all day yesterday uninstalling and reinstalling everything. Plus, bonus, gave me Snow Leopard! She's running like a champ now. Bless you, Max, the Mac Whisperer.

But she could still die any second. I'm basically operating under the assumption I need to plan on about a $1000 addition to my debt in the near future. I'm not a praying gal, but let's see if I can finally catch some breaks this fall. Maybe I could just pay that outright. It's about damn time.

Gratuitous Cookies

It's often common practice that at the end of a big meal at an upscale dining establishment, diners are usually offered some sort of last bite, the "wafer thin mint" moment, or what my mother refers to as "gratuitous cookies." I have had the outstanding privilege in the past year to sample some of the best selections in the city, and decided to rate them. So here ya go. Whether you're a total cheapskate out for a free dessert course or just can't say no to one more bite even after you've just gorged on chocolate financier with peanut butter creme and currant gelee, the best spots (I've been to) in New York City for a complimentary after dinner cookie. I'm sorry I don't have more photos. In these cases, our stomachs were bigger than our eyes:

Telepan, 72 W. 69th St.: It was my mother's birthday, a late weekday night, and we were the last diners in the joint, after completing three out of four nicely portioned, seasonal courses. Our rather patient waitress served this big plate, with our dessert course (these things usually come after), with "Happy Birthday" written in chocolate on the rim, upon which sat six, cute little freshly baked, old school, round cookies of different flavors. Nothing fancy, but a nice touch. They were perfect little goodies balanced between chewy and crunchy. However, I wonder if we would have gotten it at all had they not known it was a special occasion? In addition, we were each sent home with individually wrapped packages containing a single wee coconut macaroon. An odd choice given that most of the population hates coconut, and it's pretty tiny, even by macaroon standards. Makes me wonder why they didn't just serve it on a plate and let people choose instead of going through the environment killing trouble of plastic pouches? But I happen to love coconut and had it next day. Didn't suck. Rating: 3 stars (depending on whether you can score those cookies on an average night), 1 star (if all you really ever get is the macaroon).

Aureole (new location!) One Bryant Park, 135 W. 42nd St.: After a spectacular meal enjoyed during the restaurant's "soft opening" in August (do NOT get me started on that new hideous, overlit industrial bar area, but the back dining room is quiet and discreet), we were presented with a choice of homemade truffles with great flavors like caramel sea salt, dark chocolate pistachio and chocolate delicately spiked with hot chili. The meal had been amazing and my stomach was just on the threshold of its toe curling moment when, once our tea and coffee arrived, we ALSO had several choices of homemade melt-in-your-mouth meringue sandwiches with a fun variety of tastes. Black sesame, popcorn, peanut butter plus various fruits and chocolate, sized in perfect little bites. Rating: 4 stars.

Redhead, 349 E. 13th St.: It was a busy, rainy, Friday night and somehow John and I managed to snag two seats at the bar in the nick of time. Normally this is not the sort of place one expects gratuitous cookies, given the rustic atmosphere and already value-driven menu and rich desserts on offer. Not to mention the ever popular bacon brittle they sell in jars (my friend Jason once said Wilbur from Charlotte's Web is probably the only person he knows who doesn't like bacon). But Southern hospitality being what it is, we were pleasantly surprised to receive individually wrapped dark chocolate and sea salt cookies at the end of our comfort food meal to take home. And since we ate early and had a long night of dive bar drinking, that salty, sweet chewy-crunchy goodness came in real handy by the end of the night. Shareable size too. If you swing that way. This perfect and unexpected package gets 4 stars.

Portherhouse, 10 Columbus Circle: Just what you need after a massive steak, creamed spinach with thick cut bacon bits, onion rings and potatoes, not to mention whatever rich thing you had to start with and all the bread and then after THAT, a slice of cheesecake larger than Glen Beck's head. Right now, what you need is a massive assortment of baked goods. Not just cookies here. Oh no. You get brownies, blondies, marble cheesecake brownies, chocolate chip, plain sugar, peanut butter, basically, if your mother hid it from you as a child, it's all served on a giant plate here like you're starring in some sweet tooth comfort food fantasy sequence. What's really cool is they give you boxes to wrap it all up in to take home. I actually had enough to serve to unknowing guests next day for tea time! Rating: 5 stars.

Eleven Madison Park, 11 Madison Ave.: As if this meal can't get any better after the dessert course that comes with the already gorgeously prepared and presented prefixe, the one that started with not one but three amuse bouche and hors d'oervres samplings plus two kinds of butter for the bread, you get the Rolls Royce of gratuitous cookie offerings. Instead of a tray or two of goodies to select from, each diner is presented with their own rectangular plate of artfully presented truffles, petit fours and bite-sized cookies so no one has to fight over any particular kind. In addition, they give you an individually wrapped madeleine to take home. AND, here is what pushed me delightfully over the edge, they set down a bottle of good Calvados to help yourself from and glasses! They give you a gratuitous all you can drink nightcap! I'm working on a 5 star rating system here, but Eleven Mad goes to 11. You guys rock.

The Mermaid Inn, 96 Second Ave.: Last but not least, I have to include these guys. In a way, this listing doesn't count as all the others serve dessert from their menus and then bring these items in addition to what is expected. But the Mermaid Inn does not have a real dessert offering. So instead, at the end of the meal, they present each guest with a cup of dark chocolate pudding (I assume it's homemade) and a little wrapped plastic novelty fortune teller. This thin little fish sits in your palm and depending on which way it curls or doesn't, supposedly this tells you what kind of lover you are. (I'm not sharing). (Actually, I don't remember what it said). Pretty cute and something to look forward to each visit. Rating: 4 stars.

If anyone else has other gratuitous cookie memories, please feel free to share them! I'm compiling a master list. Would love some entries from the boroughs too, but so far haven't come across anything, despite some meals in Brooklyn and Queens otherwise down for the record books.

Summer 2009: the Season That Killed

Fall can't possibly come soon enough for me this year.

Not only is summer my least favorite season, and this year, it is certainly going out like a lion with days upon end of still air and lethargy, but this one keeps killing good things.

First there were the big celebrity deaths that just kept coming. The phrase "The End of An Era" has been proclaimed something like six times this summer, and deservedly so.

But what was far worse about this summer, was the impact of the economy on the city, and the loss of three of its best restaurants.

In June, we lost both Jarnac and Alfama. Just last night we lost Elettaria.

Jarnac was the personification of comfort and coziness. Nestled (I use that word sparingly) on the corner of W. 12th St. and Greenwich St., it had a small dining area with pretty windows and quaint fixtures, and a menu comprised mostly of Southern French classics with a slight Southern American spin. It felt like dining at a French Provencal "boite," not like being squeezed into a noisy den of fabulousness. The food was rich, flavorful and soothing. The British owner, Tony, is like meeting Basil Fawlty's charming nephew. Instead of being anxious and cranky, he is good humored, gracious and attentive. Yet there is something wonderfully sarcastic underlying each compliment. For instance, if you arrived late: "Oh thank goodness you're here. We couldn't possibly start our entire dining service without knowing you were safe!" he'd say with a wink. I was first introduced to Jarnac via Sunday brunch and was so torn between corned beef hash, duck mole tamales with poached eggs, a wonderful savory french toast toast concoction that was called something like "egg on a brick" or fluffy french toast and bacon. Luckily we were in a big group and ordered everything; I could taste it all (but definitely had duck envy). Our coffees and mimosas were bottomless. We ate and drank like our stomachs and livers were too. The waiter was funny and conscientious. They also had a well-chosen, eclectic wine list that was half off on Sundays.

I finally started coming for dinner only this year at New Year's. Considering what a chaotic night that can be, Tony gentlemanly as always. Our waitress was calm and sweet. The prix fixe menu had tons of delicious options like salads of seasonal veggies and cheeses, soups and charcuterie. Entrees were a fabulous cassoulet (perfect for that icy night), venison and chicken roasts, braised fishes and pasta. Desserts were big and festive, bread pudding (but not dense), chocolate terrine, tarts. The champagne kept flowing. Daniel Radcliffe was at a nearby table entertaining a couple of babes. Helium balloons hanging everywhere. We all had noisemakers and mardi gras beads. Just after midnight, Tony and the staff went outside to let a bunch go, as was their tradition, and the balloons immediately got stuck in a nearby tree. The corpses of those dead balloons were still hanging up in that tree in mid June when we had our final meal on my birthday. They promise to re-open in some manifestation, but no word yet as to when and how.

Alfama was a Portuguese restaurant on the corner of Hudson and Perry Streets. It prided itself on being a mix of tradition and new world flair and succeeded beautifully. My first visit was on a Wednesday night with a few friends. What we didn't know when we first decided to go that night that Wednesdays were for fado, the traditional story-telling Portuguese singing, accompanied usually by a single, loud guitar. It is considered very rude to speak through a fado performance, so this made our usually convivial a little awkward. But the food was so good it didn't matter, and they took breaks often to let diners chat. We had port-soaked chourico cooked ourselves over a flame, baked clams with more chourico, pork and duck meatballs with ginger dipping sauce (a nod to the island of Macao), bacalao with cod and shredded potatoes, shrimp and other roast fishes. We had mine and John's favorite Portuguese wine, Casa de Santar, and a round of ports from their extensive menu of vintages, rubies and tawnies. John was especially impressed they carried a variety of white ports, which he had only seen in Portugal. We ordered a dessert of molten hazelnut chocolate cake with rum ice cream, which we devoured in seconds. It was so fantastic, the four of us ordered another one despite the wait, and gladly consumed another round of ports.

It wasn't till a couple of years later that a new group of friends who coincidentally were also avid patrons of the place, introduced us to the co-owner Tarcisio, who besides having a knack for hospitality, is an accomplished cocktail maven. New to the menu were a list of inventive cocktails using Portuguese spirits such as licor beirao, which he used in a drink he called "Calhambeque," which is Portuguese for "Jalopy," aka, a Sidecar! He was also starting to incorporate new ideas into the cooking. My new favorite dish was a slab of high quality filet mignon which had been marinated in garlic, brought to the table raw on a hot stone slab. So you cooked it yourself and then dipped it into sauces, accompanied by fingerling potatoes and greens. Simple and amazing. To date my favorite steak ever in the city. After this initial dinner with the new mischpucha, we formed what we called the Alfama Rectangular Table, and returned quarterly on a Monday night, with a revolving group of good friends old and new. But sadly, Alfama too too lost its lease due to a greedy landlord, and closed the same late June day as Jarnac. Again, with promises of a new beginning, but still no word as to when and how.

Then the unexpected shock of Elettaria's sudden close just yesterday! In its original inception, it seemed like it was here to stay. My friend John Isom, who I used to work with at Astor, was the beverage guru. Another Astor alum, Jessica Tantillo, was brought by chef Akhtar Nahwab from EU as his sous-chef, and Noel Cruz was the warm, hospitable co-owner and manager. The concept, (the name means the genus of the cardamom seed) was gourmet classics infused with spice and bold flavors without over-complication. My two favorite things were the revolving fresh scallop dish, which changed seasonally, and usually involved some sort of yummy pork ingredient and caramelized onions, served over greens. And the heavenly donuts, with sweet Indian spices, a fragrant, light syrup, and cardamom ice cream. It was something I proclaimed the first time I ate it (and immediately ordered seconds with my friend Ruth), that I wanted served to me on my deathbed.

The cocktails were clever riffs on pre-Prohibition classics, using high quality spirits and fresh ingredients and the wine list was well-chosen to match the food, affordable and playful. Diners sat right in front of the open kitchen, where we used to wave to Jessica before she sadly had to move back to Texas a few months ago. The bar was comfortable and social. The people behind it were constantly coming up with new ideas to keep it fresh, including a fantastic Violet Hour cocktail time every night, with great bar snacks. People I brought there always had fun. My only complaint was that it was so easy to get utterly schnoggered at the bar since you wanted to order everything, and the trip to the restroom required a a concentrated poise as you tried not to wipe out on the hardwood floor while walking the gauntlet across the crowded dining room, a right at the open kitchen, and down the stairs. I usually remembered to wear shoes with good traction. I couldn't bring myself to take part in its final night last night. Just too sad to see this happen to such a talented and gracious staff, but I heard it was fun. Good on you for going out in style, Elettaria!

Again, rumor has it, another greedy landlord situation. More promise of a new incarnation. Another culinary heartbreak. If it could, my stomach would dim its lights for you three. You will be dearly missed.