Summertime – a season truly carefree in character – has ended.

The 90 degree days have faded fast and I have started to feel those fall winds begin to blow. My strappy sandals are quickly replaced by my newly bought boots. Gone are the days of sweltering city walks, dips in my parents pool and trips to the beach – both Long and Brighton.

As the mercury hits the high 50′s for the first time, I turn off my overworked air conditioner and open the window by my bedside, allowing the cool courtyard breeze to enter.  I look longingly at my unused fireplace and survey my cabinets for soups, stews – and pastas too. With fettucini in my future, saying goodbye to Summer is suddenly less stressful.

Pasta – the ultimate Italian comfort food – has found its way into my Fall fantasies. But my kitchen survey reveals sad results: one half-full, half-eaten box of De Cecco brand Rigatoni no. 24. My pantry is paltry. My dried, boxed, decade-old pasta leaves me disappointed.

In my quest for perfect pasta, I spent last Thursday learning the art of making and molding fresh pasta at Centro Vinoteca.

It is Noon on Thursday and as I stand on the stoop of my Cornelia Street apartment I can hear the church chimes beckon me towards my next assignment. As the first fall breeze blows, I quickly cross over the cold and congested 7th Avenue to the calm and quiet streets on the other side. Our Lady Of Pompei rings her last bell, and just in time, I arrive at the sleek and stylish restaurant at 74 7th Avenue South.

The alluring entryway - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I round the red brick corner and arrive at the open doorway – the cool, calm, strikingly clean interior draws me inside. The inventively shaped corner building and movie theatre marquis above the front door inform me that I am in store for a show unlike any other. Centro is stylish, swanky and smooth – as are the two brothers at its helm – Enver and Rizo.

Bar stools begging for attention - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Liquid eye candy - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Everything is bright and white as the light floods in through the floor to ceiling window panes. Each curve and bend of the oddly shaped bar begs you to join her for a drink. The aromas from open kitchen tease, tempt and toy with you as they urge you order something more. The colorful chalkboard menu demands that you dabble in the dolci of the day: Fresh Ricotta Cheese Cake with Slow Cooked Apricots & Mint. The only thing that would make that dessert more delectable is if Enver or Rizo would deliver it to you.

Tempted? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Tempted again? Enver and his wines - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

In here, it’s comfortable but cool. In here it’s classy but casual. In here it’s airy and open and always inviting. In here, it’s almost always summertime. And brothers-in-charge Enver and Rizo would be your ideal beach companions.

The other half of the brothers Boljevic - Rizo

As quickly as I arrive I am shuttled to the lower level to begin my pasta prep.

The prep kitchen is as clean as my apartment – only after my parents arrive for a visit. Shiny equipment, stainless steel pasta dough mixers, and enthusiasic workers fill the space. But those cool afternoon winds never wind their way down here. Busy workers and boiling bowls of red sauce raise the temperature by 15 degrees. My only escape is the refreshingly cold but painfully brief breeze I feel from the oft opened freezer door. Despite the heat, I attempt to explore the endless possibilities presented by pasta – which starts so simply with eggs, flour and salt but becomes so much more.

An intense environment for our pasta prep - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I meet Humberto – affectionately know as the pasta  guy – and he talks me through the series of shapes we are about the prepare – six in all. I love the idea that by simply changing the shape of the pasta – the tabletop is transformed. Cavatelli cups its sauces. Papardelle playfully dances with its braised lamb. Ravioli wraps around its ricotta. Same ingredients – yet such dissimilar results. But I am suddenly humbled by Humberto. My formative pasta years involved a battle between Ronzoni brand Spaghetti versus Ronzoni brand thin Spaghetti. There was little diversity in our dishes and I have so much to learn from my new friend.

My pasta guy, Humberto - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Humberto explains the seemingly simple steps and the types of pasta we need to prepare for tonight’s menu. There are so many that my mind is racing and I am ready to run home to grab that box of dried pasta from my shelf and dump it into a bucket of boiling water. But I wait, and make an attempt to learn these lessons – with Humberto and his 3 years of pasta prep hovering over me all along the way.

I lay one thin sheet of pasta dough atop my new favorite tool – the italian ravioli maker. The pasta is so thin – so delicate – I can see my fingers clear through the other side and fear I might tear it if I tug too much. Humberto assures me my sheer strength won’t damage this delicacy. I brush the pasta with a light coating of egg mixture and dot each chamber with a concoction of cream, chives and shrimp. I place one pasta sheet on top to cover my creation and our ravioli is mere moments away from being born.

We pinch and seal each side and roll the fluted pastry wheel (also know as a ravioli cutter) along the edges and between each piece. My unsteady hand seems to snag the ravioli ending in an uneven and imperfect pocket. Humberto corrects my work and guides my hand along the way. Making pasta is a delicate dance – a tender twist as I try not to tear or tug the soft sheets of dough. At the end one of session – we have only 12 raviolis to speak of. We’ll need many more if this dish is on the menu tonight. I’m losing hope in my pasta prep but Humberto and I continue to work side by side and make some more. Each little pocket is looking better than the one before: the filling is just right, the sides are sealed tight and the perferations are now perfect.

Early lessons - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Ravioli rules - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A dab of egg - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Careful not to tear - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Shaky hands - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Sealing the sides - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

The word Ravioli is said to have originated from the word Rabiole – meaning things of little value or left-overs. On long journeys by ship, sailors – not wanting to be wasteful – collected and chopped up all the left-overs (the rabiole) from their meals. They stuffed those leftovers into little envelopes of pasta dough.

I, too, have found myself feeling much like the ravioli I have just crafted. On my best days I feel firm and presentable on the outside. And on the inside – and on my worst days – I have felt glimpses that are reminiscent of that ravioli: that I have little value or that I have been passed- or left-over. Chalk it up to those unpopular junior high school years. Or maybe it was that moment, when one year ago I sat down across from my live-in boyfriend of two years and by the end of the evening I was not only short the $25 dollars for the cost of the meal, but I had to subtract one boyfriend and one apartment from that scenario. Homeless, aside from my sisters couch, I started to feel a bit like those ravioli of yesteryear.

Ravioli, however, has come a long way. Gone are the days of leftovers encased between two thin sheets of  pasta dough. No longer are they filled with things of little value. Now their inner workings are so precious and filled with such worthwhile ingredients – think: shrimp, chives and cream at Centro Vinoteca – that our main task (Humberto’s and mine) as it relates to ravioli is to be sure that those insides don’t escape their safe shell and find themselves floating around a hot pot of boiling water. After we fill the ravioli we press the edges to ensure they are sealed. We press. And we seal. And we press again. This small task is life or death for our dish. And we learn that even though something starts out being undervalued or looked over, the world eventually comes around to getting it right. We are no longer in high school and gone are the days of that disasterous Greek meal on Amsterdam Avenue. Our ravioli is sealed with goodness inside. No shrimp will dare swim away. And your tastebuds will be the better for it.

Humberto and I continue with Cavatelli. We slice our pasta dough into a long sections about 1/3 of an inch thick. After a quick lesson, I begin to roll the dough gently through the italian imported cavetelli maker and spin out a series of shapes that are ripe and ready to be joined with broccoli rabe. This task is remarkably easier than the one before. And while cavatelli is traditionally made by hand (think southern italian or sicilian grandmother cooking in her home kitchen) I have a newfound appreciation for the tools of the trade.

The Cavetelli connection - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Perfect little pieces - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Humberto's hands - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

The word Cavatelli is derived from the Latin word cavum. Cavatelli means a hollow or cave; a hole, a cavity or a depression.

In my hometown of Hampton Bays the day after Labor Day was referred to as Tumbleweed Tuesday. It was always a sad day. A sense of loss prevailed – a loss of the freedoms that summer afforded us. Summer has indeed ended and a palpable shift has take place – here in NYC and in Hampton Bays too. And with its passing I am left with an empty space, a deep void — a cavum. But within that loss there is now a space for something more to enter in. In that cave – that hole, that depression – enters something new: new friends, new classes, new goals and a new space and clean state to begin again. In that space of our cavatelli – in that soft and subtle void of our pasta shape – there is space for sauces: for pestos, for browned sage butter and for bolognese too. I am beginning to rethink the very definition of depression.

With ravioli and cavatelli completed, we move on to long strands of papardelle and pici, to roasted mushroom stuffed cappellacci and spin out some beautiful black tagliatelle.

Cappellacci class - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

The tricks of the trade - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A perfect little hat - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Strands of pici pasta - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Papardelle means: To gobble up - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

The final task: Black Tagliatelle - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

My arms are getting tired and my fingers are freezing up from all this pressing and pushing and molding and manipulating of these pasta shapes. I will never look at a plate of pasta without imagining the hours of labor involved. I run upstairs to take a breather. On my way, I hesitate for just a moment and stand in awe of the hundreds of bottles of wine that line the walls – all Italian and from regions of Italy I have yet to discover. I imagine a warm red would be the perfect pairing for the pasta I have just prepared. I must admit my wine knowledge is a little lacking and standing there with these bottles towering over me, wondering what I would choose  - my confidence is shaken and my knees are feeling weak.

The wall of wine - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Enver leans in close and whispers wine to me. He enthusiastically explains how he chooses his wines from lesser know regions, like le marche, based on its agricultural advantages. Speaking of advantages, Enver is an expert with his wines and you’d be remiss to not mark your calendar and schedule your own private tutoring session.

The underrated regions - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Enver enthusiastically explains - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

And if there is anything to get you out of your cavatelli cavum, your depression – it’s brothers Enver and Rizo, a seat at the bar and a glass of my favorite – and house favorite – bubbly: prosecco di valdobbiadene, terra serena.

After my lesson in libations, I turned my attention to Greg Pollio for the final phase of my cooking class. Greg, the former student of ornithology (think birds) and herpetology (think reptiles) turned Sous Chef, guides me as I plate my well-made papardelle. Greg’s study of the sciences makes him a master in the kitchen as he teaches me about the subtleties surrounding pasta shapes and their contrasting cooking times. My pasta hits the hot water and hovers there for mere moments. All the while I am sauteeing Greg’s braised lamb bolognese and seasoning it with white wine and mint while my pasta cooks for what seems like a split second. Before I plate the papardelle I stop and perform my most important task: The taste test. I bring the sauce straight from saute pan to the spoon and into my mouth before it ever reaches the dish. There is nothing quite like that first forbidden kitchen bite – and the assurance that you did everything just right. Greg’s bright eyes, even brighter smile and his easy and natural way around the kitchen make you want to take him home along with your leftovers. If you visit Centro Vinoteca I’m sure you’ll agree that Greg only adds to the atmosphere inside. And I’m doubly sure you’ll understand the sentiment: Thank you open kitchen.

Watching and learning with Greg - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Did you run to make your reservation? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Prepping the Papardelle - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

So it doesn't stick - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

The taste test - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Spinning and swirling - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

When I left Centro Vinoteca I noticed a few leaves had fallen and the winds began to pick up and swirl around the sidewalks. I held a sense of renewal in my heart and a flutter inside for what might be to come. With these fall winds beginning to blow and the new year upon us, I have started to feel far away from any resemblance to those left-over filled ravioli. I’m not sure if it was the change of seasons, or the bright and futuristic chandeliers floating overhead at Centro Vinoteca or the smiles on the faces of Enver and Rizo and the regulars than dine there, but now I am feeling much more like the one pasta I didn’t even prep: farfalle, and its literal translation: butterflies.

Proud plating - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I’m hungry and I’m bored.

A devilish combination.

I’m hungry and I’m home and I’m not quite sure what I want. But then again, I’m never quite sure what I want – and that feeling doesn’t simply stop with my summertime snacks.

What do I want out of my life, my career, my next relationship and most important, what do I want for lunch? The latter being the more easily solved.

Questions so challenging I’ve taken to trying technological tricks and tactics as a fast fix. Technology has, seemingly, become my ally in my quick quest for everything from companionship to couscous.

It’s gotten bad. To choose my meals I’ve been using the Wheel of Lunch to sort through the possibilities and narrow the field. For dating I’ve resigned to relying on late night lurking of online profiles.

As I peruse the online prospects and meander through Menupages, one thing becomes clear – no picture on the page of my Macbook (be it a handsome bachelor or a Momofuku Pork Belly Bun) makes my quest any closer to conquerable.

Pork Belly Buns

Jake, The Bachelor

The online search is far from the solution I seek. Finding fantastic food in this fair city and finding equally fantastic friendship is not as formulaic as the reviews would have us believe.

Here’s how my internet interaction usually plays out:

I’m hungry. I go online to seamless web and drool over photos of food – tasty morsels only 30 minutes, 4 flights of stairs and a friendly delivery guy away from my plate and my palate. The food arrives bruised and battered from its journey – 35 blocks is a long way to travel. I end up disappointed that it does not resemble its photos. Somehow, it’s less tasty. My hopes are dashed.

Online dating is just the same. I start out hungry. Hungry for something, some one, some conversation, some compatibility. I log on and drool over photos of a guy – a tasty morsel only 30 minutes, 4 flights of stairs and a friendly delivery away. He arrives bruised and battered from his journey – 35 years is a long way to travel. I end up disappointed that he does not resemble his photos. Somehow, he’s shorter. My hope are dashed.

And what about me? What will he think of the real me versus the fantasy me? Will AmyWVillagegirl match up to his expectations? What if my laugh is deeper and heartier than he thought it would be? What if I curse more than he hoped? And what will he think of me when I don’t match up perfectly to my photos or his fantasies?  He might like the photo with the curly hair and I show up after an hour of flatironing. He might like the picture in the red dress with the view of The Collesium in the background, but I show up in jeans and we’re far away from the romance of Rome. It’s all too much pressure to place oneself on a pedestal to be judged and sized up from the outside in. I mean, I’m fine if you want to judge me as I walk down the street – but I’d rather not pay the forty dollar fee for such a service.

It is a contest I will not win. The buildup, the photos, the supposed perfection of it all sized up in a 400 word essay About Me and About My Date.

At a time when our technology has us seemingly so connected, I started to feel disturbingly distant. I spent more time online than outside. I spent more hours reading NY Times restaurant reviews than being the reviewer myself.

I decided to switch off my ipod, put down my blackberry, and shut down my laptop.

So I officially logged off from online dating and I decided to peruse my plates in person instead of online ordering — all in an effort to reclaim my identity as a self proclaimed old fashioned gal. I will look a stranger in the eye. I will say hello to my neighbor. A little experiment, a little test – far from the cruel contests of online love.

So far, things are seeming more organic, more fluid and I feel more present. My mission is much less a search and destroy, and much more a see and discover. And now the only contest I want to participate in is that all american hot dog eating competition. The only thing I want to judge is my food.

Luckily, I spent my Thursday serving as a Judge for the Concours de Chien-Chaud (AKA: Hot Dog Eating Contest) at the French Culinary Institute. My assignment: The condiment contest. Now thats a contest I can sink my teeth into.

Happy to be the judger and not the judgee of this contest – I sauntered south to SoHo and was welcomed by the staff. I was escorted into a room filled with custom-designed equipment — from Jade ranges to Winkler Wachtel deck ovens to Vulcan Swiss kettles — where eager students stood before me just asking to be evaluated.

I would not judge them on their looks, nor their personality. There was no swimsuit competition in their future. These students will be judged on their creativity, their inventiveness and their skill. Their challenge: To concoct the perfect hot dog accompaniment. And my job: simply to eat.

I move from station to station – from Roasted Red Pepper Date Sauce to Caramelized Vidalia Onion, Pineapple & Mango Relish evaluating each bite for texture, taste and transportability. I look around the room at the serious students standing before me with their brows beading with sweat. I sense their nervous energy as they list their ingredients and instructions for preparation. And as their sentences begin with a stutter, I pause to notice my heart has begun to skip a beat as well. And even though my food — my condiment in this case — is not on the chopping block, I somehow feel uneasy.

As I move from condiment station to condiment station my temperature rises – and not just from the enormous amount of hot dogs of have just inhaled. I diligently jotted down notes, scribbling key words and phrases here and there: sweet vs. savory, spicy vs. mild and inventive vs. old school. The flavors begin to run together. The criteria becomes confusing. The memory of what I tasted only moments before begins to fade. The faces of the students become blurred and my mouth is now ablaze with Spicy Roasted Red Peppers. My belly is full and now — so too is my brain. I escape the room and wander off down the hallway to quietly collect my thoughts.

What right do I have to judge? At a time when everyone seems to be an internet food critic, I wonder: who am I to say which dish shines? Feelings of insecurity come over me and I am sure I am now feeling more pressure than those students in the spotlight. But aside from my own feelings of inadequacy and separate from the stress and the pressure placed upon my palate, one burning question begins to plague me: How will I know when I have found the one – for food, or for friendship.

Will a rating system help or hinder? Should I write down all of my qualifications on paper and check them off accordingly? Should I close my eyes, spin around and pick one? Or, will I just know when the right one – the winner – comes along?

On my way back down the hallway, as I fret over finding a fix and selecting a solid winner, I locked eyes with good-looking guy. With my pact to meet people in person instead of in the online universe, I decided it would be a good idea to simply say hello. So, I said Hello. Then, he said Hello. I smiled. He smiled back. I told him my name was Amy. He said, “I’m Greg.” We stood staring for what felt, in those early stages of attraction, like an eternity but was, in reality, merely a minute, a moment, a second that stood still. When the moment passed and we came back down to the universe we continued to talk as if not a beat was missed. He was instantly warm and easily engaging to the eye. He wore a silly tie and pleat-front pants.

Greg, in the distance - Khaki's and all

We soon were entrenched in a deep discussion surrounding the challenges of choosing the right condiment for your hot dog. Greg certainly knew his hot dogs after having spent a lifetime surrounded by his family’s hot dog business (a NY favorite: Sabrett) and he was a stickler for staying true to what he considered to be the ONLY hot dog condiment that made any sense: Spicy Brown Mustard. Between judging the condiments for their viability and evaluating Greg for his viability I was becoming overwhelmed. And then, I discovered something.

Greg was young – nearly 7 years my junior and well out of the desired age range listed on my online profile. Greg wore an Irish cross around his neck – not even remotely the type of guy I would find in my late night scans through jdate. Greg didn’t match up to my height requirements and his facade on this day – in those pleat front pants and quirky Sabretts tie given to him by his grandfather – would never have passed my initial internet sight test.

But he had something. I felt something. And through his eyes there was a connection that hadn’t been matched in my last series of blind dates. In fact, I discovered, I’d rather not be blind. I’d rather see. Even if that means I have to wait and see – or wait and wait and wait and then see.

And then I discovered something else.

I left Greg and headed back into the condiment contest kitchen. I tasted the last and final topping and I instantly knew I had found the winner. There was no questioning, no notes to refer back to, no tally to count. There was just one clear winner. It felt right and I knew it in a place far, far from my brain. I knew in my gut – that deep, center of the soul that sometimes screams to us so loud even when we try to ignore it. I knew that my taste buds were right on target and worthy of judging all of the condiment contenders. I knew the winner worked well not because of the notes I scribbled on my page, not because of some fantasy condiment criteria or list I had created in my head — but because my body told me so. And I knew greg was a contender as well – for a drink at the local bar, a meal in the east village, and a night out in the meatpacking district – all of which eventually happened.

I’m no longer hungry. And I’m a little less bored than I was before. And even though it might take a little longer and require a bit more energy on my part, I’d rather search for my soup and my soulmate in the real world.

Here’s to my winner – Glen Cinguina and his Spicy Caramelized Vidalia Onion, Pineapple & Mango Relish for reigniting my enthusiasm and forcing me to trust my palate. And here’s to Greg for doing the same.

(get well sandy)

Ollie is – or shall I say was – my neighbor. We shared a building – and many a late night courtyard conversation. Ollie was the best at barbecues and the life of the party here on Cornelia Street. He had a knack for collecting friends as he strolled – simply with just his smile.

Yesterday I came home to find Apartment 2F cleared out of its couches — and empty of Ollie.

My neighbor (and friend) has moved out, leaving only a short handwritten note behind.

As I walk through our empty apartment courtyard, absent of Ollie and his fun-loving antics, and as I pace over his spacious hardwood floors, I am reminded again that everything changes – for better or for worse. People exit our lives and babies are born, friends move away from Cornelia Street and new tenants come calling.

Change is tough. Adapting to change is a talent. By force of nature, I think I am getting good at it. Almost as good as Chef Raffaele Ronca from last week’s Delicious Thursday - an immigrant who, 20 years ago, arrived and thrived in NYC. In honor of Raffaele’s journey to America and in honor of my own journey as recorded weekly on this blog, I was invited to meet Mayor Bloomberg and join him for breakfast at Gracie Mansion as part of Immigrant Heritage Week. Luckily, it happened to be a Thursday.

Photo by Sandy Hechtman

I walked up the wooden steps and circled the wrap-around porch of Gracie Mansion. Shortly after I arrive I am greeted by plates of sweetly syruped waffles swirling around the room. Baskets of bagels and international coffees abound.

The lovely yellow country house on East End Avenue - Gracie Mansion

I wandered off to quietly collect my thoughts and stumbled upon the awesome acreage of this 1799 mansion – first through a room dressed in peacock blue, then passed the canary yellow quarters and finally into the dining room with walls dressed in The Gardens of France. The murals, mantles and moldings of this Mansion on East End Ave at 88th Street remind me I am far from my small studio on the West side. After a meet and greet with Mayor Mike – and a bit of breakfast – I head back downtown, before my subway car turns into a pumpkin.

Amy Bandolik and Mayor Mike Bloomberg

On my way home from Gracie Mansion I came across an abandoned chair sitting curbside. Perched on the corner of West 4th Street and 6th Avenue I found a perfectly good mid-century style teal blue armchair. Like any good New Yorker, I studied it, analyzed the wear and tear and then picked up the orphaned item and carried it to its new home on Cornelia Street. I will never know who owned it before I adopted it into my home. Maybe it belonged to an immigrant who had realized his American dream and moved on to fancier furniture. Possibly. Maybe it was excess from Mayor Bloomberg’s Mansion. Not likely. Or maybe it was Ollie’s – the last remains of his disappearance from Cornelia Street. I don’t know – but I hope so.

What I do know for sure is that my new chair had clearly lived many lives, in many houses, and over many years. It is comfy and cozy. It is tattered and worn. A bit unraveled and unfinished. But it has substance and soul – just like me, and just like Chef Raffaele. What I also know is that if anyone wants to come over to my apartment, worn out or not – there is now a place to sit – comfortably. My chair needs a little work. But then again so do I. So do we all. None of us are excused from a little growth and development. Not even the Mayor.

Not surprisingly, breakfast with the Mayor was less about breakfast and more about the Mayor — the experience, the house and mostly, the journey to get there. The food played backup to the story surrounding it – as it oftentimes does. Next week our food focus returns. Until then, happy eating.

my new chair!

One year ago today my life was very different. I was in a committed relationship. I was living in a spacious one bedroom apartment of the 19th floor of a doorman building on the Upper West Side. And I was running 6 miles a day.

Nowadays I reside in a tiny studio in Greenwich Village. I am single and standing on my own two feet. And just yesterday I went to the gym for the first time in 10 months.

Although I am happy with where I am in life and although there is no amount of money that could get me to hop on that 1 train and head back uptown– change is tough. The ups and downs of life; the breakups, the career changes, the relocations that seem to be so prevalent in this fair city – they leave me a little shaken, a little insecure and a little alone. There are moments when I feel like I am living in the land of the lost. On a few rare occasions and in certain critical or condemning company, I become so uncomfortable in my own skin that I almost feel like an immigrant in my own homeland: lost, alone, confused.

But my strife and my struggle pales in comparison to the real stories of strength and survival of those who truly are strangers in a strange land. The story of the immigrant experience in NYC – with its searching and its strivings – and the eventual fulfillment of that good old american dream – that story is one I can only stand back in awe and admire. In search of some comfort to ease my own feelings of newness, confusion and questioning in my life – I turned to someone who had experienced those same emotions – only tenfold.

I spent last Thursday evening with Raffaele Ronca, Executive Chef at Palma Restaurant, who shared his tales of his immigrant experience in New York City.

Inviting and warm, just like Raffaele - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Raffaele in action - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I didn’t have very far to travel to find Raffaele commanding his kitchen – only 40 paces from my front door I am welcomed inside by the brightly colored yellow and white striped awning. The color coordinated purplish-pink tulips in every corner, the wooden tabletops and the beamed ceiling transport me to another place and time. A time more reminiscent of Raffaele’s youth at home in Italy.

The bright & shining star on Cornelia Street - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Attention to detail is one of the strong suits at Palma - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

These are a few of my favorite things: hidden gardens in NYC - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Nearly 20 years ago Raffaele Ronca arrived in NYC to begin anew. Born in Naples and raised by the sea, Raffaele was blessed with a good upbringing, natural talents and, above all, a lucky locale. If Italy is the country most known for its culinary delights – then Naples is the capital of that kitchen – and Raffaele is undoubtedly the Prince of the pasta.

As quickly as Raffaele greets me hello he sends me on my way. After phoning in his orders for tonight’s feast, Raffaele sends me on a mission to find the fresh foods at the top of his list. I am off to Ottomanelli’s butcher shop on Bleecker Street to pick up ten pounds of organic Bell and Evans chicken breast, ten more pounds of grass-fed black Angus strip loin and yet another ten pounds of pork chops. Thirty pounds later I find myself in a physical struggle to make it back to the restaurant. This reminds me to keep up my work at the gym.

I hope I remember what Raffaele ordered - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A classic butcher shop in the village - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Last order before closing time - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Making friends - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Not so graceful - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Getting back in time for prep - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Cooking is a physical task – as much as it is an artistic one. Before my entrée enters the oven and before my branzino beckons the broiler – the beef must be bought from the butcher and the shelves must be fully stocked. In my 15 years in the workforce I have hardly lifted a finger. Are these physical tasks a glimpse into the lives of my ancestors as they arrived on Manhattan Island – and labored with weighty work and extended hours? Is this a snapshot of what it was like for my great-grandfather, Tanaham Bandolik, when, nearly 103 years ago, he docked in the Port of New York and took his first steps off The RMS Lucania? And when the young, handsome, dark-haired and deep dark-eyed Raffaele Ronca stepped foot into the terminal at JFK’s airport with only 20 years of life under his belt, was this sort of labor what he imagined was in store for him?

I arrive back at Palma just in time for prep work. It’s nearing 6pm and we’ve got to quickly gather our ingredients before Raffaele’s fans and friends flood this family run restaurant. We climb down the shaky stairway into the dark and low ceilinged basement below. At 5 foot 7 inches in height, I can’t even stand up straight down here.

As we enter the seemingly freezing fridge and examine the rows of ripe produce, Raffaele reminds me that this recent trend of fresh, seasonal, locals foods is nothing new to him. Growing up in Italy – everything he ate was fresh, seasonal and local. This is not a new idea to him – just a way of life. I learn that the gift we get as a result of the immigrant entering America is that we are reminded of a different way of life – far from fast food fixes and fanciful feasts. We are reminded of the simple, rustic, raw way of feeding our families that is lost in many parts of our country. I am thankful for the reminder.

As we search for ingredients, we get to talking about Raffaele’s first few hours in NYC. After an 8 hour TWA flight from Leonardo da Vinci airport in Rome to NYC’s JFK, Raffaele took his first few tentative steps in his new home. After his cab driver tried to swindle him by circling the airport several times, running up the meter to the grand total of $150, Raffaele finally settled in with some family friends in Howard Beach. While Raffaele can now laugh about his early days in America, he tells this story as if were yesterday as he recalls a time when his inability to communicate in English brought about many lonely and lost nights. Equal parts hope and fear propelled Raffaele forward. Failure was not an option.

We gather some sprigs of basil, six containers of red ripe cherry tomatoes, three hearty eggplants and climb back up the steep and narrow staircase. Raffaele takes me into the small shed behind the restaurant that is no larger than a midsize car. I don’t mind the cramped quarters. Raffaele’s childlike smile, fiercely determined eyes and true italian accent are the reason many people come back to dine at Palma. That – and the food too.

Only lost a few tomatoes - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Time for my first lesson - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Choosing the best ingredients - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Slicing just right - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Like a true italian, using his hands to communicate - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Those intense italian eyes - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

On my own - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Careful not to cut my finger - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I am responsible for prepping the special for tonight: Cartucho – which after many italian translation tools I came to discover is a filet of Branzino which is wrapped in tin foil so it can cook in its own juices. Between my chopping and taking notes – and Raffaele’s still strong italian accent and quickening pace – a few words might have gotten lost in the exchange. But in the language of food – we are certainly on the same page – as Raffaele guides me in my task using his hands to punctuate each sentence and explain each step. Raffaele reminds me that in true italian cooking – simplicity equals success. A few fresh ingredients are all you need. If he can count them on one or two hands, he’s happy. If I can get these few simple steps down while he leaves me in a room alone with my food prep, I’ll be happy.

Showing me the steps - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Learning from my master - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Measure out the tin foil. Place the sautéed seasoned greens on top. Place the branzino on top of that. Sea salt. Cherry tomatoes in halves down the center of the fish. Olive Oil. White wine. Wrap and seal tightly. Next.

On my own - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Perfecting my technique - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Branzino prep from A to Z - Photos by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

After I prepare five of these little packages of perfection Raffaele pops inside the small shed and asks how I’m doing. When I tell him I have five more to go – he gives me a knowing look which I interpret to mean I should speed up my steps in the way that only a suave and savvy Italian man can. Somehow, he gets me to move even faster without once making me feel as if I have failed at my first task. He could have told me my shirt was on fire and I think I would have found him soothing, sultry and reassuring.

A little guidance - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A little technique - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Raffaele arrived on these shores in 1993. He was 20 years old and hoping the break into the world of acting. Back home in Italy he was making only 80,000 Lira per week. Thats roughly $40. Within one week of arriving in NYC Raffaele made $600 as a bartender. This artist would be starving no more.

Raffaele’s main crisis upon arrival – aside from missing his family – was that he couldn’t find a good italian meal – at least one that tasted like home. For Raffaele, and many of us like him, food is the comfort that reminds us of home and soothes our troubles – large or small.

Raffaele and I are quite similar . We turn to food for comfort. We are soothed by the familiar. Although for Raffaele, familiar is a 4-course meal topped with a butter and sage sauce or a balsamic reduction — my familiar is less a hunger for my own ancestral eats but more so a cool cup of Carvel ice cream with cookie crunch, hot fudge and rainbow sprinkles. The Bandolik family special.

When Raffaele arrived he was hungry. Hungry for success in New York. Hungry for a creative career. Hungry for a good meal – one that reminded him of home. What most immigrants miss upon arrival is just that – food and family. Without stepping inside a formal cooking classroom, Raffaele learned to cook. With a family of butchers and fisherman Raffaele spent his winters helping his Uncle Peppino in the family’s butcher shop and his summers with Uncle Mimmo catching and cooking fish. Now in New York his only access to the wealth of resources his family held was to pick up the phone and call. And so he did. Day in and day out Raffaele would call home to his Mom, his Grandmother, his Aunts and Uncles and work through those old Italian recipes. He would cook – so he could eat. Raffaele was like most immigrants. His talents were born out of necessity.

Doing what he loves - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

He's intense about everything - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I am not an immigrant. I was born in Southampton Hospital and raised in the Hamlet of Hampton Bays on the east end of Long Island. My family has lived in these parts for several generations. According to the Passenger Record and ship’s manifest of The Lucania, my Great Grandfather, Tanaham Bandolik, arrived on Ellis Island on April 27th in the year 1907. He was 27 years old. My great-grandfather, like so many others before him and like Raffaele after him, turned to food. Tanaham Bandolik was a produce vendor on the Lower East Side, transporting watermelons from as far South as Valdosta, Georgia to NYC to sell off the side of a truck.

For better or for worse, any time we change the course of our lives, we leave a little something or someone behind. A necessary loss of the growth we all seek. What Raffaele did not leave at home was his intensity, his talent and his passion for food and for feeding others. Italy’s loss is New York’s gain.

And good-looking too - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I may never fully understand what it feels like to be an ocean away from my family and from the foods of my formative years. I may never know what it felt like to first step foot in a foreign land with no plan for a return to my roots. I can only borrow bits and pieces, stories and sentimentality from my own ancestors and from my friend Raffaele. When I am feeling lost, I crumble. I lose sight of the aspects of my life that are good and secure and solid. I lose perspective. When Raffaele arrived, lost and alone in New York, he showed a meticulous, intense and uncompromising determination to succeed as only someone who seriously understands the gift that is America can do. If only I could borrow a bit of that lesson. If only I could see the good in general– despite the confusion in the immediate. If only I could be a bit like Raffaele.

After several hours of prep time and a short stint in the kitchen, I left Palma Restaurant at about 9PM. Raffaele stayed well into the night. I walked away with a few sore muscles, a small slice to my pinky finger and newfound appreciation for what it takes to make it in America.

The word immigrant is defined as an organism found in a new habitat. If that is the correct interpretation of what it means to be an immigrant – I suppose I am an immigrant too. I suppose, at times, we all are.

My grandfather's ship, The RMS Lucania - courtesy of: http://www.greatships.net/lucania.html

All the signs are there: I’ve been sleeping with my windows wide open, cleaning out my closet, and leaving my scarf, hat and gloves at home in the hopes of greeting another 70 degree day.

There’s only one problem. With last month’s butter-filled trip to the French Culinary Institute I have been feeling a little sluggish and not quite bikini ready. I need a miracle – a cleansing, healing, curative miracle. And I found one in Brooklyn.

I spent last Thursday doing detox — and planting Wheatgrass with the friendly folks from Greener Pastures – an urban farm in the borough of Brooklyn. Later that week I experienced the medicinal benefits of the juice born of these blades of grass.

Farming. Brooklyn style - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I hopped on the R train and traveled from Union Square to Union Street. I rose from the subway stairwell in the Gowanus section of Brooklyn, situated roughly between Red Hook and Carroll Gardens. Gowanus is one of the few remaining manufacturing neighborhoods in Brooklyn. But if I am attempting a cleanse, I’m not quite sure the grit of Gowanus is the right place to get the job done. And how can a series of streets filled with steel and sawdust provide fertile ground for the growing?

I round the corner onto Sackett Street and find the door marked 575. As I enter the grey industrial space I am greeted by Sam, Sascha and Stewart. Sam and Sasha are friendly canines. Stewart is a friendly farmer.

Farmer's little helper - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Sascha & Sam's best friend - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Stewart even looks like a farmer with his grass stained jeans and his soil stained fingernails. Stewart is slender and strong. Hardworking and humorous. He is the doctor of the dirt who doles out his holistic drugs on a daily basis.

I’m anxious to down my detoxifying drink but I am nearly 6 days away from that glass of grass. First, I’ve got to grow my own greens.

I start by standing over a large stainless steel sink and scrubbing hundreds of plastic containers to prep them for planting. After dousing the plastics with a gunshot stream of water power I load the trays into the bright orange shopping cart.  The cloud of condensation surrounding me feels more like a ride on the Maid of the Mist than a day on the farm. My rain boots are the only thing protecting me from the flood forming beneath my feet. I am soaked.

I seem to always find myself washing dishes - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A powerful blast - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Soaking myself as much as the trays - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Checking my work - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Our planters are ready for soil and seed and I am ready to try my hand at farming – albeit urban farming. Like the passing of the torch, Stewart hands me a well-worn plastic Tupperware container and instructs me to dip it into the mountain of soil that sits in the wheelbarrow near our farming table. The Tupperware container happens to have the perfect measurements for filling our trays 3/4′s full with soil – it also happens to be discontinued. If I have learned one thing these last few months, it is that having the right equipment is essential to my success – so I appreciate Stewart’s attempt to hold the crumbling container together with many rounds of masking tape. With our home-repaired version of a shovel, we spend the next few hours filling our pots with soil and preparing for seeding.

Digging in the dirt - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Our tupperware shovel - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Stewart knows his stuff - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Stewart guides my hands as I gently sprinkle the wheat seeds in a circular motion atop the soil. I am shocked and surprised at how difficult it is to evenly seed the soil. On my first attempt my tray suffered from empty spaces and steep summits. Stewart keeps my spirits high with a series of jokes (a priest and a rabbi walk into a bar…) and stories about his urban farm (this space actually used to be a coffin factory). After a few tries I start to get a feel for it. The seed bucket becomes an extension of my hand and in one circular motion I start to evenly seed the soil. By the end, my 10th tray, I can close my eyes and still have a lay of the land.

Trying to get it right - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Learning from the master - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Getting the hang of it - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Stewart watches me like a hawk. Too few seeds and I’ll miss out on some body-healing blades of grass. Too many seeds in one spot and I’ll over-populate the soil. They should touch but shouldn’t be on top of each other. Sounds like a good guideline for first dates as well.

Am I doing OK? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

My seeds are set. I am still soaked from my kitchen sink shower and now I am covered up to my elbows in soil. The warehouse is cold, damp and dark – and I am dirty.

I’ve spent several hours digging in the dirt and seeding the soil and I am feeling frustrated. I wanted to purge my body of all that butter and add enzymes and amino acids to my system. I was hoping for purification, detoxification and rehabilitation. I was looking to restore the balance to my blood and cure my common cold. It looks like I’ll have to wait.

The challenge with farming, I learn, is that you work and you toil and you labor – and then you wait.

Waiting, I’m used to. I feel like, lately, I’m always waiting. Waiting for the E train to arrive at the West 4th Street Station so I can head out to Queens to visit my family. Waiting on the checkout line at the Gourmet Garage so I can rush home to bake a flourless chocolate cake or cook up a rib eye steak. Even waiting for love to arrive around the next corner. Waiting — I’m getting good at.  And now, I find myself waiting for blades of grass to grow. But will all this waiting be worth it?

We load the wheatgrass trays into a room where misting water gently coaxes the grass to grow. This is a true urban farm: no greenery in the ground – just tabletop growing at its best. The space is an eclectic mix & match of parts much like my canine friends (Sam is a lab/chow and Sascha a pit/husky). The floors are a grey cement, the walls are brick with a messy mortar stacked in between and the garage doors are a moody blue. The space is dark and shady and filled with soil and dirt. The only brightness comes from Stewart’s quirky smile and the shiny green blades of grass starting to peek their way out of the soil.

Exposed brick at its best - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

The waiting game - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Prepping our grass to grow - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Here she comes - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I’ve got 6 more days to go before I see the full fruits of my labor. But once the grass has grown, will the juice from these crops be a cure-all? Will the waiting be worth it? I must admit, I am a little skeptical. An old coffin factory in the Gowanus section of Brooklyn is an unlikely place to perform lifesaving acts.

Wheatgrass juice is said to have life-altering effects. It has been known to increase red blood-cell count and lower blood pressure. It cleanses the blood, organs and gastrointestinal tract of debris. Wheatgrass stimulates metabolism and the thyroid gland, correcting obesity and indigestion. It might even be a cure for cancer. Seems too good to be true. It was time to put the grass to the test.

After a week of waiting, I find myself soaking up the early spring at a packed farmers market in Union Square. I wander over to the crowd formed around the yellow school bus just off Union Square West. I make my way to the front of the pack and see Stewart’s smiling face and sinewy frame. A welcome sight. On the table between us are a series of pots of wheatgrass that have grown 6 inches in height and are sparkling in the sunshine.

My wheatgrass - one week later - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Stewart cuts the grass we grew only one week before. He slowly feeds the blades of wheatgrass into the hand crank juicer. The juice emerges – dark green with a layer of foam on top.

The master juicer - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Stewart's stand in Union Square - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Will the wheatgrass be a cure-all? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

About to take the plunge - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I down the shot and hope for the best. The taste is strong and sweet, green and grassy. I don’t know if one glass will be enough to erase those butter filled weeks. A few more glasses of wheatgrass – and time – only that will tell.

I leave the farmers market and wind my way back to Bleecker. I feel a strange spring in my step — a bit of energy in the air around me. Maybe it’s due to the usually warm weather. Or maybe it’s because I am playing hooky and away from work in the middle of the day. Or maybe – just maybe – it’s the wheatgrass. Just the idea of ingesting something so green and so good for me – that alone sets my mind at ease. And maybe that alone is enough.

Several weeks of working in NYC’s top kitchens has trained me to pick up my pace, speed up my slicing and spice up my sauces. After a day of planting and a week of waiting I have learned the value of slowing things down a bit. In a city of constant chaos and a culture of instant gratification I realize, there’s really no rush. There are goals to accomplish. There are ladders to climb. There are small successes to accumulate. But there’s no gift in getting there quicker. In fact, I think the opposite is true: Slow and steady wins the race. The simple lessons learned from a day of digging in the dirt extend far and wide. Farming is a lesson in patience. A lesson worth learning. Especially when body-healing benefits are the result.

The farmer works. The farmer waits. The farmer is rewarded.

This news came as quite a surprise. With nine Delicious Thursdays under my belt, I was confident I could create a few of my own culinary concoctions.

Not so.

After hibernating in my apartment for the stormiest part of the winter season and after several weeks of working in my very own tiny test kitchen, I realized I had not absorbed as much as I thought. In some sort of skewed and twisted logic I imagined my cooking skills would improve by osmosis. I had hoped that the closer I stood to the chef and the more time I spent near their stovetops, the better I would become.

Wrong again.

Yes, it’s true. I am here to report to you the disheartening news: After nine weeks of deliciousness my only results were a series of small meals that ranged from tough steak to rubbery scallops. Even my chocolate caramel tart came our lopsided – which is actually not my fault because my kitchen counter is lopsided. In fact – my whole apt is on a very obvious angle of about 15 degrees. Sloping floors: One of the only drawbacks of Greenwich Village living.

Excuses won’t save me now. And so, with my latest kitchen failure – a pair dried out pork chops – I decided to send myself back to school.

I spent last Thursday – stripped of my chefs coat and hat – at the French Culinary Institute where I trailed a Chef/Instructor in the hopes that I could learn a few lofty lessons before battling my broiler again.

The restaurant of the FCI, 3-course lunch just $28 - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I arrive at 9:30 to meet the charming Chef X. X stands for Xavier and Xavier Mayonove is his full name but if I have learned one thing today, it is that in the kitchen the Chef is King and he must be addressed accordingly. All the students refer to Xavier simply as “Chef.” As silly as it might sound coming out of my mouth, I will be a good student today and do the same. Yes, Chef. Thank you, Chef. Why are my scallops so rubbery, Chef? I was beginning to get the hang of the lingo.

The word ‘chef’ literally translates to Chief or Head of the Kitchen and Chef X certainly embodies that spirit. He has a charming sense of humor. He is warm and welcoming. And while there is no question that Chef X is in command of his kitchen with his encyclopedic knowledge and his substantial skills, he is not intimidating in any way. At least not to me.

Brilliant AND charming, Chef Xavier Mayonove - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A few hands-on lessons from Chef X - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

If Chef X wasn’t intimidating, the student kitchen in Room 402 of the French Culinary Institute certainly was. Twenty-four stainless steel stations complete with metal bowls, measuring cups and meat thermometers, and fully stocked with a series of saucepans and stockpots. I wouldn’t even know where to start or which pan to pick. The room is steeped in formality as students in starched white coats and proper chefs hats go buzzing about. This is serious business and the look on the faces of the FCI students says it all. They don’t make much conversation – they are more concerned about correctly chopping their carrots. I have seldom seen such dedication.

A little intimidating for any non-chef like me - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

You can almost feel the tension - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A little private tutoring for me - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I am overwhelmed with the students and their sense of devotion to the task at hand – however simple it might seem. Every slice of the knife, every massage of the meat is open to evaluation. In this room – technique is everything. It feels more like an operating room and these students look as though they are about to perform open heart surgery. This is no kitchen for an amateur like me. Do I dare possess the discipline to tackle the toughest tasks? Can I take the heat? At 35 years old (well, 36 in 1 week) am I too old to learn some new skills? Do I stand a chance at improvement? And will Chef X help?

Mark Twain published The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn when he was 49.

Grandma Moses began painting at 76

And Julia Child didn’t start cooking until age 32. Her first book was published when she was 49. Her television debut came a few years later when she was in her early 50s.

Maybe there is hope after all. And maybe Chef X is the man to show me the way.

The topic of today’s class: Organ meats. And I’m glad because I have been having a meat issue lately – even my chicken turned out tasteless. First up: sweetbreads.

Tough class to tackle - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Sweetbreads, I learn after a few minutes of Chef’s Powerpoint presentation on the subject, are the thymus gland of the animal – in our case we are using veal sweetbreads. Couldn’t I have picked an easier topic to tackle?

A little lesson - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Chef X explains the joys of sweetbreads - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Like a herd of cattle following our cowboy leader, we all gather closely around Chef X to observe his hands-on cooking lesson. He is a master in the kitchen. Four burners going at one time is nothing fancy for him, but I am impressed. I had difficulty managing just two. With ease Chef caramelizes his onions, sautes his sweetbreads, cooks his carrots and melts his marrow bone. Nothing burns or boils over. His turnips turn out right and his green peas and pearl onions are perfection. What’s his trick I wonder? And how could I become even and ounce closer to his level?

The master at work - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Taking diligent notes - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

In the corner of the kitchen my eye catches an unusual site: A tool box befitting of any handyman is propped up next to a stack of pots and pans on the silver side table. Is this just a box leftover by the refrigerator repairman or it is some clue to Chef’s kitchen success? I had to know. After Chef X leaves the front part of the kitchen to make his rounds, I quietly pry open the curious red and black toolbox to see what’s inside.  To my amazement, the box contains tools but not of the refrigerator repair variety. Instead of a hammer and nails, I discovered layers and levels of wooden spoons and chopsticks, metal cleavers and knives – I even found a small food scale and a meat thermometer hiding under the second shelf. Is this Chef X’s secret weapon?

The Chefs tool kit. Don't forget your chopsticks - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I wondered about my own toolkit back home – or my lack thereof. Maybe that was the reason my meats turned out mediocre. My kitchen counter measures 2 square feet – and most of the space is taken up with an attractive wooden cutting board and a set of color coordinated napkins. My knives are not sharp and my pots and pans are hand-me-downs. Important lesson of the day: buy better equipment.

Chef takes a liking to me and as we continue simmering our sweetbread sauce we get to talking. Chef X was born in the countryside of southwestern France. His love of cooking began during his early childhood. I wonder if this puts me at a disadvantage right from the start. Not only am I not French, but I only started cooking in a semi-serious fashion in the last few months. If Chef X began cooking in his teens, then I am lagging behind by nearly 20 years. But Chef calms me down and insists that with the right tools, and the right ingredients (which for French chefs are simply butter, butter and more butter) I will make progress. But the missing ingredient, I already know, is discipline. These students surely have it. But do I?

And he's funny too! - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

But food is serious business - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Notice the flame - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A closer look - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I have completed nine weeks of self-created cooking classes. My technique has been tutored but my skills have not truly been sized up. In nine weeks time, I have created a series of malformed mozzarella balls and a few misshapen pizza pies. I have burned my hand and arm and burdened my back, neck and feet. But those were baby steps compared to the caliber in this kitchen.

In this kitchen every move matters. From the cleanliness of my collar to the cut of my carrot – every action affects my success. To be considered a great chef – and not just a common cook – my knives must be sharp and my cuts must be clean. Every aspect is to be evaluated. This is not your mom and pops kitchen.

Perfect cutting technique - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

And more technique - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

And again, getting the technique just right - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Tedious tasks - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Not as easy as it looks - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Chef X making some suggestions - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

The temperature in our kitchen classroom is rising. I notice large beads of sweat beginning to form on the foreheads of the Level II students. They are about the perform their final task of the morning. Each student is required to plate their prepared dish and present it to Chef X and I in the front of the room. Scrupulous attention is paid to presentation, taste and timing – in equal amounts. A sea of classmates all watching and awaiting approval. The tension is high.

One by one the chefs-in-training march to the front of the room – their hopes and dreams artfully displayed on clean white plates ripe for the judging. Chef X pokes and prods the turnips with the tip of his fork. Without even a taste he can distinguish the over-cooked from the under. A few tastes of the thymus. A few sips of the sauce. And within seconds Chef X offers his critique: Overcooked. Under-breaded. Not enough salt. Out of the 12 plates passed up for inspection – only two pass the test. Tough odds.

Evaluation time - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

What will the verdict be? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Did we pass the test? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

The face of hope and fear - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Offering some advice - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Some cause for concern - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

One final taste - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

When we order up at our local pub or sit down to dine over five-star fare – we take for granted the complexity involved in perfecting the plate. The main course and its sides must be tasty, timed to a T and presented with style. I’m lucky if I can even get my omelette to flip in the air without half of it falling flat on the stovetop. I can’t imagine I would be able to juggle more than one burner at a time.

I’m glad I am safely behind the counter with Chef X and not parading my own measly meals in front of him. What would he think of me then? I don’t suspect I possess thick enough skin to withstand the criticism nor the discipline to vastly improve my skills. Not yet, anyway.

The students of the French Culinary Institute are put to the test in a manner well beyond what you and I ever experience. Their talents, their creativity and their resourcefulness are all on the line. My only judge is me – and the few friends and family who have tasted my treats in the safety of my home. I leave here today with a newfound respect for anyone who has the guts to get behind a burner and to present their creations to the community around them.

I left the French Culinary Institute and walked 15 blocks uptown towards my apartment on an unusually warm winter day. The air smelled as though spring was in sight and I was feeling optimistic. I stopped in to Ottomanelli Prime Meats on Bleecker Street and bought a radiant Rib Eye. I was ready for round two: The Chef vs. The Steak.

I am now the proud owner of a brand new HDTV complete with cable – my first TV in almost two years. I have 200 channels but so far, I only use one. The Food Network serves as the musical backdrop for my culinary adventures. Now at home, I flip on the TV and consider it reinforcement for my morning lesson at the FCI.

I studied my notes from my conversations with Chef X and found a few tips and tricks I could safely follow: I used my best pan, paid careful attention to my technique and used Chef’s three favorite ingredients: butter, butter and more butter. I used sea salt instead of table. Fresh ground pepper instead of pre-ground. Olive oil instead of canola. On the stovetop I seared both sides of the rib eye to seal in the juices and popped the pan in the broiler. Only a short while later I found myself eating the best steak I have ever consumed: Juicy, flavorful and cooked to perfection. I’m on my way. And while I’m not quite deserving of the title Chef, but you can certainly call me a cook.

I’m not into sports (playing, watching or even the Superbowl), I don’t get swept away by island vacations, and after seeing the wonder that is the Taj Mahal I was, sadly, not moved. I have often felt that the things I was supposed to enjoy – the things that other people seemed so excited by – just didn’t click for me.

I can count, on one hand, the rare few things (aside from the obvious friends and family) that never do me wrong and always make my heart beat a little faster. Here is my list:

1. NYC – anytime, all the time.

2. Farmers Markets, Specialty Food Shops, Street Food Vendors & Roadside Farm Stands.

3. Knowing my neighbors by name.

4. The painting Christina’s World by Andrew Wyeth.

5. Google-ing and finding answers to random questions at 3AM.

These five never fail me.

But, from the moment I walked into Bellavitae Restaurant one year ago, I found myself not wanting to leave. Something clicked. Something felt right. A possible #6 on my list? I wasn’t able to put my finger on it just then, but I knew I was on to something big.

Front entrance of Bellavitae on Minetta Lane - this shot and the interior also featured on Saturday Night Live (Season 34, Episode 8) - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Over the next year I recall telling the owner, Jon Mudder, how much I adored his place in the hopes that maybe he would grant me a permanent reservation at stool #5 around the Chefs Bar. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to work there or eat there or maybe I could simply move in to the cozy corner near the brick oven and take up residence. Are there still laws in support of squatters rights in NYC?

The charming Jon Mudder. Who wouldn't want to hang around Bellavitae? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman

I wondered and brainstormed about what it was that made Bellavitae so appealing. And then it dawned on me. Bellavitae is everything I am looking for in a partner. If I were going to describe my perfect mate it would most closely resemble my first impression of Bellavitae:

SWF seeks SWM who is: Charming yet unpretentious, simple yet elegant, rustic yet refined, sexy yet sophisticated, intimate without being too intense. Must like being surrounded by family and friends. Must reside in the NYC but enjoy weekend visits to farms and wineries to scout out and bring back the finest food and drink. Should enjoy a day of food shopping for the best ingredients and then cooking dinner for friends. Your door is always open and you are inviting of new friends and adventures. Above all, you are warm… much like a brick oven.

A preview of the brick oven at Bellavitae - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

After spending last Thursday evening at Bellavitae, I realized the importance of being with the right people and in the right space. I also learned that those right people, places and spaces thankfully do exist. The search is over.

I arrive at 4pm to Bellavitae at 24 Minetta Lane – the quiet and hidden oasis just steps from crowds on both sides: the taxi-cab filled Sixth Avenue at one end and the pedestrian playground of MacDougal Street on the other. As the winter sun begins to set and the chilly air chases me around the corner, I stand, for a moment, in awe of this small and shadowy street. I am only a stones throw from the West 4th subway station but suddenly I feel like I am a world away from the chaos of a typical Thursday night in Greenwich Village. This is a good thing.

Aged balsamics & wines at Bellavitae's entrance - Photo by Sandy Hechtman-sandyhechtman.com

I enter the restaurant through the wooden doors and walk past the barrels of aged balsamic vinegar and bottles of wine from family owned vineyards. The click-clack of my boot heels against the large wooden plank floorboards in the ample and open space reminds me more of a rustic farm-house than a downtown restaurant. I slide my gloved hand along the sleek and smooth Tuscan marble bar and I greet Jon, Bellavitae’s owner, at the other end. Luring me into the back, along with Jon’s obvious charm, are the Venetian style lamps – handmade with silk and hand painted with gold – dotted throughout the interior. This is the kind of place you’d find (and I did find) in the hills surrounding Bologna, not just off Sixth Avenue. But sometimes… we New Yorkers… we get lucky enough to have it all. Country comforts in an urban setting.

You will feel 'at home' at Bellavitae. The space reminds me of a farmhouse I visited in Umbria - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

At Family Meal Jon introduces me to the staff, sets the stage for the evening and offers a casual quiz on some Italian food vocabulary. (Q: Parma is? A: A city in the Emilia-Romagna region. Q: The pasta which translates into ‘little ears’ is? A: Orecchiette.) After a few bites of pasta – only a preview of the food fantasy we are about to create – and with our Italian adjectives in tow we scatter to our stations. My assignment for the evening is to work behind the Chefs Bar with the lovely Liza – the two of us will be on display all night in true open kitchen style. Any mistakes or missteps will be easily identified.

Amy & Liza preparing for the evening at the Chef's Bar - the best seat(s) in the house - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

At 6pm the double doors fling open, the diners are greeted, the coats are checked and the first party is seated. The waitress sends us a wink and within minutes the first order of the night pops up at our station. The sound of the ticket printing is like a morse code or a magical tune with a meaning that only we know. The dishes on the ticket are written in Italian and, for once, I am thankful for my month-long intensive Italian language lessons at Scuola Italiaidea near the Spanish Steps in Rome.

Jon Mudder is warm and welcoming. Here we are studying the first food ticket of the night - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A tinge of fear flies through me as I read the order. It’s time for Gnocco Fritto: Fried pillows of puffy dough pockets served with hand sliced aged Prosciutto di Parma Grand Reserve. Some things in life taste better when you work hard to get them. This is one of those occasions.

Liza guides my hands on the Berkel imported hand slicer – which a work of art in its own right. I need both arms to garner enough strength to pull this off.  It feels as if I have the weight of the whole animal to slice through. I’m getting stuck at the top and can’t even finish one rotation successfully. Little bits of Prosciutto are being shaved off – certainly not pieces worthy of plating at Bellavitae. Eventually, I complete one fluid motion after another and begin to churn out tender slices of our 6-month dry aged Prosciutto. Around and around the wheel goes as tender, delicate slices of velvety rich meat flow free.

Do I have the strength to slice through that? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Getting stuck on the Prosciutto - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Finally getting the hang of it - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I gently swirl the slices – eight in all – around the edges of a small white place and step over to the fry station to quickly deep fry and plate the crisp doughy bread pockets. In a flash the pockets rise to the surface and the dough is done. At the table, our diners tear open those bread pockets and fill them with the newly sliced Prosciutto. A better sandwich has not been born.

Prosciutto Plate Art - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

This is where the word FRITTO comes in - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Presentation matters: Marc Levinson & Amy Bandolik arranging the Gnocco Fritto on the plate with the Prosciutto - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

And off she goes - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Moments later, some friendly faces prop themselves up to the Chefs Bar. Watching their meal be prepared makes it all the more meaningful – for us and for them. Appetizers of Arancine, Polpettine and Mozzarella di Bufala fly from the kitchen. The couple at the bar chooses the Il Polletto – the de-boned young Chicken with Italian Herbs roasted in the Brick Oven with Fennel and La Costoletta di Maiale al Forno – the Pork Chop (also) roasted in the Brick Oven with caramelized Onions.

La Costoletta di Maiale al Forno. My photographer was hungry so I made one for him! - Photo and full belly by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

However enticing these dishes may sound and however tasty to the tongue, (and they are. I ate both later that night.) these menu choices represent a conundrum for me. It means that I will be, once again, lunging into a 600 degree brick oven. I can only hope my arm hair will stay intact.

Liza coaches me through the rules of the game as a gear up to tackle the oven. Jon stands by my side to quietly root me on.

Moral support from Liza - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I pour a drizzle of olive oil on two silver sizzle plates and slide the plates deep into the hottest part of the oven. My hand instantly turns red and remains that way the rest of the night and into the morning. I prepare the meat (one pork chop and one baby chicken) and place them on to the metal plates – being sure to coat the sides and all the edges with the sizzling hot oil. Sparks are flying (and not of the romantic variety) and hot oil is splattering everywhere. Liza seems cool and unaffected while I am ducking for cover and shielding my chef’s coat from going ablaze.

Making sure the edges of the pork chop are dipped in the sizzling olive oil - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Clearly, I am afraid of the oven - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Into the oven they go – but this time I beg Liza to do it for me so my hands can cool down. Moments later I dive into the oven again to turn the meat and add some fennel to the chicken and caramelized onions to the pork chop. A few quick minutes and the dishes are done and I am out of harms way – at least for tonight!

Plating it - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Careful not to forget the juiciest bits - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Cavemen were on to something. So is Bellavitae - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A job well done (Liza helped) - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I am convinced I was a cave-woman in a past life because I seem strangely drawn to fire. But I am not alone in acknowledging its effects. With the warmth of our food-filled-fireplace burning in the background, those strangers at the chef’s bar became friends and their quiet conversation turned to laughter. They linger a few hours in the glow of the tapering flames and as the clock nears 11pm they leave the restaurant having completed the quintessential New York night – a perfect 2-hour dinner. Amazing what some flames and some Finocchio al Forno will do.

Even at home, in my new apartment, I don’t feel as if the night is complete without the fireplace raging in the background. With no TV, the fireplace seems to serve as my visual entertainment. I am however no expert in the field of fire-starting. And I do recall my first fire being a bust as I tried unsuccessfully to light a few logs absent of any kindling. Thankfully, Bellavitae has a better handle on this task.

Later that week as my fire was slowly dying out, my night was just getting going. My new neighbor Tim knocked on my door to celebrate the fact that we are the two newest tenants in the building. We both moved in within weeks of each other in January. I suppose that is cause for celebration, no? After scouting a few local places we ended up at a little spot around the corner on Jones Street. Our tapas style meal was met with all the obvious introductions and all the common get-to-know-you games. Tim is pleasant, bright and a true gentleman. A perfect neighbor to have. He’s also a bit rustic and kinda charming. Reminds me a little bit of Bellavitae.

My (fire)place on Cornelia - Photo by Amy Bandolik

If you’d like to meet my neighbor, Tim, you can find him on Cornelia Street. If you are looking for a great Italian meal near a romantic brick oven fireplace, you must go to Bellavitae (http://www.bellavitae.com/) since Tim’s kitchen is currently under construction. And if you want to taste Bellavitae’s Ricotta Cheesecake, you can also find it here on the Foods of New York Central Village Food Tasting Tour: http://www.foodsofny.com/village-soho.php

Busy hands - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

At least, nothing starts out that way.

The caterpillar becomes a butterfly. The student becomes a scholar. And a pot of vegetables and beans becomes a vegetarian chili worthy of its very own page in a cookbook. Most things don’t start out perfect. But luckily for our taste buds – some end up that way.

A marriage of flavors at Suenos - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I spent last thursday at Suenos Restaurant performing Recipe Testing with Chef/Owner Sue Torres, as she perfected the pages of her upcoming cookbook.

I arrive at noontime to West 17th Street and I am feeling a little lost. Granted I did, only recently, return home (jet lagged) from 22-hour plane ride from India and, in general, I do have a very poor sense of direction – but I usually know my way around the city better than this. From the corner of 17th Street and 8th Avenue I happily spot the maroon colored awning that reads: SUENOS in a funky teal green block lettered font. And from street level in front of #311 I can see a small window that leads to the long and narrow subterranean kitchen. All the signs say I am surely in the right place… but I cannot find the door.

This is a typical scenario for me. I can see exactly where I want to end up but for some reason I cannot get there. Or at least, I cannot get there right away. Eventually, I arrive. I just take a little longer.

The hidden door to Suenos is down this narrow alleyway - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I did finally arrive at Suenos. I found the hidden door - through the nondescript alley, down five steps and onto a metal grate  - a secret entryway known only to those who are deserving of Sue’s inventive Mexican plates.

Sue sits me down at the bar and outlines our agenda for the day. She is organized, meticulous and hyper-aware of every detail of her business. Nothing gets by Sue Torres. Plates of mediocre food: BEWARE! Only succulent dishes – like shredded beef mini tacos and tequila-flamed shrimp – need apply.

My absolute favorite menu item: The Shredded Beef Mini Tacos - www.suenosnyc.com

Sue is in the process of writing a cookbook and today I am responsible for assisting her as she perfects (and documents!) a few of her favorite recipes.

We begin with Vegetarian Chili. Side by side, Sue and I chop vegetables. Sue instructs me on how to chop properly – and I certainly need her help. I have never seen a carrot so large and misshapen. Too many years of those bags of pre-peeled, pre-washed baby carrots, I suppose. I don’t know how to begin to attack it without the knife attacking back at me and julienning my finger. Sue guides me like an older sister – firm but friendly, kind and caring.

Watch and learn - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Getting the hang of it - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Making peace with the unusually large carrot - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

When it’s time to chop onions, Sue shows me her special technique for slicing. I certainly have met many an onion in my 35 years, but I suppose I had never been formerly introduced in this way. Sue advises me to keep the root intact so the onion doesn’t fall apart. [Coincidentally, I had made the very same suggestion to some of my clients in my 10 years as a counselor.] We make several slices 3/4 of the way through and then, holding the onion firmly, we chop in the opposite direction yielding finely chopped squares. I tried this at home a few nights later when making a pot of Rosemary White Bean Soup from a recipe I found online. Let’s just say that my onion chopping skills are not as award-winning as Sue’s and that some of that onion somehow ended up on the floor – but only a few casualties.

Finally, onions, garlic, salt, celery, carrots, beans and smokey, savory chilis are married in a large pot. We measure, weigh and record each ingredient with such precision you might think we are performing surgery. Our recipe has got to be cookbook worthy. Every seemingly small step along the way – from the tender slice of the onion to the use of local, seasonal, organic beans and vegetables – is critical to the taste and texture of our final product. There’s no room for skimping. Tastebuds do not lie.

Carefully calibrating the scale - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

While I do enjoy chopping, seasoning and stirring, the best part of recipe testing – is recipe tasting.

Sue and I grab fresh spoons every hour and steal a taste like two teenagers sneaking into the covered apple pie resting on the kitchen countertop. We give the pot a stir and a sample. One moment it is coming along nicely. Another taste – and the heat from the chilis goes to battle on our tongues.

Is it ruined? Is all our hard work for naught? Can we perform time-travel in order to alter our recipe? Can we somehow repair the damage? And in that moment, I became a little sad. I happen to be very good at making that quick mental jump from complication to catastrophe.

But this, my friends, is where Sue stands out from the rest – in both her ability to sooth my nerves as well her capacity to create. She recognizes that her chili is a living breathing element and she carefully coaches (but not controls) it at each stage. Sue is never on automatic pilot. She is always thinking, always on task. Although we cannot go backwards, we can continue to alter and grow our recipe until it reaches perfection.

Giving the pot a whirl and getting ready to dive in - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Serious concerns: Is the chili too spicy - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Can we fix it? Sue shows me how - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

So with a corrective cooling measure in mind, we add some sweetness to combat the spice – more carrots, celery and some beets (both pureed and in solid form) seem to do the trick. Sue feels strongly about not adding sugar to get the spice to surrender – she thinks there are more natural and healthy ways to add that sweet flavor back. So we add that to the pot and we jot it down on the recipe. Quick thinking as she is, Sue remembers to fish out those chilis – making sure they don’t continue to turn the heat back up. And we document that step as well.

What isn’t documented, however, is the part of cooking that cannot be measured – the part that is fun, playful and inventive. What can’t possibly be tabulated in our notations is that moment when cooking becomes crafting. It needn’t be a race to the finish or a challenge steeped in potential failure. It should be fun. And we, as chefs, should be bendable, flexible and pliable. I suppose you could say we should be soup-y or chili-like… never too firm and always ready to adapt to the blend of ingredients. Sue teaches me to play with my food. And never be afraid to fail. She teaches me that there will always be a corrective measure that will save my soup.

Between all the chopping, stirring, tasting, adjusting and tasting again – I am ready for a break. Luckily for me, it is time for Family Meal – one of my favorite traditions. And luckily for the staff, we are eating that perfectly perfected, not-too-sweet, not-too-spicy Vegetarian Chili. So I join my first family meal – a time for the staff to break bread and discuss the evening ahead. The vegetarian chili is a hit with the staff. No mouths are aflame and it seems spiced just right. It took several tries, but I think we finally got it. Spicy. Smokey. Smooth. Hearty and healthy too. Perfection.

The hard job of perfecting... and the reward - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Good things. like the chili, take time. In my last 6 years in New York City I have lived in 5 apartments, dated 4 significant boyfriends, held 3 different careers and cooked 1 pot of vegetarian chili. None of it started out perfect. But it gets better every time. Even the chili took 4 hours to get right. In fact, that pot of chili and I have a few things in common. Spicy. Smokey. Smooth. Hearty and healthy too. Perfection. Life is cooking up quite nicely as well. I’ve just got to simmer a little while longer.

Our meal has come to an end – and now it is time to feed our friends. As quickly as we clean up our dishes and wipe down the tables, the crowd arrives at our doorstep. 4-top after 2-top after 6-top – the crowds flood in and the wait-staff begins to circulate.

The lights come down low. The 5 orange lanterns above the bar begin to twinkle and tease as they draw the crowd away from the drafty door and into the main dining room. I’m not sure which casts a more powerful spell on our diners: drinks like Suzy’s Smokin’ Margarita cocktail or Nick, the scruffy smoldering bartender who mixes them. Jorge hits the music. The hot pink painted wall is illuminated. The bright blue bar stools stand ready to comfort our thirsty guests. And the action begins. Alisia stands in the corner of the restaurant on a raised platform stage as to highlight the star of the show: the fresh corn torillas. The theatre is alive and well in New York. And broadway is no match for the show at Suenos.

Not sure which is hotter - the pink wall or the tasty torillas being rolled - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Adding some flavor with cilantro - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

As the dinner service is winding up, my night is winding down. I pop into the kitchen one last time and already the pace is at lightening speed as plates of Avocado-3-ways, Tamarind Glazed Hanger Steak and Halibut, Halibut, Halibut come flying past me. Sue is right in the thick of the battleground expediting orders and making sure everything is timed to perfection. I sneak one last bite of the leftover Vegetarian Chili before heading out the door and I begin to think about that great big pot filled with beans, vegetables and hard work.

There were moments when I didn’t think we could resurrect that chili. There were times when I was frustrated by its flaws. So many of us, in chili and in life, erroneously expect perfection from the start. We expect that by 35 we will be a finalized complete package. But life is a constant re-adjustment. If we overdo it – we need to tone it down and bring it back to center. Sometimes we just need to round up some more flavor. And sometimes we just need to figure out a way to sweeten the pot.

Finally getting it right! - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Back at home, I tested a recipe of my own. It was Tuesday night, late in the evening. After a quick cup of coffee with a friend, I was home in my month-old apartment on Cornelia Street. I was settling in to a cold winters night – surrounded by boxes and sleeping on a mattress on the floor because the box spring didn’t make it up the narrow staircase during the move. Then, rising up from the courtyard below I heard echos of laughter and conversation. I was at a crossroads.

My home - photo borrowed from my friends at: http://www.lovetoeatandtravel.com

Every New Yorker is plagued by two television shows that will forever ruin apartment living in this town and leave us in a state of perpetual disappointment: Friends and Seinfeld. These shows taught us that we can be best friends with our quirky next-door neighbor and fall in love with the guy across the hall. They preached to us that we could live in a place where friends were always popping by and sense of community was only a coffeehouse away.

These shows lied to us. Or so I thought. And so on this night, I decided to test MY recipe: Can the new girl in the building make lasting friendships? Can she turn her small studio apartment into a home? Will the courtyard space at #15 Cornelia transform from a garbage recycling zone into a shared community garden filled with fresh herbs, tomatoes and flowers? Will my recipe for life turn out to taste as good as I imagine it?

(Even Kramer recognizes the challenges of getting that recipe right!)

Eager to test MY recipe and to meet my new neighbors, I put on my coat and hat in a flash and raced to the courtyard with a faux errand in mind. This seemed to me, even in the moment, like a Seinfeld episode in itself. I walked through the courtyard, pretending to be on my way to the corner deli. I said my hellos and made my introductions to my neighbor Ollie, his dog Tucker and his visiting Connecticut friends. Turns out – tonight is Ollie’s 35th birthday and within 5 minutes of conversation, I am invited to Daddy-O’s – a bar one block away. I said “maybe” and carried on my way to the deli, picked up something I didn’t need and headed back to my apartment. An hour later I decided to follow through on my recipe plan and I met the group at the bar. Lets just say that by 2AM I had a made a few friends, got a few phone numbers in my pocket, some email addresses in my blackberry, a lunch date and some plans with Ollie for a garden renovation.

My recipe worked so far. I bonded with my neighbor and brought myself one step closer to feeling at home. I might have to add some other neighbors into the mix and stir that up for a while. There’s always the chance my recipe might veer off course. But so far… this recipe… Perfect!

And if it’s not perfect… I think I’ll know how to salvage it. Thanks go to Sue Torres for that one.

They're house made - and they're spectacular - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

India Gate - Delhi, India

I arrive at Indira Gandhi International airport in the city of Delhi and I am greeted by a smokey smoggy sky that smells of burning wood. The locals can no longer recognize the scent as it is a part or their everyday existence. It is only recognized by the outsiders – like me. And an outsider I am! Everywhere I go I get looks and stares from the locals as if they have never seen skin so fair or hair so curly. Throughout my stay the staring never ceases and I feel the eyes of all of Delhi – all 14.5 million people – are on me.

I ride along in the car with my driver Nitin to the tune of Cat Stevens playing on the tape deck. I am comforted and humored by the fact that my first Indian driving experience involves the lyrics of Oh Baby its a Wild World playing in the background.

The streets of Delhi are no match for even the most adept NYC cab driver. For miles I can see cars, rickshaws, bicycles, stray dogs, camels, cows and goats all chaotically cruising in and out traffic – and not once do they collide or crash. To my right I see a pedestrian bravely and boldly walking across the street and to my left I see a man on a bicycle transporting 57 small and large hand-woven baskets on his back.

The streets of Old Delhi - India

The Market in Old Delhi

Outside the car, but not out of harms way, I enter the heart of Old Delhi and wander through Chandni Chowk Road - Delhi’s main thoroughfare. I wind my way through the dirt streets  and into Khari Baoli – Asia’s largest spice market. If I thought my home of Greenwich Village seemed stuck in time, I am in for a shock today. This market dates back to 1650AD when it was an opulent and bustling market. It is still bustling – but no longer retains even an ounce of opulence.

Through the dusty streets I wander on a quest for authentic Indian spices – all the while dodging the aggressive crowds of motorcycles, women walking with jugs of water on their heads and trucks delivering goods to the market. The permanent smog that is suspended in the air is only magnified by the dust from the dirt streets, the smell of incense burning and the scent of hot chili powder as I near the heart of the spice market. I am assaulted by the fragrances and aromas. I walk for 25 minutes on a trek to reach the center – all the while I am coughing and sneezing. I pop a Ricola cough drop in my mouth in attempt to temporarily soothe my dry throat.

Spices & Teas - Old Delhi

Spices, nuts and teas

There is only one cure for my ailments – my stuffy nose and my congested chest filled with soot and smoke – and that cure is around the next corner. Finally I reach the heart of the spice market – a market which does not service homes and housewives but is intended for retail shops and restaurants.  With so many stalls to choose from, I come upon a smiling older gentleman named Shiva who sits on a thin cushion on the hard dirt floor of his tiny stall.

His spices are kept in small bowls in front of him in a sea of colors as stunning as the saris of the women walking past me in the market. Bright red chilis, yellow mustard seeds, magnificent masalas and colorful curries stand out against the dusty dirt road which lies only inches below these bowls. Tiny twigs of sweet-smelling cloves and pretty packets of star-shaped aniseed complete the picture of perfection. Cardamom, cumin and coriander compound my senses and I am intoxicated. I am also no longer sneezing.

Spices and spice dealer

Spice dealer in his stall with his child

Woman peeling Ginger while sitting on the street

Chilis

Shiva rips off a tiny piece of newspaper and uses it as a makeshift spoon and I begin to sample the spices. On first taste I am invincible as my palate bravely bears the burden of the increasing heat. And now, only a few moments into my spice tasting session,  I can no longer feel my tongue as the blend of spices – otherwise known as garam masala or hot mix – attacks my inexperienced taste buds. The heat – enough to melt the 22 inches of snow reported back home in NYC – melts away my ego and my confidence as a spice-lover is shaken. The temperature is only 65 degrees outside but inside – I am boiling.

I wave my white flag and surrender to the spice. After 5 minutes of gasping for cool air and grasping for cold bottled water I notice a distinct result. My cough is gone and my stuffy nose cleared. Even the dirt and dust kicked up by the passing bus can’t penetrate my secret steel wall of spicy protection. The medicinal power of these spices – born of Indian soil –  is in full swing.  And in perfect English Shiva and I discuss their healing energy. Tumeric for treating stomach ailments, burns and bruises. Cardamom to cure colds. Cloves for coping with a toothache.

Beyond that it is believed that my beloved, albeit mouth-burning, spices can even cure cancer – mustard seeds in particular. Shiva instructs me to try some coriander to lower cholesterol and some turmeric to slow Alzheimer’s. And with Shiva’s words, I feel as if I have a secret bit of knowledge that I can tuck away for future use. Heading back to my hotel after a full day at the market and with spice packets in hand, I breath just a little bit easier. While I may have missed the first snow of the winter season – I will come back with a cure for the first cold.

My cough is cured. My nose is cleared. It was worth the trek.

And if you want to have a spice tasting for yourself, come on over… I exported a few.

At the market in Old Delhi

I am blue.

But don’t fret. There is no cause for alarm. I am not blue as in sad. I am blue as in the cheese.

In the early hours of Thursday morning, with the moon still beaming bright, I find myself unable to sleep. It is an unusually warm winter night yet the heat persists in pumping up through the pipes only to settle in my sweltering 6th floor apartment. Unable to rest, I open my laptop to see what searches are in store. I come upon a game to get me through the night: A cheese quiz. In preparation for my day of cheesemaking, I eagerly fill in the multiple choice form – curious to know my cheese identity. Try it for yourself: http://cupped-expressions.net/cheese/quiz/

The results of my cheese persona are in. It turns out I am a Blue; mellow, knowledgeable, a little crumbly but wise. Not bad – aside from that crumbly part. I examine the other cheese descriptions and notice the mozzarella is most becoming: soft, imaginative, creative, young, flexible and fresh. Mozzarella sounds so dreamy… so delicate. Oh how I wish I was a Mozzarella.

In an effort to learn the art of cheesemaking, as well as make a major personality conversion, I spent my Thursday at Joe’s Dairy at 156 Sullivan making fresh and smoked mozzarella and falling in love – with Anthony, Vincent, Frank, Ro, Luis & Luis (yes there are two of them).

Joe's Dairy at 156 Sullivan Street - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I walk into the shop and I am instantly transported to a simpler time and place. Handwritten love letters line the walls: a pound of Cabot Pepper Jack for $4.49 and Rosemary Crusted Goat for $14.99 are casually written, scratched out, and re-written on white sheets of butcher paper. Scattered among the glass showcases filled with cheese and propped up on the wooden shelves next to the pastas, imported olives oils and balsamics are photos of family and just-born children. And like any Italian household 3 weeks before the holidays, you can hear Bing Crosby belting out White Christmas from the speakers of the 1980′s style boom box in the back.

Hand written cheese notes - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I am greeted by Anthony Campanelli (the shop owner) and Ro Pianoforte (a family friend) who is behind the counter – and has been for 10 years. Anthony is busy packing and unpacking mozzarella deliveries for Luis to transport to nearby restaurants and Ro is tinkering with her cheeses and checking the refrigerator temperature to make sure it is calibrated correctly. While they work – and without skipping a beat – they carry on a cheerful conversation about their holiday gift giving ideas. Among the feta, the manchego and, of course, the mozzarella they chat about snow globes and fairy tale figurines. Joe’s Dairy is a fairly balanced blend of family and fresh mozzarella.

Ro unwrapping her cheese - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Out pops Vincent from the clear plastic partition which separates the shop from the kitchen where the mozzarella is hand crafted. Vincent is Anthony’s older brother. He is lively and bright-eyed and full of philosophies on everything – from family life to mozzarella making.

Vincent - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Do you do any ballet?” Vincent questions me. If you thought he was commenting on the graceful line of my neck as I initially did – you’d be wrong. “It gets pretty crowded back there – and we’re not tiny.” Vincent was right. I did plie and arabesque  - and also slide, and slip, and almost fall to the floor all throughout the course of my day. Thankfully, Vincent was there to quickly catch me on those first few futile footsteps.

I am crushed in the corner of the tiny kitchen clutching the steel basin of the sink as I try to avoid making a fool of myself and sliding on the slippery, wet floor. Luis is standing over a large pot of nearly boiling, 185 degree water – making mozzarella by hand. Hot milky water is flying in front of me as I attempt to delicately hold my position to keep out of the way. With a twinkle in his eye and a big smile on his face Luis shifts his focus from his work and quickly rolls and ties a tiny ball of mozzarella, dips it in sea-salted water and hands it to me. It looks like a perfectly wrapped present – a bocconcini with a bow. The milky, warm, creamy mozzarella melts in my mouth. I have been to Italy and back and never once tasted something so invited. It is meltingly good and undeniably fresh. My knees are buckling – but this time not from the fickle floor. Luis, watching my delight, gives me a nod. And with this one gentle gesture he initiates me into this private club and my work can commence. But of course, I must start at the very beginning.

The cow’s milk cheese curd comes to Joe’s Dairy by way of Buffalo, New York. I am responsible for first grating the cheese curd in order to create more surface area so that once these tiny pieces of curd hit the hot water they will melt more speedily. Using a Guitara or Harp – otherwise know as a cheese grater – I push pounds of curd through the metal strings – careful not to cause any cuts on the few jagged edges.

Using a harp to grate the cheese curd - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Like a school teacher (which he was) Vincent helps me polish and perfect my technique and advises me to keep the curd towards the center of the harp. He even holds a pen in his right hand – as if he is about to correct my first assignment. Vincent encourages me not to be afraid of the cheese – just dive in and get dirty is his best suggestion. I never thought of myself as fearful of cheese but after he mentions this I can sense my own apprehension. After a few minutes I relax my shoulders and I realize I quite like this ritual and pressing and pushing – especially to the tune of Vincent’s philosophies. “You gotta be insane,” he insists to be in this business – to put your hands into a nearly boiling pot of water and commit your life to making mozzarella for 19 hours a day. Brothers Vincent and Anthony recount stories of those early days when they would work around the clock – then take a break to run home and shower – only to repeat the cycle again the next day. While I am working out my biceps and triceps on the countless cups of cheese curd, I am enjoying the tales of mozzarella past. In this little kitchen there is a fierce competition. Between the cheesemaking and the storytelling – it’s a tie for first.

Brothers, Vincent & Anthony - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Getting into the debate with Vincent and Luis - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

And sharing some more philosophies - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I slide over to the hottest hub of the kitchen. I am nestled close to Luis and a pot of 185 degree water which sits atop a four-burner gas stove – just like the one I have at home. Next to that stove is large empty pot where we pour my freshly grated cheese curd and then bathe it gently with in hot water – one saucer at a time.

Luis being careful not to burn himself with the hot water - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Luis guides my hand as I stir the cheese and watch it melt from hundreds of separated slices into a one 32 pound ball of mozzarella. Waves of water are swishing everywhere – on me – on Luis – and onto the floor. A big splash and then another – and I am soaked. Luis assures me I’m doing okay. Our hands are in hot water as we fish out the large mozzarella ball and begin to stretch it out like bread dough – ever so gently as to not lose the butterfat. And then the games begin.

Stirring the pot of mozzarella - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

It's harder than I thought - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

As if it is an olympic sport, Luis speedily tosses one pound balls of mozzarella to Anthony and me at a quickening pace – and they teach me how to roll them out into a ball, tucking the cheese into itself and then pinching off the neck to maintain the moisture. One after the other after the next, we toss the mozzarella balls in cool water and then into a wading pool of sea-salt – creating a polished and shiny surface. While we work, Anthony and I get to chatting about his business and his life.

Mozzarella rolling school with Anthony - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Watching the master - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Listening to the expert - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Back to the drawing board - trying to understand the technique - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Perfecting my technique - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Anthony and Vincent were raised in apartment #3 – just upstairs from Joe’s Dairy. Although Vincent became a full-time NYC teacher (and part-time philosopher as well) Anthony decided that college was not in the cards. When when the owner of Joe’s Dairy, Joe Aiello, decided to go back home to Italy permanently, Anthony knew exactly what he needed to do. Just 3 weeks shy of his 18th birthday, Anthony put his key in the door of his very own mozzarella making shop. For the first few years he was only inches away from creditors. Then the customers came. At first they came out of professional curiosity – but they stayed for the cheese. And you will too. It is a story of a neighborhood boy done good. Anthony loves what he does. As he put it, “who wants stick your hands in hot water all day?  I do. I do”

Fresh mozzarella - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Getting a nod of approval from the boys - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Anthony, Luis and I continue of shaping and molding one pound and half pound balls of mozzarella in the back, while upfront actor Willem Defoe is buying a large one pound ball of freshly smoked mozzarella from Ro. And I am fascinated, by both the chiseled features and high cheek bones of the Green Goblin as well as the process of smoking mozzarella – something I have yet to see. It is nearing 2PM and after an hour of my continual questions, Luis finally decides to give my curiosity a rest. The two of us retreat downstairs to make some smoke.

Luis and I crawl through the cellar doors and into the dark, deserted alleyway between the apartment buildings. It is here that we smoke our fresh mozzarella by hand – no machines, no chemicals involved. Luis climbs up the exterior stairway and Vincent passes the mozzarella balls out through the window. Back down the stairs Luis and I tie one ball of fresh mozzarella on either end of a short brown cord and hang the cords over a long stick. That stick then rests on the top of a large metal barrel. Luis lets me light the bottom of the barrel on fire and the flames fly free for about two to three minutes until the mozzarella is smoked to perfection. Together Luis an I untie the cord from each ball of mozzarella ball – It feels like christmas-time with a sea of just tied presents all waiting to be unwrapped. The newly smoked mozzarella balls are sent back upstairs, through the window to be washed and sold – all but one. Luis removes his gloves and with his bare hands he rips off a salty, smokey slice and it melts in my mouth. I am a ruined woman. I will never eat from a supermarket cheese section again.

I grew up in a household where the only mozzarella I knew came from a plastic package, had a rectangular shape and was hard – inside and out. This mozzarella is a world away from my early cheese-eating years. After a morning of stretching, pulling, molding and reshaping the mozzarella I start to think about that cheese quiz I took earlier this morning. I think about those mozzarella characteristics - pliable, soft, flexible and changeable. And I am beginning to see some of those traits of mozzarella in me.

I, like most New Yorkers, am always moving from apartment to apartment, relationship to relationship and job to job. I sway with the wind and adapt to each new crisis – quickly and easily. When I crumble – just like those shreds of cheese curd – I swiftly swirl myself back together into a stable and solid object and continue to create the next chapter. But as I think about Luis – tailoring, tucking and tying off the ends of the mozzarella – and as I watched Anthony toss one pounders into the cool water – I start to think about that polished and shiny surface of the mozzarella. All that shaping, kneading and dipping yields a firm outer layer which protects the milky softness inside. This firmness is a quality I have come to appreciate.

In a changing world – it is quite nice to create a sense of stability, solidity and to feel firm in your footsteps. I am moving next week – to my very own studio apartment about a block away from where I am now living with a roommate. The place is small, with fickle heating and it is up 4 flights of stairs. But most importantly… it is mine. It is mine to make a mess – and mine to clean. It is mine to grow basil in the courtyard garden, mine to chop pesto in the kitchen and mine to wash the dishes when the meal is done. As I place my key in and unlock the door to my new empty apartment – and just like that mozzarella after is has had a swim in the salt - I create a firmness, an outer layer of strength and a stability to my surface. 

So maybe I am not blue after all. Maybe I am indeed quite like the mozzarella that I spent my day alongside. Maybe I am soft and pliable and flexible on the inside – but firm and solid and strong as well. If you are wondering what kind of person you are – go ahead and take the cheese quiz. And if you’d like to be converted, like me, and come over to the supple side of the mozzarella – stop by Joe’s Dairy on Sullivan. One bite and you will never look back.

Happy days at Joe's Dairy - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Frank, Anthony & Vincent's Father - keeping an eye on the shop