smitten kitchen

There are few more common refrains in New York City than decrying that a neighborhood isn’t what it used to be–”Those damned hipsters are everywhere!” or “I can’t walk two blocks without being barreled over by a Bugaboo-wielding Type A!” But I can’t help but laugh when I hear something of this sort because if there is one element that quintessentially defines the five boroughs, it’s that they’re always shifting and reorganizing their contents, like a decorator with a short attention span.

If you’re familiar the history of the city, you’ll know that it’s been this way from its inception. You might not have set foot on my block twenty years ago late a night without two canisters of mace, but I hear the new hair salon that just moved in is paying a six-figure monthly rent. And really, I don’t need to tell you about the Lower East Side of old, where minuscule, shambles of tenement apartments that once housed immigrant families of twelve in deplorable conditions are currently the ne plus ultra habitat of a certain set.

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To stop this pity party in it’s tracks, let me tell you what I have actually done this weekend, because I got to say that aside from the obvious unpleasantries — a smattering of bruises on my every appendage, the inability to put my hair in a ponytail or even put socks on without help, embarrassment of having my husband cut up my food for me in a restaurant and no wine (!) because it mixes disastrously with Advil in me — it’s been pretty sweet.

Saturday started with one of the great one-hand-able foods of New York: the Murray’s whole wheat everything bagel. Murray’s is one of but six places left in the city that still make bagels the old-school way: by hand, with malt and always boiled. Just don’t ask them to toast them, because they’re almost always right out of the oven. I’ve got a near-constant hankering for their low-fat scallion cream cheese, but I’ve, you know, heard from other people that their strawberry cream cheese? Tastes like danish and is mildly addictive.

Next up was the undaunted Sarah Brown’s Cringe TV pilot shooting. I know this probably wasn’t the best time to do something crowded and public as there is just no way to casually tell people that you are wearing a sling because you fell down the stairs last night - “Oops!” - but it was so nice to be out. We laughed for hours (”We all lie, Deb.”), and did I mention we hung out with a fish, a dooce and a girl who says she pretty much hates everything but I don’t believe her? And that they all pretended to know who I was? I’m a sucker for flattery.

And today, we hit the annual Chocolate Show which was so good it almost made up for being aggravatingly crowded with people who do not consider slinged shoulders things worth avoiding bumping into. I have now consumed about a half-ounce of quality chocolate for almost every bruise on my body, and as soon as I can match that in bourbon, I have no doubt the world will finish righting itself.

Tonight, Alex makes dinner - it’s an old, odd favorite that I hope will become one of yours, too. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, by which time, I hope to be up to 22 words per minute.

Alas, addressing latent marital discord was not really the reason we went to Forest Hills on Sunday. I mean, how boring would that have been? Though I had been saying for some time that I’d go out there and look around with my husband, it wasn’t until I read a proto-typical comment on Chowhound a couple weeks ago — something to the effect of “I can’t believe you even consider Yonah Schimmel’s knishes anything other than garbage. The best ones are actually from Knish Nosh in Forest Hills.” — that my interest in Queens was piqued. When Grub Street chimed in last week with yet another pock on Schimmel’s head, this time for having knishes “as bland as cotton and heavy as depleted uranium,” and lauded praise on Knish Nosh for their “flaky and delicate knishes” I knew it was finally time to take the E train past 3rd Avenue. To settle an argument, of course.

Now, as we know, my experience at Yonah Schimmel’s was far from disappointing. That said, I was hungover and carbs? Check! Grease? Check! Excessive portion size? Check! One could argue the bar to please my palate was especially low that afternoon. But, there is room in my gullet for more than one knish love, and oh boy, I think I have found the next one.

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Despite evidence to the contrary — like when I wax on about syrup-ladling techniques and the sticky party of a fruit stem — I don’t consider myself much of a foodie. I’ve always thought of the stereotypical foodie as an epicure chaser, someone absorbed with finding the next talked-about drink, uber-dining experience or hard-to-come-by ingredient. While I love a transcendent meal as much as the next person with taste buds, my real fervor is for my pots, pans and measuring spoons. I really don’t care what Wylie Dufresne did with tomato confit; I just want to make apple pie as good as your grandmother.

That said, Alex and I have been doing something I consider very foodie-ish the last couple weekends: traveling miles (fine, blocks) for things New Yorkers usually talk about end-capped with a “You’ve got to try this. It really is the best.” My inner egotistical cook usually rolls her eyes in response; what baker can’t one-up the most basic cupcake recipe of the Magnolia Bakery, and with less attitude? But I’ve got to draw the line at these three delights we New Yorkers are likely the last to down. If you’ve got to occasionally fill your belly with confections crafted outside your kitchen, may they always be this magnificent.

The first, (and while shamefully not photographed, there are lovely images as well as a discussion of this and other fabulous NYC croissants at the Wandering Eater) was the plain croissant from Patisserie Claude. A butter assault of the awesomest variety, it has both the much-praised “shatter effect” of authentic croissants and inner plume-like moist layers, the polar opposite of the hollow shell impression I get from other highly-coveted ones. I cannot bestow any stronger praise on the bread than this: It’s better than any croissant we’ve eaten in Paris, and that this little, unassuming unparalleled culinary delight exists is one of my favorite things about New York.

Fueled by a hangover bequeathed to us at an Irish wedding the evening before, and the predictably strong need for grease, Alex and I set out for Yonah Schimmel’s Knish Bakery last Sunday. Alex, beholden to the old school, ordered his knish plain, dousing it in at least a 1:1 ratio with spicy brown mustard. Certain he was crazy not to choose the same, I ordered the roasted garlic and onion one and had it topped with cheddar. Yonah Schimmel’s is no place for restraint. I can’t describe it any better than this blurry picture, so I’ll leave you with that, and my accompanying cross-my-heart swear that I will never, ever eat again.

But first! A trip to the Doughnut Plant! This trove of deep-fried yeast has been around for over ten years, but the recipe dates back over 100, via the current owner’s grandfather. They make both cake and yeast doughnuts, but the cake one we tried, a Dulce De Leche filled creation actually forced upon us by the guy at the counter, tasted too close to that Dunkin Donuts texture I can’t stand. (A blasphemous comparison, I know.) The yeast ones, a Coconut Glazed for me and a Raspberry Glazed for Alex, however, were a thing of art, of taste bud fantasy, of plush, doughy dreams, of… Why are you still here? Really, go! What are you waiting for?

Patisserie Claude
187 W 4th Street

Yonah Schimmel Knish Bakery
137 East Houston Street

Doughnut Plant
279 Grand Street

[Like many-a-New Yorkers, I often get asked by people where they should go when they come to the city. I can’t help you much with site-seeing, but I can help you bring joy to your belly. Thus, I’ve just added a “Gulletry” category for adventures like this, and hope to stock it up very soon.]