Comfort food groups

Friday night

The brussels sprouts with shaved parmesan and walnuts is, hands-down, my favorite appetizer at Franny's, Prospect Heights' newest addition to the revitalization of Flatbush Avenue. Recently (and deservedly) voted "Best Pizza in New York," Franny's has become one of Eric's top two restaurants in Brooklyn (the other is Blue Ribbon). While waiting at the bar for a table, Jay was eyeing a pretty, bespectacled server. "What ethnicity do you think she is?" he asked me. "I don't know," I said. "She looks like a mix, but she definitely has Mediterranean features. Maybe Greek?" "She is sooooo cute," Jay drawled, his eyes starting to glaze over. When Jay swoons, his Atlanta accent becomes more pronounced. This particular night he was nursing a hangover, so that may have accounted for his more-than-usual dreamy state.



Eric and Sheri showed up, and when we were seated, the girl he'd been eyeing turned out to be our server. Up close she was even prettier--smooth olive skin, big full lips, and deep green eyes framed by black glasses. She seemed bright and had a nice voice. Jay had every opportunity to engage her, but instead it was Eric and I who chatted her up. By the end of the meal, Jay still hadn't said much to her. "Dude," Eric said, "this is your chance." "Yeah," I said, "you should have asked her what on the menu she likes."

Jay and I shared two pizzas: a rich four-cheese pie and a tomato and cheese pie with garlic sausage. Although I'll always have a soft spot for typical corner New York pizza, the subtlety of flavor and thin, crispy crust of Franny's pizza also has ample room in my comfort food repertoire.

While ordering dessert, we heard a familiar "Hi!" It was Judith and Felix and their friends Iva and Bill. They had just come from the movies and were having a late dinner. It was Iva and Bill's first time at Franny's.

Dessert was a scoop each of chocolate sorbet and fior di latte sorbet, recommended by the cute waitress, and an anise panna cotta. To the casual observer, it looked like Eric and I were trying to hit on her, but really we were trying to draw Jay in so she'd talk to him. But Jay just sat quietly and didn't say much.

"I guess there's no way I could leave my phone number at this point," he said.

"No," I said. "That would just be creepy. But you could come back another night and chat her up and hope that she remembers you."

Saturday morning

Luis and I have spent many Saturday mornings at Purity Diner in Park Slope. The diner's relocation to its current site coincided with our relocation to Brooklyn. When Luis lived in DC and came to visit me on weekends we'd go there at midnight and have burgers. Saturday mornings we'd have pancakes, which we both think are the best. After Luis started working on Saturdays we stopped going regularly. This Saturday we went for old-times' sake, for the comfort of pancakes.

The pancakes were still amazingly good. Since making poor choices at Purity, such as Eggs Benedict, which were virtually luminescent, I've stuck with pancakes for breakfast and a burger for lunch. I've learned not to get fancy at diners. Some meat dishes have been questionable, but no menu item is more fittingly named than Pastrami Nightmare, a layer of melted cheese creeping over a heap of bright red corned beef.

On our Saturday trips to Purity we'd always see the same gay couple at another booth--a white boy and his Latino boyfriend who were much younger and much cuter than us. We never said anything to them, but we made eye contact and nodded when we passed them. Sometimes we'd be out and about and see them and couldn't place where we knew them from because they were out of context.

"I wonder what happened to those guys," I said.

"And somewhere those guys are going, 'I wonder what happened to those guys we used to see at Purity,'" said Luis.

Saturday night

"Put on some more Dino," the jewlery-bedecked man said to his big-coiffured blonde wife, pointing to the jukebox by the door.

"Yeah, yeah," she said, waving her hand dismissively and downing a scotch on the rocks as strains of Engelbert Humperdinck's "After The Loving" filtered through the room.

When smoking was allowed in New York City restaurants, I'll bet you'd need a sharp knife to cut the smoke at Monte's Venetian Room. Monte's is a Brooklyn institution on Carroll Street between 3rd Avenue and Nevins Street, in what real estate agents now call Gowanus. Billing itself as the oldest restaurant in Brooklyn ("Since 1906," the sign proudly reads), Monte's is a throwback to the Brooklyn I grew up in. The clientele seemed to be largely suburbanites who come back to the old neighborhood to relive their halcyon days in Brooklyn.

Eric and Sheri and Luis and I thought we'd stick out like a multi-ethnic sore thumb, but across from us sat an entire Asian family who looked like regulars. Our waitress, Kathy, was probably a member of the Monte family. She was clearly American but clipped her Italian like many New Yorkers do: mutsarel for mozzarella, bro-zhoot for prosciutto, and our personal bugaboo, galamah for calamari. We wanted to order a bottle of wine, but Kathy told us there was no stock, only house wine.

I had an excellent bowl of pasta fagioli, or pasta fa-zool, as New Yorkers call it. Aside from the baked clams, the other appetizers were not so good. The calamari was floury and rubbery. The mozzarella in carozza, which normally looks like bread sticks stuffed with cheese, instead looked like, as Kathy called it, Italian French toast. It was soggy and oily.

Our entrees were gigantic, enough for two people each--or one, judging from the size of other patrons. The restaurant has a cozy feel--red leather banquettes and dark wood tables. Murals of Venice span the walls, echoing the romance and beauty of the nearby Gowanus Canal. I could picture gondoliers stroking their way down the canal, past two-headed luminescent fish and the corpses of cement-shod wiseguys of yesteryear.

We expected Monte's to be all of this, so we weren't disappointed. While finishing dinner, Iva and Bill, whom coincidentally we'd seen at Franny's the previous night, came over to tell us they were taking out Monte's cheesecake, which we hear is good. We wanted to take some home, too, but we were all felt somewhat discomfortable from overeating.

We'll go back to Monte's. The key is to eat basic and not overorder. I figured that out from one of Monte's philosophical tenets, which is proudly displayed on their menu: "We don't have fancy French names on our menu, so you don't need an interpreter to figure out what to eat." Never mind that all the menu items are in Italian.

Sunday morning

I've never taken a cooking class before. Everything I learned was from the Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook and How To Cook Everything. I wouldn't say I'm a great cook, but I know my way around a kitchen. For years Kitty and I have been talking about taking a class together. Last month, as a surprise, Luis signed him and me up, along with Kitty and Tim and Walter and Gregg, for a class at the Institute of Culinary Education called "Comfort Foods."

Fifteen of us sat around a large stainless steel prep table while our instructor, Richard, ran through each of the 10 recipes we'd be making in the next 4 hours. I'd neglected to have breakfast or even caffeine, so I was a little grumpy for 10:00 a.m. Sunday morning. The class, it turned out, was not so much instructional as hands-on. We'd split into two teams, and each team would make every item on the recipe list, time permitting.

While explaining the ingredients for Split Pea Soup, Richard pulled out a rutabaga, a spherical white and purple root vegetable with a waxy coating, to show the class. In supermarkets I'd seen rutabagas advertised as turnips and vice versa, and although I knew they were different I didn't know whether the difference was semantic or structural. So I asked Richard what the difference was.

"The difference is huge!" he said, looking at me as if I'd said I never heard of Elvis. "One is Eastern European and sweet, and the other is Asian and bitter." That was enough of an explanation for me, and I should have stopped, but instead I said, "Well, I grew up in Brooklyn, and all my mother ever made were turnips, so I never had rutabagas." Richard's eyes grew wide. "Well, if you grew up anywhere in the New York metropolitan area, you can get rutabagas anywhere...even at Associated," he said, looking at me, as though Associated were a store for hobos. I wanted to haul off and punch him, but instead I just turned red and sarcastically said, "Thanks so much."

"I hate this guy," Luis whispered to me.

"You?" I said.

After familiarizing ourselves with the recipes, which included Chicken Shepherd's Pie, Standing Rib Roast with Bread Stuffing, Root Vegetable Stew, Creamed Spinach, Whipped Feta Potatoes, Macaroni and Cheese, Silky Chocolate Pie, we set to work cooking. I worked first on the Silky Chocolate Pie, melting the chocolate, cream, and sugar in a double boiler until smooth. A teenage girl on the other team, who looked like a Far Side character, already had a gooey chocolate glop in her saucepan. She called over several other people to help her, but the mixture kept getting thicker and goopier.

I didn't stick around to see whether they straightened things out. The pace became slightly frenetic. As I folded the whipped cream into the chocolate mixture, Richard came by to observe. "Beat it, beat it harder and faster," he said. "Ooh, baby," I said, mock suggestively. "Family show," he said, walking away and fake smiling at me as I narrowed my eyes.

Each team had to figure out how to divide up labor without descending into an episode of I Love Lucy. Gregg and Kitty were light years ahead in prepping. Luis was relegated to making the creamed spinach, which turned out fabulous. The other team burned theirs.



I mostly ended up prepping, pulling thyme leaves from their stems, chopping root vegetables, and checking for doneness. At times I felt like I wasn't doing much, or that I was on an episode of Beat The Clock. Much of the time was spent trying to figure out who had done what so far and where things were.

By the end of the class I didn't hate Richard so much. I felt bad for him for trying to be Bobby Flay. The class was better suited to advanced cooks, which I would say I am not. I may take a class to learn how to take a cooking class.

Miraculously, all the food was ready by 1:00. We all moved into an adjoining room, elegantly set with white linens, silver, and crystal, and ate our preparations. Everything was delicious, and Richard complimented everyone on their skills. Once the split pea soup passed my lips, I immediately knew the difference between a rutabaga and a turnip, and that was comforting to me.

Sunday night

Walking into Sea Thai Bistro, in Williamsburg, is like stepping onto an Asian version of the set of Barbarella. I half-expected to see Jane Fonda, in miniskirt and go-go boots, rocking in the plastic bubble swing near the door. In the center of the restaurant is a reflecting pool with a seated Buddha.



We picked up Judith in Park Slope and Glenn and Derrick in East Crapass, as we not-so-affectionately call East Williamsburg and headed to the hipster doofusville section of Williamsburg. Since it was Super Bowl Sunday and Sea is not a sports bar, getting a table, normally difficult, was a breeze.

Given the campiness of the decor, I expected the dishes to be similarly wacky, but they were conservatively Thai in comparison. The dumplings were soft and delicate, and the shrimp hotpot was tasty and satisfying.

Even the bathrooms were kitschy: tall, cylindrical, industrial pods reminiscent of the Orgasmatron in Woody Allen's Sleeper. After a weekend of comfort food consumption, I felt vindicated by the scene in Sleeper in which two scientists thaw out Woody Allen's Miles Monroe after a 200-year deep freeze and puzzle over a list of items he sold at his health-food store in Greenwich Village:

Dr. Melik: ... wheat germ, organic honey and ... tiger's milk.
Dr. Aragon: Oh, yes. Those are the charmed substances that some years ago were thought to contain life-preserving properties.
Dr. Melik: You mean there was no deep fat? No steak or cream pies or... hot fudge?
Dr. Aragon: [chuckling] Those were thought to be unhealthy... precisely the opposite of what we now know to be true.
Dr. Melik: Incredible!