Apron Anxiety

Here’s the “Best Meals of 2011” story I mentioned.

Photo by: Jen Gotch

What was your best food memory this year? I have to answer that for a magazine article. First thing that comes mind (having nothing to do w/ the photo above/I just like it) is a fresh out-of-the-oven almond croissant from Almondine, with a café au lait, sitting alone by the water, after days of stress, sleep deprivation and a sad, empty stomach.  But perhaps that’s too simple. Tell me yours…

Forgive my slackerly behavior…

The last few months have been the busiest, and I think maybe hardest, of my life! Honestly, the next time the universe shows its sharp edges, remind me that I survived July-October of 2011. But barely!

Finishing the book, combined with starting this torpedo-like job, plus the usual NYC warfare, was collectively so much more lethal than I ever imagined. Weeks of euphoria cut with sleeplessness, insecurity, ego trip, celebration, isolation, an overload of scintillating and scary new people all (justifiably) judging…

From the chefs to superstars to colleagues to friends to more than friends…some of whom I loved for hours or hated inexhaustibly; who shared strong words and stronger whiskey; who took my breath - and my judgement - and once, my trust - away. Thank god it all happened during Breaking Bad and raspberry season, otherwise I would not have survived.

I really do like my new job, even though I want to die every time I realize that I can’t visit the ocean without “getting approval” or spend Tuesdays at the movies just because my body says so. Outside the office: I love my shorter hair, my wonderful wench of a city, the fact that I get great tables at showoff restaurants, and empty seats on busy subways.

There are certainly days when I’m sure I’d be happier in a simpler silhouette than this. Get married/have babies/be normal. Or at least some scenario that involves an occasional good night’s sleep. But more often, I’m thinking that I actually want to live harder, faster, freakier. Run away/fuck the rules/find bliss. But that’s the inner-battle I’ve always had, and maybe, probably, you do too. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here…

Whatever! Who needs restaurant recommendations?

Autumn found us, work started, Irene came, 9/11 stung, edits ended, friends were made, romance was had. I’ve experienced extraordinary meals, sheer exhaustion, a disastrous flood, a naughty night out, a shit-ton of expensive oysters, dirt cheap (and crazy good) Cambodian num pang, and awkward encounters with Alec Baldwin and Owen Wilson. Love working at Grub Street, dream job, but my free time is precious like never before. It seems I have only a matter of minutes for non-work related pleasure. So I choose wisely.

On the tenth year anniversary of 9/11, a day that has forged my childhood friends together forever, because of the loss of one of us, I roamed around SoHo, avoiding the news and televised tributes. I appreciate it, but Bloomberg has nothing to do with my wounds. So, I grazed the streets, ate croissants, kept it light. At night, I had a press event at Prune. Everyone tweeted and gossiped, and the scene was pretty fab, even by my jaded standards. After the meal, I wanted to walk off dinner. These days, walking everywhere is my only hope for non-obesity.

Somehow, I ended up at Washington Square Park, lured by a large group of weirdos twirling in slow-motion to some music. Inside the circle was a straggly but intense jam session. I’m still not sure if the musicians were famous rockstars or local homeless. But the music. Oh! It was transformative. Especially on 9/11.

The first song I heard was Sittin’ on the doc of the bay. One of my favorites (and so nostalgic!). And then, Love is All You Need, and even some Lionel Richie, which was a trip. But when a gypsy-faced man, with a deep, heartsick voice, led us into Chris Isaak’s I wanna fall in love, I lost it. At three o’clock in the morning, I sang, sobbed and swayed alone, but not, in the park. Like a lunatic, a lost girl, and a New York City survivor, I let it all go…

The world was on fire; no one could save me but you…

Read more …

Last night, a friend took me to Lupa for a congratulatory dinner, celebrating my first week as the New York Editor for New York Magazine’s Grub Street. (Oh yeah, did you hear!?)

We shared sublime salads of summer corn and tomatoes, primis like peppery bavette and lemony linguine, secondis of whole fish and short-ribs, and gelato of melon and mint. The rosé flowed, the chef sent surprises, sexless couples stared us down, and my dark, handsome friend — who I should be so lucky to sit across from — insisted on the bill. 

And all along, I was terrible company.

It’s not that the food wasn’t uplifting (oh it was!), but with everything going on, my inner-over-thinker just couldn’t sit down, slap a linen napkin on its lap, eat an olive, and enjoy the moment. 

The new job is the coolest thing to happen to my professional livelihood, and there is no doubt whatosever that I can conquer it one lobster salad saga and suspected speakeasy at a time. But going back to the grind is nothing short of an electrical shock. I mean, I have to wear outfits now, and ask permission before fleeing the country, and try not to say inappropriate things in front of politically correct co-workers and eager, impressionable interns. 

And the book, Apron Anxiety, is getting done, but it’s taking its toll. I was so happy to read Molly Wizenberg’s post on Orangette today about the two part recipe of ecstasy and anguish entailed in writing a memoir. It’s a dream, of course, but an isolating one.

To be totally honest, I’m not sure how much time I’ll have for home-cooking right now, as I adjust to a job that plunkers me deep into the heart of the NYC restaurant world. Hopefully, I’ll gravitate to my own culinary wonderland on the weekends, but we’ll have to see how the symphony plays out. It’s not like my adventures in food are slowing down in this never-sleeping, always-eating, pull-up-a-chair-mamasita city… that’s for sure. 

So stick with me. It’s because of this blog that all these good things have come to life (or so I choose to believe). And even though I was an ungrateful little girl last night, I’m not going to be one here. xxAlyssa

I’m in Ireland, where skin is dewy, hair is horrific, and itchy wool sweaters are the flirty, flowery sundresses - even in August. It’s chilly, rainy and perfectly unglam here. The Irish are the nicest people I’ve ever met (growing up with the Egan family, I already knew this) and the potatoes, every which way imaginable, just don’t get old. When I’m back I have a wee bit of news for everyone, but until then… Cheers!