Sinanation

Hope you can make it…Call 212 751 3036 for reservations.

I accidentally ran into this exotic patisserie in the Rockefeller Center and took the plunge in with the urge to try something new. Minimoto Kitchoan is a Japanese confectioneries store (“wagashi”) for tea ceremonies.

With numerous weird, but delicious looking deserts showcased inside separate glass displays, the place reminds one of an exquisite candy store. Make sure you talk to the ladies and read the descriptions inside to make the best selection among numerous tiny deserts made with chestnuts.

I am not going to deny that I go to Cipriani Downtown for the scene (but I also love the food). I haven’t written about it until today because of its obvious popularity. From locals to tourists, this place is always packed with more fur, jewelry, make-up and attitude than any other New York restaurant you can think of. Multiple languages blend into one another somewhere around the high ceilings of the dining room. The extremely happy Cuban mister with a huge cigar and smile winks at the tables from his over-sized frame. The famous carefully-suited managers of the place are always welcoming and courteous. Outside seating is available as long as there isn’t a rain or snow storm. Everyone has a story here. Some are easy to write and others take further investigation to put together. One day you might be eating next Arturo Di Modica (the sculptor of the famous Charging Bull on Wall St.) and the next you might be rubbing shoulders with an emerging model testing her “trophy wife skills”. You are at a pretentious museum of people and you are also on display. You detest the idea but you can’t resist the stalking and the attention.

The menu might not compete with the scenery but it is still good enough to make you want to come back for your favorite dish. The prices are obviously unreasonable, but should be expected from Italians who know how to play the flashy fame game so brilliantly. The Bellini is the best in the city, but make sure you know when to stop. The fried calamari, the artichoke salad, the baked tagliatelle and the seafood risotto (with a portion comfortably enough for two) are delicious.

You can do without the deserts. A single shot of espresso with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream on the side should do the trick.

Cipriani Downtown is located at 376 W. Broadway (between Broome and Spring).

Frank Sinatra once said “I want to wake up in a city that never sleeps” and pointed towards New York. Since then New York’s lights have never faded. 24 hours a day and 7 days a week there was one city that had something to do, someone to be with and some place to have fun. Sinatra might have gone a little too far.

There have been days when I thought the whole city was asleep. I would be comfortably positioned behind the TV, desperate yet unsuccessful to find a “partner-in-crime” or an event to take on the city. This was especially the case on Monday nights. Known as the nightmare of the workers, the first work day after an extremely peaceful and lazy Sunday had to have some kind of a plan to look forward to. Sinatra definitely forgot to mention that even in “the city that never sleeps” such plans are very hard to find.

This is where my friends Daniel and Derek Koch come in.

These two unbelievably driven event managers/promoters have been on the backstage of some of the best events I have been to in this city. I met them as waiters and watched them grow into managers of their own entertainment company, Day & Night. From happy hours, dinners to benefits, they have been working hard to make sure Sinatra’s lyrics rely on hard evidence. They decorated the dreams of women who brunched at Le Bilboquet on Saturdays. They amazed the gourmets with a delicious menu at their Jour et Nuit restaurant. They made sunglasses a fashion at Merkato 55 & Bijoux to hide from the sparkles fired up on Rose and Champagne bottles.

I fell in love with their model bouncers. I climbed on tables to dance to their DJs. We celebrated birthdays and we cried to farewells at their events. I have been there because they have never ceased to value personal attention.

They are still on fire Saturdays with their brunch at Revel in meatpacking, but I have been bugging both for a while to put together an event that can ease the pain of Mondays. The happy news came unexpectedly. They prepare to take on La Zarza (166 First Ave. between 10th and 11th st.) with two DJs from Madrid, Spain and a crowd that is ready to let it loose.

Hope to see you there. Party starts March 1st.

I had to share this quote as it grabs onto my inner feelings about the city “that never sleeps”, the city that has been my home for more than 3 years. It is a short paragraph with much longer meanings written by my dear friend, Nichol Alexander, for his descriptive piece on Johnny’s Bar (90 Greenwich Ave., between Jane and W. 12th St.), his favorite place in Manhattan.

I was born in NY. And I love it. But I also know enough to know, it’s a fucking horrible city, drowning in a pestilence of unsustainable capitalist angst. Velvet ropes holding back the 20 year old sluts in short dresses trying to fuck the next partner at Goldman, meatheads and uberhipsters chasing a pair of legs or a purer line of powder in the bathroom. The streets are crowded by ceaseless illusions. Strippers on stages. Restless competition. A neverending stream of unforgivable trespasses. Infinite objectification, specialization, untraceable trends; it is a city designed to destroy love and make simplicity complicated and everything commercial.

You can find the whole article at The Bar I Drink At.

I remember the days when I used to go nuts seeing it snow outside. I would run from one side of the house to the other to see how well it was covering the surface. Happiness and excitement would flow out of my eyes. I would be a Formula 1 driver with my socks, gliding like a maniac on the wooden floors. My only wish would be to hear the governor close the schools the next day. Only then the real fun would begin. With the company of a few friends we would take on the white powder with multi layers of ski outfits. Our cheeks pumped with blood and our hands and feet soaking wet, we would become the Eskimos of the urban life. On the way back home, we would jump up and down to get rid of the snow stuck on us and take the leap into our beds after hours of snowman projects, snowball fights and trekking.

Along the years snow stayed the same, but I, unwillingly, have changed. I still think of the aftermath whenever I see snow outside the window, but from a completely different point of view. I now think of the mess that is going to be on the pavements the next day. The harmless beautiful white snow will turn into harsh ice and then melt into an annoying grey slush. Shoes will be ruined. Socks and pants will be soaking wet. Within all the crazy pavement traffic in Manhattan, we will once again be challenged with successfully solving an extra equation while walking. We will be forced to calculate the best routes to avoid falling down and/or getting wet on the corner of each block.

I am still a big fan of the snow, but I now have to be in parks or on ski slopes to let the kid in me take control.

Set out for a weekend of skiing, we drove down to Pennsylvania, to the mighty Pocono Mountains. There is actually nothing mighty about it. Set just a few kilometers off the I-80, Poconos reminds one nothing more than a hilltop creamed with a mix of natural and man-made snow. Still, with only a 1.5 hour drive from Manhattan, this place seems to be the most convenient “Alpine skiing” for a New Yorker.

Blame it on the low altitude and our persistence to disregard the weather reports, Poconos greeted us with heavy rain. Thus, we weren’t left with any other option but to try out the Sunset Hill shooting range, located 15 minutes away from the ski resort. Excluding one friend who has been there once before, we were too clueless to have any expectations on this vicious activity. Scarface, Lord of War, the Last Action Hero and numerous other action movies were there to misguide us to what we were going to witness in real life.

The shooting range on the horizon, we were perplexed with the sound coming from the other side of the wooden fence. It was smashing through the windows and rocketing into our ears without any welcome. Without a glimpse of this heart-pounding sound’s source, we galloped into the cabin where we would sign in to observe and test. Huge ear muffs blocking the sound and large plastic glasses protecting the eyes, we moved into a lethal weapon heaven. Above a carpet of used bullets, children to grandfathers, everyone was there to bring out the Agent 47 inside them. They were all eyes and ears, carefully observing every move of their instructors. From AK-47s to sniper guns, the sexiest lethal weapons of our time were proudly displayed  in their sections. Cold, crisp, determined and too light for the purpose they serve, each gun was ready to be fired. Overwhelmed with power, confused by accessibility and surprised by the difficulty of hitting the targets, we tried to understand a world we observed only through the media and the movies. We were so far away, but yet so close. The gun scenes on the white screen became a joke. The reality of wars became heavier than ever.

Seeing Broadway shows become the most favorite activity whenever my aunt is in town. Musicals are the only preference. No exceptions can be made for dramas, even if they include famous Hollywood actors or actresses in the cast. A Little Night Music would have been no exception if it wasn’t a musical. On top of all, the appearance of Catherine Zeta-Jones was the best excuse not to miss it.

Set at the turn of the last century, A Little Night Music interweaves a tangled web of former and current lovers among the upper crust elite of Sweden. Esteemed lawyer Fredrik Egerman has recently married a young virgin, Anne, whom his son, Henrik, has also fallen madly in love. Fredrik’s dedication to his blushing bride is tested when he reunites with a former flame, the famed (and fading) actress Desiree Armfeldt. Things grow more complicated when her jealous (and married) lover Count Carl-Magnus Malcolm gets wind of the reunion. The coupling and uncoupling comes to a head when Desirée convinces her mother to host Fredrik and his family for a weekend on her lavish country estate—and the Count, with wife in tow, crashes the party.

Despite an extremely predictable storyline, I enjoyed watching A Little Night Music because of the incredible performance by Angela Lansbury (as Madame Armfeldt) and Catherine Zeta-Jones (as Desiree Armfeldt).

It was actually a big surprise to see Angela Lansbury, whom I have always enjoyed watching on the T.V. series “Murder, She Wrote”, pop out on the stage during the first act. I wasn’t familiar with her name, but recognized the face right away. The way she portrays Madame Armfeldt, an aristocratic Swede in the midst of extinction, is impeccable. Lansbury’s British accent should be treated as a national treasure. Catherine Zeta-Jones, as the wild, frisky daughter of Madame Armfeldt, also portrays a great performance. It seems she has found the perfect character for herself on stage with her fiery moves and passionate looks.

Like all the other musicals, A Little Night Music has a little too many songs and dances. The first act, which takes a little less than 1.5 hours, can be easily shortened to an hour. For example, the song about the journey to the countryside is unnecessarily long. There is also the fact that some scenes are too heavy to be decorated with singing and dancing. Such a scene is a death the audience witnesses towards the end of the musical.

A Little Night Music at the Walter Kerr Theatre (48th between 7th and 8th Ave.)

Do not be fooled by its rather simple name. This place is as sophisticated as it gets when it comes to food. I finally had a great occasion to test it out and it turned out better than expected. Start with the Sliced Cara Cara Oranges and then either go for the Grilled Lamb Chops or the Pappardelle with Mortadella. Remember to make a reservation for dinner. Walk-ins are ok for lunch.

Union Square Cafe: 21 E. 16th St. (between 5th Ave. and University Place)

I am not a candle person. Don’t get me wrong, like many I enjoy the candlelight or fireplace when the occasion calls for it. I just hate dealing with hundreds of tealight candles or the preparation for lighting a fireplace. Some of my friends love the process. They become Casanovas in touch with their feminine side, lighting each tealight candle one by one delicately until they turn dark rooms into love shacks. I skip that whole ceremony, but I still can’t deny the importance of a good scented candle in the living room (especially if you have smokers or talented garlic/onion lover chefs as visitors). In the adventures I have taken to find a good candle, the Anthropologie stores have been lifesavers.