After seeing Danny’s photos of the Vietnamese fare at Pho Grand, I’ve been determined to head over there to try the cutely packaged summer rolls and piping hot noodle dishes.  The restaurant’s sloping roof and wide wood paneling resembled that of a ski chalet more than it did a Chinatown hole-in-the-wall. Though instead of bunny slope babes in tight snow pants (a fashion phenomenon I never understood), there are surly, deadpan waitresses whose no-bullshit service gets you in and out of the place in 20 minutes. I’ll take business over bimbo any day, especially when it comes to mealtime.

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I like the esoteric playfulness behind Traif, the new pork-centric, small plates-only eatery situated near the entrance to the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn. Despite its stone’s throw proximity to the neighborhood’s Hasidic enclave, it seems the restaurant’s Semitic inside joke is still fairly exclusionary — our waitress’s wide blue eyes, fair hair, and button nose were a pretty clear indication that she’d never been hoisted in a rickety chair in her sweet, Midwestern life.  And from the looks of the other apple pie faces crowding the establishment, bacon’s current hipness in the foodie world, rather than its blasphemous role in the Kosher one, is Traif’s primary lure.

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Today’s weather did not make the long-holiday-weekend-to-work transition any smoother. This morning’s stifling heat made me uncharacteristically angry at a cute baby who mistook my turquoise headphones for playthings.  I’m usually angry during my morning commute to work, though this indignation is almost never directed at babies.

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A few months ago my mother discovered that Lidia Bastianich was heading to my hometown of Toms River, NJ to perform a cooking demonstration.  Mom excitedly snagged tickets — nothing of the sort ever happens in Toms River, unless you count the roving carny trailers that set up shop in the Ocean County Mall’s parking lot every summer. After attending this embarrassingly disorganized event (Lidia’s culinary exhibition, not the seasonal circus), it’s pretty understandable why Crystal Lil’s has been the only game in town thus far:

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This week, I’ve actually been pretty glad that my bosses didn’t spring for leather desk chairs. I can feel the sweat creeping through my porous polo shirt and shorts (Bermuda shorts; I’m no office hoochie), but luckily the seat’s cushy upholstery won’t claim my sticky top layer of skin when I stand up. I do wish my superiors would jack up the A/C, though. Despite yesterday’s equally lethal heat and humidity, I decided to take a little 10+ block lunch excursion to No. 7 Sub. I’d been wanting to go since it opened and was especially enticed by the olive oil poached tuna and broccoli sandwiches.

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After an IKEA furniture assembly mishap, I headed over to Tea Lounge to relax and read over a pot of decaf. That was a no-go; the bearded dudes setting up saxophones, violins, and microphones sent me straight for the door. The next closest cafe I could think of was Cocoa Bar, a handful of blocks south on 7th Ave. There were two empty suede couches in the front of the store (cha-ching), so I ordered a chocolate chip cookie and cinnamon hot chocolate to wash it down.

Both were disappointing — I took two bites/sips and left the rest over, which is something I NEVER do. (I once picked a dead fly out of a cup of Italian ice and continued to eat my dessert. I’ve got a pretty high threshold when it comes to food.) The cocoa wasn’t really a liquid.  The consistency was viscous, its burnt taste and chalky texture lingering on my tongue long after I had taken a swig. The cookie was no different from those available at Starbucks and Guy & Gallard. Each leaden bite separated into dry, bland crumbs.

Can anybody get a slice of rhubarb pie in this town?

A couple weeks ago I went to Pies ‘n’  Thighs in Williamsburg, the fried chicken and pie establishment whose name also functions as a suitable porno title. The menu’s rhubarb pie option was my main reason for going, not only because I love the tangy fruit (a classification that Wikipedia just confirmed for me), but I suppose I’ve succumbed to the crimson deluge of rhubarb crisps, pies, and crumbles on food blogs lately.  The fried chicken platter I ordered for dinner, priced at a fair $11, consisted of 3 generous hunks of chicken (I believe I got 2 breasts and a thigh) and a side of cheese-and-tabasco-covered elbow noodles that encompassed half the plate. The chicken was a pleasant surprise — it was crisp and juicy (especially that fattier dark meat that I prefer), and infinitely more satisfying than the overpriced ($25!) fried chicken dinner at the lauded Blue Ribbon.

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