vip in the city, page 48

J’s flight into town — unlike mine — came in on schedule, so after I retrieved her at the airport, we were off. Grand Canyon, here we come! The four-hour drive north brought us through the Sonoran desert, deep into a landscape that changed from cacti and brush to snow-capped mountains.

Once at the park, we checked in at our Lodge, and headed straight to the Bright Angel just in time to register for our mule rides the following morning. After clearing our required weigh-in, we collected our canteens and bright yellow “Mule Rider” windbreakers, and then spent some time exploring the South Rim trail, just taking in our surroundings.

The sun was setting over the Canyon, and it was a majestic sight.

A few weeks before our trip, SC pointed me to a timely travel piece the New York Times did on Scottsdale, in which was featured local shopping mecca, Phoenix Ranch Market. Described as a “a 53,000-square-foot emporium of groceries featuring a food court full of Mexican goodies,” the superstores are part of a chain of the California-based supermercado empire of Pro and Sons.

On the way to PHX, I stopped in at the South Phoenix branch, the first of the half-dozen Valley-area Latino markets to open. As described, it was a Disneyland for Mexican-food junkies: complete sensory overload from the moment I pulled into the parking lot. Loud music blared from the speakers indoors and out, delicious cooking and baking smells, and bright, multi-colored displays of a dizzying variety of goods I’d heretofore only ever encountered in limited doses.

The carnicería (butcher shop) comprised the entire length of one side, and was loaded with almost every part of cow and pig imaginable: everything from the standard prepackaged steaks and loins, to less common stacks of long, lolling tongues and one whole, skinless beef head.

At the opposite end of the market was the produce area, impressive in its sheer abundance. Overflowing piles of limes, squash, tomatillos and the like… barrels of sugarcane, yuca root, jicama, bundles of cinnamon sticks and every variety of dried chile pepper I could think of.

In between, there were aisles upon aisles of specialty food items (where I picked up some treats), a cheese shop, a pescadería (seafood shop) and a hulking steel tortilla-making machine churning out neat rounds along a swiftly-moving conveyer belt.

I easily could have spent an hour or more here, exploring the possibilities, but time was of the essence, so I made my way to La Cocina (“the kitchen”) — really more of a cafeteria-style dining area with grill and steam table offerings, sopas (soups), tacos, burritos, tortas…

It all smelled divine. After some dithering (and valiant attempts at speaking Spanish), I finally decided upon a pair of hefty meat, queso fresco, chile and avocado-loaded tortas for me and J.  They just seemed the most manageably portable option.  I started into mine at one of the picnic-style tables, in full view of the straw-roofed agua fresca  stand, where cheery women were ladling out juice libations from multi-hued jugs. Had I not been already stuffed like a piñata from just my half-sandwich, I wouldn’t have made it past the adjacent panadería (bakery) with its mouth-watering displays of tres leches cakes, churros, and an endless supply of sweetbreads.

The woman from whom we got last night’s terrific dinner recommendation tipped me off to a celebration taking place in downtown Scottsdale this morning: the Parada del Sol, which I’ve seen translated as a “walk in the sun” but which I think actually means “stopping of the sun.” (Maybe one of you native Spanish-speakers can help me out here…)

However you define it, the month-long event takes place annually in “The West’s Most Western Town,” and culminates in a parade along Scottsdale Road, featuring over 150 entries (including marching bands, floats, musicians and dancers) and nearly 1,000 horses, earning the Parada del Sol the distinction as the World’s Largest Horse Drawn Parade.

I didn’t have to meet J’s plane until 1, and besides, as well-documented in this blog, I love a parade. This town of a quarter-million people — 7th best place to lve in the country — did not disappoint. By Saturday at 10AM, the brightly sunny Old Town streets were lined with spectators: families and retirees, young couples with schoolchildren, gaggles of teenagers, more than a few cowboy hats… and me, clicking away.

Five judges were on hand to judge the entrants in categories including: authentic Western vehicle, honor guard, mounted Western group, musical marching group, nonmusical marching group, and school band.

Girl Scout cookies for sale! I could not pass up a box of Thin Mints – my favorite, and their best seller.

I did not stay through to the finale for the “Trail’s End” afterparty, featuring an art show, Old West gunfights, pony rides, and music performances. Off to the airport…

SC slipped out before dawn to catch her flight back to New York City. I rose at my leisure a couple of hours later, and toted some CAGNY water out to the resort grounds to take in a few moments of solitude and luxury before I was to meet J for the somewhat less swanky portion of the trip.

I caught a faint whiff of mesquite in the air as I enjoyed the vistas of the McDowell Mountains in the distance on this sunny, clear morning. Things were off to a fine start.

After another Thursday of working late into the night, it wasn’t worth attempting to catch a scant couple hours of sleep before my flight. The SuperShuttle arrived at my front door promptly at 5:25AM for the ride out to JFK through dark, quiet Manhattan streets. The city always looks so beautiful right before dawn.

Left to my own devices, I’d probably end up racing like a maniac through the airport terminals, barely squeezing past the closing plane doors, but SuperShuttle was having none of that. I requested the latest possible pick-up time allowed, and still  arrived on site well over two hours in advance; even after checking in and passing through security (adhering strictly to the TSA’s 3-1-1 rule), I had plenty of time to savor my Venti Decaf Soy Chai Latte  before boarding. (Did I really order that? Ugh. Damn you, Starbucks.)

The flight to Phoenix was delayed not once, but twice: first when the pilot was late getting to the airport — a passenger’s heart attack(!) on his prior flight forced an emergency landing in Los Angeles — and then when we had to sit on the tarmac while mechanics checked out the plane, following an aborted take-off attempt. Not the most confidence-inspiring begininning. Still, these delays were nothing approaching Jet-Blue proportions, and after over 24 hours of wakefulness, I was passed out in my seat anyway, mercifully missing most of the in-flight movie, Marie Antoinette.

On the approach to Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport:

At the Rental Car Center, I was delayed by another hour when my reserved car was not available for pick-up, in a scenario strongly reminiscent of a Seinfeld episode. (“See, you know how to take  the reservation, you just don’t know how to hold   the reservation… and that’s really the most important part of the reservation: the holding.”) To compensate for the snafu, the agency offered me a free upgrade to a fierce-faced steel blue Dodge Charger, which appeared to have been driven directly from assembly line to rental lot, dealer stickers and all. As I slid into the driver’s seat, the odometer registered just 1 mile.

Oh, how I miss driving. Friday rush hour traffic, not so much.

Poor SC had been waiting for me at the resort most of the afternoon, so by the time I arrived, we were eager to make use of what remained of the day. After consulting briefly with the concierge, we were advised that after 6PM, our choices were pretty limited outside the local mall.

We decided to take our chances in Old Town Scottsdale instead. The concierge was not exaggerating: despite the temperate early evening climate, the public art-lined streets were eerily devoid of pedestrians, and as SC and I wandered among the few shops open “late” that night, the town’s near-empty shuttle bus inched past us several times, slowing to offer us rides along the six block stretch of galleries. Being New Yorkers, we declined.

Back at home, it’s not unusual to stroll into a restaurant for dinner at 9 or 10PM, but we suspected that such nocturnal grazing might not fly here in Scottsdale. Some of the local hotspots seemed to be already hitting their peak… at 7PM! On a Friday night! (I had the exact opposite experience in Buenos Aires where the restaurants don’t start filling until at least 10PM.) Taking a tip from Rachael Ray, we decided to “ask a local” for a dinner recommendation. The sweet, but arithmetically-impaired cashier at one of the art district shops swore by her favorite special occasion restaurant, Sixth Avenue Bistrot. SC’s and my finding time in our schedules for this abbreviated getaway was deemed special enough, so off we went.

Tucked along a curvy, quiet street off the main thoroughfare, we entered the dimly lit restaurant to find just a few of the other candle-lit tables occupied. Hmm. Most of our fellow diners appeared to be devoted regulars, though — generally a good sign. We should not have doubted our local expert: as she promised, the service was attentive and charming, and we thoroughly enjoyed our classic dishes of bœuf bourguignon  and coq au vin. To Chef François, I say: Bravo!  To SC, I say: Merci beaucoup!

‘Til Tuesday. Have a good weekend!

We decided to kick it old school Chinatown for this Thursday’s lunch at Great N.Y. Noodletown. This cash-only restaurant on Bowery has long been a fixture of the after hours downtown dining crowd — long before Congee Village burst onto the scene, New York Noodletown (as it was then known) was a beacon, serving off-duty chefs and restaurant workers, post-gig musicians, jet-lagged tourists and late-night revelers until 4AM. (Oh, the stories…) New York   magazine named it one of their go-to places for “late night munchies.”

The ambience — such as it is — is created by the roasted meats and whole fowl hanging from hooks in the steamy front window, creaky chairs, perpetually crowded communal tables, high-school cafeteria lighting, and menus permanently slid under glass tabletops. But you’re not here for the ambience.

The restaurant is just up the block on Bayard from New Green Bo, and specializes in classic Cantonese cooking: Hong-Kong style noodle soups and roasted meats (though I prefer the char siu  at Big Wong on Mott — perhaps out of habit.) The salt-baked items — soft-shell crab, squid, shrimp — are reliably excellent, and their “Roast Duck with Flowering Chives” has some diehard devotees.

Foodies and locals rave about it. Great N.Y. Noodletown is one of food critic and Gourmet editor-in-chief Ruth Reichl‘s 25 favorite New York City restaurants. Top Chef winner Ilan Hall loves it (and Florent, too — my kind of guy, though fellow TC contestant Sam Talbot is one of the ten sexiest chefs in New York… er, according to Zink  magazine.)

Today, I was in the mood for a steaming bowl of congee with lean, marinated pork and preserved egg. Here, it’s done right with the chunks of blackened egg and slivers of seasoned pork slow-simmered in the congee until the ingredients mesh together beautifully — not merely tossed into the plain rice base at the final moment. So good, so comforting. No fried dough cruller today, though.

Great N.Y. Noodletown or New York Noodletown… it’s always been just “Noodletown” to me.

I met M for a preview screening of writer-director-producer Sue Kramer’s Gray Matters, starring Thomas Cavanagh (of Love Monkey — canceled after three episodes), Heather Graham (of Emily’s Reasons Why Not — canceled after one) and newly pregnant Bridget Moynahan (of Six Degrees — assumed canceled until ABC announced its return to the television schedule on March 23.)

We went into the theater knowing precious little about the movie plot, and after checking our names at the door, we spied the promotional poster with the tagline: A romantic comedy about a brother, a sister, and the girl of their dreams.

What the…?

I turned to M — MLF — brow furrowed quizzically. She glimpsed over, sheepishly at first, and as we dissolved into nervous, incredulous giggles, she began: “I swear, I didn’t know…!”

Undaunted, we took our seats and settled in as Kramer introduced her film. As she spoke, it was clear that her directorial debut was a labor of love; M later explained that the filmmaker, who has a husband and a daughter, made the romantic comedy to honor her gay sister. Kramer described the film as “a postcard to New York City,” and revealed that the film’s central whirlwind romance was inspired by her own and her parents’ marriages; as she told it, it was love at first sight for both couples. Aw.

With such sweet intentions, I was prepared to like the film. Cue opening panoramic shots of the Manhattan skyline (corny, but still pretty) and an opening dance sequence by siblings Graham and Cavanaugh (ditto, but Cheek to Cheek  remains one of my favorites.) So far, not bad. For a while, things seemed to glide along amiably enough, but then… well, think Woody Allen by way of Nora Ephron, with about half the wit. Maybe I’m just not a fan of Graham’s, but her Wide-Eyed Perky Blonde shtick felt particularly grating to me here. When Gray and her creepily co-dependent surgeon brother scout out Moynahan in Central Park, the (hetero) pair fall in love, and dash off to Vegas in record time, setting off a chain of events that leads to Gray’s eventual discovery of her own true sexuality: a gratuitous hot tub scene, a Gloria Gaynor sing-along (the whole song!) and the infamous kiss, viewed hundreds of thousands of times on YouTube by the GOGA-loving masses. To cap off the sitcom-ish feel, the scene of Gray’s too public outing seems to have been lifted almost directly from a decade-old Ellen  episode.

Thrown into the mix is a slumming Sissy Spacek, as Gray’s kooky bowling/rock-climbing shrink, Molly Shannon as Gray’s kooky co-worker, channeling… well, every kooky Molly Shannon character, and Alan Cumming as a Scottish cabdriver, who at one point is forced by contrivance to don a black cocktail dress, a string of pearls and a dowdy hat. (Naturally, this drag get-up fails to elicit the suspicions of any of the sophisticated lesbians in the girls-only bar.) Add it all together and it totals a 9%(!) approval rating.

Later, at the afterparty at sleekly swanky Manor (ne  Pink Elephant), M and I kicked back with icy tumblers of Jack and Coke Zeros. I can’t remember the last time I heard Bell Biv Devoe — the 56th greatest song since you were born. I’d recognize that intro anywhere.

February 22 marks the twentieth anniversary of Andy Warhol’s death, and to commemorate, The Carrozini von Buhler Gallery presents Andy Warhol: In His Wake, a group tribute exhibition of works by artists from Warhol’s Factory, artists who documented Warhol, and several who have been influenced by him. Through March 14, the MePa gallery will be transformed to recall Warhol’s infamous Silver Factory with aluminum foil and silver paint, disco mirror balls, mylar balloons, and silver tinsel streamer drapes.

William John Kennedy‘s trippy photographs of Warhol standing in a field of black-eyed susans succeeded in capturing a more private, vulnerable side of the artist, revealing a hippie-esque quality to Warhol that belies the artist’s known obsession with modern machinery.

Visual artist, illustrator, children’s book author, performer and gallery owner Cynthia von Buhler oversaw the festivities and stole the show with her tongue-in-cheek work. In a room accessible via a cut-out wooden door was a kinetic arcade of interactive sculptures, paintings and machines. The “Little Blast-O-Past” touts itself as a “Super Memory Inducing Dispenser.” The “Cynth-O-Matic” vending machine celebrates celebrity and commerce by dispensing plastic capsules containing actual samples taken from the artist’s body (menstrual blood, pubic hair, eyelashes, nail clippings, etc. Ick.)

In the main gallery space, von Buhler depicts Warhol’s disembodied mannequin head inside a fortune-telling machine (a la Zoltar in Big.) Her “Self-Portrait as Saint Sebastian (aka Self-less, She Who Has No Self)” explores the ways in which women are brought up differently from men, and the impact the differences have on their confidence and life goals. The provocative sculpture depicts a nude martyred woman, staring up in reverence at a glowing bottle of Mr. Clean — a Warholian altar of ironic product worship.

Just adjacent, a framed photograph of Andy Warhol and Rob Halford (Judas Priest) by British-born rock photographer Steve Joester.

Joester also had on display a pair of collages of Warhol and Mick Jagger, in an obvious tribute to Warhol’s style, and perhaps to Jagger, who was a frequent visitor of the Factory in its heyday.

Black and white photographs and colorful, Warhol-influenced art covered the walls as revelers of all ages mixed and mingled. I spied Factory artists Billy Name (in-house photographer and designer of the Factory), Ultra Violet (hard to miss with her shock of purple hair), and Ivy Nicholson (pictured below), who was a celebrated fashion model before she joined up with the original 231 East 47th Street Factory in 1964 to become one of Warhol’s starlets. (Subsequent Factory locations include 860 Broadway, near Union Square — now a Petco.)

There is no shortage of excellent dimsum places in Flushing’s Chinatown, but with J and J in town for the Chinese New Year weekend, Mom and Dad wanted to try someplace special. Or at least someplace different. That place was The Linden Place.

The restaurant space once housed a 25,000 square foot warehouse, nestled along a dreary stretch of road lined with parking lots and auto glass repair shops, a couple blocks east of the Van Wyck Expressway. Today, The Linden Place is one of the largest catering halls in the area. As we pulled up to the parking lot, we could not miss the fancy attempt at an entrance, featuring a banner frieze emblazoned with the restaurant name in Gothic font, and a set of similarly imprinted stairs leading up to the heavy double doors. Not my taste, but knowing that such weirdly gaudy touches will sometimes pass as shorthand for “upscale” in Chinese restaurants, I was willing to keep an open mind. But nothing could have prepared us for what lay within.

All I could say was: Yikes.

Inside was a gold-red explosion of faux tapestries, gilt-framed “paintings,” granite pillars, pasted-on ceiling “murals,” hollow resin-cast statues and urns… and the pièce de résistance, a disco-balled dance floor, over which perched a huge projection screen and Juliet terraces strung with multi-colored Christmas lights.

I’ll say it again: Yikes.

Dad explained that the aesthetic was probably a misguided attempt to recall the glamorous, colonial-era Shanghai, with its meshing of European-style décors.  In the years following the end of the Opium War, enclaves — concessions — of the city housed concentrations of British, French and Americans (also Japanese, Germans, and to a smaller extent: Italians, Belgians, Russians and Austro-Hungarians) who built up the area in the styles of their homeland. With the treaty-mandated opening of the city to European trade, Shanghai’s foreign population grew from 10,000 in 1910 to 60,000 by 1940. It was during this period that the great buildings that still line the Bund were erected. Once the most famous street in Asia, the Bund is comprised of 52 buildings of varying architectural style, including Art Deco, Gothic, Baroque, Romanesque, Neo-classical, Renaissance – though I would venture, never all at the same time, as on display here.

The over-the-top décor, though, was incidental to our lunch, and if nothing else, it served as a topic for animated table conversation. Together, we toasted in the Year of the Pig with dimsum (which was fine, but pricy) and J’s favorite nian gao — Chinese New Year sticky cakes.