A "Schmaltzy" Evening in Greenwich Village

A tagine pan, a hand-crank meat grinder, and borscht…all rather pedestrian things, but to some of the storytellers at “Village Schmaltzy” these evoke a storehouse of memories. Memories of eras and people, now long gone, but still impactful enough to counsel and advise from the beyond. The stories have embedded themselves into lives like a sign left by a signet ring on a dollop of hot wax that was dripped onto the flap of an envelope. These memories left their mark, and on a misty, drizzly evening in New York City, they flooded the room and enveloped us as a group of people who work with food, write about food, and just love food, listened and related them to the stories in our own heads.

One of the pleasures of working from home is that on days that are chilly, damp, and grey, you can huddle in your home office and thank your stars that you don’t have to venture out into the wilds. And so it was for me a few nights ago, until I remembered that I had purchased a ticket to “Schmaltzy.” How could I pass up an event sponsored by The Jewish Food Society, an organization that wants to preserve Jewish heritage through food and bills this event as being “kind of like the Moth, but with knishes?”

David Lebovitz

It was more than appropriate that this foodie event was held in a Greenwich Village brownstone known as the Salmagundi Club — the name salmagundi being attributed to a stew that was served to the many artists and students who were members back in the late 1800s. We were a group of about 50, drinking our “Schmaltzy Cocktails" in a grand room in this very regal Italianate-style building, standing very close together, amidst walls that were covered with paintings. And there, out of the corner of my eye, I spied David Lebovitz. He was not a speaker, but like me, a listener and an eater. When you work with food, you never tire of hearing about.

How could I pass up an event sponsored by The Jewish Food Society that bills itself as being “kind of like the Moth, but with knishes?”

We were promised five dishes and five stories from Greenwich Village residents for whom food is life, with the stories being the “amuse bouche” of the evening. The wonderful appetizer was most definitely the iconic New York Times restaurant critic, Mimi Sheraton. The diminutive Ms Sheraton (I don’t know why I expected her to be “bigger”) regaled us with her memories of her days living on 12th Street amongst other culinary notables like Madhur Jaffrey and James Beard. “Most everything is celebrated or mourned over a meal,” she said, adding that when her mother would hear of a death in the family, her response was usually, “I’ll call the butcher.” Her remembrance of cold borscht on a hot day, when she announced to her parents that she was going to marry Clark Gable (she was eight at the time) was priceless, and the vision of the pink borscht splashing out of the bowl when her disapproving father banged on table brought back memories similar to the “loud” meals in my own parents’ home.

Mimi Sheraton

I don’t believe that the featured chefs and restaurateurs were truly writers by trade, but as they spoke of the people in their lives who served as teachers and mentors, they waxed poetic. Their words came alive with color and texture and emotion. It’s ironic that those who had the biggest influence on them were not famous by any stretch of the imagination—they were not celebrity chefs—they were family—mothers and grandmothers. Old school educators who taught them by doing and infused their lives, not just with sugar and spice, but with love and care. These speakers came from all areas of the globe—from Israel to Brooklyn, and their teachers came from such vastly different places as Russia and Egypt and Morocco, but the essence of their experiences were similar enough they may well have all grown up on the same street.

Clove Rugelach from Zucker Bakery

Following the heartfelt stories came the fruits of their labor. From Nir Mesika, who cooked shakshuka for everyone at his grandmother’s shiva, we had her Egyptian Sofrito, a hearty short rib and potato stew. Stacey Harwood-Lehman brought her Kasha Varnishkas, glistening with fat and studded with onions and mushrooms. Ed Schoenfeld brought his crackling, crisp Pastrami Eggrolls. Zohar Zohar, who said people love her bakery because it smells like home, brought her chocolate striped Clove Rugelach, and Marissa Lippert brought her grandmother Bebe’s Apple Kuchen. Each dish brought to the event its own flavor and story, but could it be possible that because we knew the story, the flavor was even more heightened? Could it have been that because each bite carried with it a tradition and history that spanned miles and generations that the food tasted even better? Do we appreciate food more when we can almost feel all the symbolic hands that created it? Absolutely! The food we feasted on at “Schmaltzy” was anything but—it was magical. A rainy night did not stand a chance against all that.

Nir Mesika of Timna Restaurant

  

Finding Unexpected Pleasures in Athens, Ohio

I must sheepishly admit that before I visited Athens, much of what I knew about any part of Ohio had to do with Drew Carey, Dr. Johnny Fever, and The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. But the unexpected pleasures discovered when my husband and I spent a weekend exploring the area provided us with many reasons to return for more visits...

When Paige Alost’s Aunt Vicki Donaldson visited Ohio from her home in Dallas, her first reaction was an  emphatic “It’s flat as a flitter.” Now, I’m not quite sure what a “flitter” is, and don’t ask Paige (she’s the Executive Director of the Athens County Visitors Bureau), as she doesn’t really know either, but after my husband and I visited Ohio recently, We get Aunt Vicki’s drift.

The glacier that came through over a billion years ago ground down any evidence of what might have been considered a mountain or hill, and left everything rather “flitter-like.” For some unknown reason, what residents in this area like to suggest was serendipity, the glacier stopped in its tracks when it reached Southeastern Ohio, and in its capriciousness it left an area that is set apart from the rest of the state (both topographically and politically, although I don’t think the glacier had anything to do with politics). Athens County, sitting at the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains is a collection of steep, rugged hills and undulating countryside amidst the rest of a state that is “flat as a flitter.”

Once a major mineral-laden, coal mining hub, the County, is now an area that is rich with history, community, and camaraderie. Only a 90-minute drive from Columbus, the city of Athens, created to be a learning center, is home to Ohio University. Opened in 1804 with one building, three students, and one professor, the University now boasts many architecturally classic buildings along its beautiful, brick-lined pathways. It is an oasis that stretches out amongst its grassy “Greens.” Don’t Miss: The Ridges — a former insane asylum with amazing grounds.


Once a major mineral-laden, coal mining hub, the County, is now an area that is rich with history, community, and camaraderie.

Walking just a few steps outside the OU campus gates puts you on the streets of a classic college town. There a visitor can easily find a “head shop” or two—well, that’s what we called them in the 70s— clothing stores, the ubiquitous college bars, and some really interesting eateries, many of which pride themselves on locally-sourced ingredients. I can’t remember the last time I ate a hot dog, but when approaching the neon hot dog sign announcing O’Betty’s Red Hot, we couldn’t help but stop in to try their specialities like the “Salome” or “Varla”: Topped with Sauerkraut, Crunchy Bacon Bits, Homemade Horseradish Sauce, and 1000 Island Dressing. Don’t Miss:The Hot Dog Museum in back and its shelves lined with kitschy weiner memorabilia, and Cutler’s in the OU Inn for a wonderful fine dining experience.

We followed up our hot dog fest by gorging on a decadent “Booty Shaker,” fudge cake topped with vanilla icing, chocolate ganache, Oreo cookie bits, white and dark chocolate chips and colored jimmies, at Fluff Bakery. And because the night was still young, even for us not-so-youngsters, and waddling back to our hotel after all the indulging was not an option, we headed over to West End Cider House, and some glasses of locally-crafted hard cider made from 100% Ohio-grown apples. With ‘80s music wafting from the overhead speakers (was that in our honor??) we grabbed a spot on the sofa and played a raucous game of Boggle while we downed our nightcaps.


When I really want to learn about the “local flavor” of a place I’m visiting, I head over to the local farmer’s market. It’s generally a microcosm of the area, with locals of all ages there either eating, shopping, working or as was the case in Athens, doing research for a school project. In addition to finding the apples that were used in the previous night’s cider, we found potato flour-based breads, pies and tarts bursting with local fruit, homemade salsas, and good conversation with the local organic composting guy. In fact, good conversation was plentiful in all of Athens. Everyone we encountered was more than willing to share their philosophy on life and that of less weighty issues like why they love their fair city.

There was no one we met, however, who exuded more passion and respect for Athens County and its heritage than Tom O’Grady, the Museum Director at the Southeast Ohio History Center. While still under renovation, the 100-year-old building and church houses exhibits, archived material, and artifacts that all showcase local history that in this section of the state was propelled by inclusion and forward thought. Tom and those who work and volunteer with him are on a mission to help Ohioans understand the value of the preservation they all work so tirelessly at. Don’t miss: The local donations stored in the basement and the black & white photo exhibit of over-50 locals dressed as celebrities.

Historians and foodies will be well taken care of in Athens, and for those who prefer exploration of a more aerobic nature, the Bike Path will not disappoint. The 21-mile tree-shaded trail (you can rent bikes from Black Diamond bike rentals) is as flat as the rest of the region is hilly, and that’s a good thing, since along the path of “Brewed on the Bikeway,” a number of award-winning craft breweries entice thirsty riders to stop and drink. Visit Little Fish Brewing Company for a sampler of its farmhouse ales and sours. I for one loved the citrusy Sunfish and the creamier…wait for it…Harvey Chai-Tel. If hunger pangs get the better of you, the Cajun Clucker food truck, specializing in dishes like Gumbo and Étouffée, is right on site. Another stop on the trail that wins high marks is Chef Sean Kiser’s Eclipse Company Store and Beer Hall: The Eggplant Tots and burgers are amazing, and the staff is super friendly. (They’ll even hold your baby for you while you eat.)

It’s no surprise that so many people from near and far came to attend Ohio University and then stayed. This town is a jewel, somewhat like a Berkeley, CA or a Cambridge, MA (they don’t call it “The Republic of Athens” for nothing!), but smaller and quainter. A slice of the Midwest that this sheltered New Yorker knew nothing about. That and the pawpaws…but that’s a story for another day.

I was compensated for my trip, but all the opinions are my own.

Great Gifts For the Men In Your Life: Uncommon Goods

My dad was a good man, a kind man, and a very demonstrative man, but when it came to accepting gifts, especially Father’s Day gifts, he was a bad man. In fact, receiving gifts embarrassed him and he hard a very difficult time showing any graciousness when presented with a gift

“I TOLD you I didn’t need anything!” 

“Oh, now, why did you go and spend your money on THIS?”

that it took all the fun out of my gift-giving, and eventually, I complied with his requests and just gave him a card.

My husband, on the other hand, loves getting gifts, so when he became a dad, my delight in hunting for Father’s Day gifts returned. A sweater, a tie, running attire, a watch…all rather traditional (and boring) were all accepted with appreciation and relish. There were painted baby footprints and handprints, framed, for his office. There were group photos, framed, for his office. There were hand-tinted pics, framed, for his office. And so, with this being the 28th year of bestowing him with Father’s Day gifts, I wanted to really get something that showed a little more creativity on my part; something that he wouldn’t ordinarily pick for himself. (Although, I’m not sure he would exactly have picked out the baby handprints either.) And that’s when Uncommon Goods popped into my head…

I have been a longtime Uncommon Goods catalog shopper, often turning to them when I needed a great hostess gift or a grab bag or Secret Santa gift. I could always count on finding something there that was clever and unique. Once I started looking through the catalog, targeting gifts for men, I realized how many missed opportunities I had to purchase incredibly inventive things in the past.

The variety of options and the size of the audience to which the gifts would appeal is quite expansive: Sports fans…foodies…jokesters…beer and whiskey aficionados…pet lovers…techies, and on and on.

SCRATCH MAP

I know my husband loves maps of all types and when I typed “maps”  into the search bar, up came the perfect thing. Some friends who are major travelers have a map hanging in their kitchen that’s loaded with pushpins indicating all of the places they’ve visited around the world. Being the veteran travelers that they are, this created a great conversation piece, but a very messy pin-filled map all the same. The map I chose for the hubby is not only beautiful enough to frame (of course), but no pushpins are needed, just a coin to scratch off the places you’ve been, like a lottery ticket! The map will serve as a great reminder of all the cool places we’ve visited, and surely bring up memories of all those trips.  I’m going to let my husband scratch off all those places on his own, but as an extra surprise, I am going to uncover Portugal — a country we will be visiting in the fall, and a trip he doesn’t know about yet.

Another gift that kept me en pointe with the memory theme was  “Conversations With My Father,” a spiral-bound keepsake journal.  One of my biggest disappointments is that I never sat with my parents and discussed details of their lives with them. I know the big things, but the little details, like how old they were when they got their first job—what that job was. What their favorite books were. Who their childhood friends were. These are the things I know nothing about. Unfortunately, both of my parents and my mother-in-law are all gone, but my father-in-law, at 96, is still quite a character with a very good memory. My husband can fill in the pages as his dad regales him with stories from his past, and if they hit a roadblock, he can answer the preprinted questions, the book supplies as well. In addition to space for opinions as well as facts, some of the pages have spaces for photos, too. I see this book becoming a great source of comfort for my husband when his father is no longer with us, and I anticipate it becoming a family heirloom for generations to come.

The set of "Sculptable Collar Stays” has nothing to do with memories, but they looked awfully cool, and I am tired of finding those cheap plastic ones all around the house. These are made of flexible aluminum, and according to Uncommon Goods, they let you “sculpt the contours of your collar for a precisely spiffy look.” And can you really think of anyone who wouldn’t like to look “spiffy” these days?

Now I can sit back, relax, and delete all the emails I have been getting about how the clock is ticking and the Father’s Day gift-buying window is rapidly closing. My job is done…until September 20…that’s my husband’s birthday and there’s a nice set of Night-Running Headlights that I know he would love to receive…

I was compensated for this article, but all opinions are my own.

Charoset Strudel

At first mention of the news that Ben & Jerry’s was now selling a Charoset-flavored Ice Cream in Israel, I thought the idea sounded a little like a marketing ploy. But after mulling it over I realized that while being pretty out of the box, Charoset-flavored “anything” is not so far-fetched. One of the symbolic foods on the Passover Seder plate, this fruit and nut mixture symbolizes the mortar the Jews used to build the pyramids while they were slaves in Egypt. Depending on where your ancestors were from, your Charoset might be a variation on the theme, but according to Bustle, “the Ben and Jerry’s flavor seems to be based on the Ashekanzi or Eastern European version made from apples, walnuts, cinnamon, and some sort of sweetener like honey.” And, as my mom would say, “What could be bad?”

The combo of apples, walnuts, and cinnamon is indeed, quite traditional. Frankly, if Ben & Jerry had called their creation “Apple Pie,” and offered it around Thanksgiving time, no one would have batted an eye.

I thus began to think of all the dishes one could make while using Charoset as a base—sandwich cookies, tarts, rugelach, and I even found a chicken salad and a brisket recipe that both sounded wonderful. Charoset muesli (kosher for Passover, of course), Charoset pancakes, muffins...

Of course, one could get carried away, but I played it safe and created a Charoset Strudel. I retained the traditional mixture of chopped apples and walnuts (but you could use pears and pistachios), and took a page from the book of the Sephardic Jews who favor a few more add-ins, such as dried apricots and dates, and incorporated them as well. The melange of fruits and nuts is often moistened with sweet wine, but one could just as easily use apple juice or apricot nectar.

The strudel dough recipe is an adaptation from a similar one by pastry chef Marcy Goldman. The texture is more cookie-like than filo-dough strudel, but it is tasty and haimish (homey); something perhaps a Jewish grandma might make. And if your grandma is no longer at your Seder table, this strudel will definitely bring her there in spirit.

Passover Charoset Strudel
Dough:

1/2c. vegetable oil

1/2c. brown sugar

insides of a scraped vanilla bean

1/4 tsp. salt

2 eggs

2-4 Tbsp. apple juice

1 1/4c. potato starch

1/2c. matzoh cake meal

1/2c. matzoh meal

Filling:

1/2c. sweetened, shredded coconut

1c. walnuts, light toasted and coarsely ground

1/4c. brown sugar

1 tsp. cinnamon

3 apples, peeled, cored, and roughly chopped

1/2c. dried apricots, coarsely chopped

1/2c. dates, coarsely chopped

1/4c. preserves, any flavor

1/2 Tbsp. matzoh meal

Passover Powdered Sugar :

1/3c. granulated sugar

1/2tsp. potato starch

Grind together in an electric coffee/spice grinder until powdery

Make dough: In the bowl of an electric stand mixer, mix together oil, brown sugar, vanilla bean scrapings, salt, eggs, and most of the apple juice. Stir in the potato starch, matzoh cake meal, and matzoh meal and mix together on low, adding additional apple juice to form a soft, rollable dough. Allow dough to rest for 10 to 15 minutes. (Moisten again w/a tad more juice, if necessary.) Divide the dough in half.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside. Roll out dough half between two sheets of waxed paper until each becomes a very thin 5 by 10-inch rectangle.

Make Filling: Mix all ingredients in a food processor until mixture resembles a coarse paste. Spread half the filling over the dough. Lightly sift the 1/2 tablespoon of matzoh meal over filling. Using the bottom sheet of waxed paper as an aid, roll up the dough into a log. Brush the top with beaten egg and sprinkle with coarse sugar. Repeat with the remaining dough, filling, and topping.

Transfer the logs to prepared baking sheet and score them into 1-inch sections. Bake until lightly golden , about 35 minutes. Cool, and sift approximately 2 tablespoons Passover Powdered Sugar over the tops. Then, using a very sharp knife, cut the scored sections into slices. (Rolls may be frozen and then cut right before serving.)

Connecting With My Father's Past

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of my dad. He was not an easy man to get to know, but he could spin a tale or tell a joke with the best of them. I attributed his moods and hesitancy at revealing too much about himself to his history and being a survivor. His crying out in the middle of the night as my other tried to shush him back to sleep was evidence enough of the demons that lived in the closet of his psyche. 
I often look at my sons and see him in them: They are both strong-willed almost to a maddening degree, just like him, and also like their grandfather they are both fervent defenders of what they believe is right and just. Yesterday, January 11, I gave my dad more than just a cursory thought; it was his birthday. He’s been gone for over fifteen years, but a short while ago, while on a Viking River Cruise that sailed on the Danube from Germany to Hungary, I made a discovery that changed my life and brought me closer to him than I had been even when he was alive. The overwhelming connection I felt during that cruise somehow made this birthday seem more meaningful to me.

An optional World War II tour in Nuremberg during the cruise was high on my list because, as the child of Holocaust survivors, I take every opportunity I can to explore that horrific period of time. I’d hoped that it would give me some insight into what actually transpired there during the pre- and post-war eras. Our guide, Ingo, was a German history scholar, born long after the horrors that occurred in his country during WWII. His knowledge and level of sensitivity and morality were impressive, and I only wish I had more time to pepper him with questions. 

The Nazis chose Nuremberg as the locale for their many rallies partly because of its central location, and partly because of its connection to the Roman Empire. As we walked around what was now an empty expanse but had at one time been Zeppelin Field, the site of the former Nazi Party Rally Grounds, it was not difficult to visualize row upon row upon row of supporters shouting in unison as they saluted Adolf Hitler. An icy rain fell that morning, and it pelted our faces as a sharp wind blew through our jackets and created an atmosphere that was befitting of a group immersing themselves in that painful and evil bubble of history. We, who were alive, we who were safe, we who were merely observers, stood on what had once been the hallowed grounds of a power-hungry man and his followers who were starving for for the nourishment of his hate-filled words.

My eyes wanted to see more, but eighty years have past and there was not more to see. 

 Off in the distance stood the fuhrer’s massive Congress Hall. It built, according to blueprints that only an extreme narcissist could commission, to resemble the Roman Colosseum. Later, at the Documentation Center, we viewed photos and articles of Nazi propaganda. A visit to Courtroom 600 in the Palace of Justice, the venue of the Nazi war trials,  gave us a glimpse into post-war Nuremberg—a period that was fraught with guilt and retribution and meant to counteract some of the evil that occurred there.

My eyes wanted to see more, but eighty years have past and there was not more to see. There were no monuments—the German people intentionally did not want to create any shrines which would have given some the opportunity and the place to extol the workings of the Third Reich. The only pilgrimages made here are from the curious, the seekers of truth, the survivors.

Could he see the trees that I was seeing?

We were a somber bunch as we boarded the buses and began our trip back to our ship. And as I looked out the window I saw train tracks, and couldn’t help but wonder whether my father passed over those tracks; whether those were the very same tracks on which the trains took him and his family to the camps. Did the car where he and over 1,000 other prisoners were herded like cattle lumber by here? Could he see out from behind any slats in the wood? Could he see the trees that I was seeing? Was I looking at the same sky my dad looked at when he got off in Passau, another stop on our cruise? Gravel and dirt are mingled with the blades of grass that now grow between the railroad ties and as a modern-day train hunkers down the track, the dissonant sound of its wheels screeching—the metal upon metal—was what I could imagine him listening to. I cannot imagine the fear, I don’t dare begin to.

But on that day, on my dad’s day, I thought of him and felt him with me. I now understand…I have seen, not the worst of what he had seen, but my feet have perhaps touched the same ground he touched, I have breathed in the same air and looked at the same sky. I understand, because I was there.

The Great New Jersey Pizza Crawl

As the impending arrival of Hurricane Hermine did its best to throw a wrench into our plans to participate in the “Second Annual Crab Cracking Fest” at Mud City down the Jersey Shore (yes, in my adopted state of New Jersey we say "down the shore"),  we came up with an alternate plan. 

To me, eating crabs, salad, and drinking beer sounded like an activity that would not prevent me from getting into a bathing suit, post-eating fest, but I knew the alternate plan of going on a pizza crawl and consuming copious amounts of dough, cheese, sausage and olive oil would have the exact opposite effect. Regardless, and since it was Labor Day weekend after all, and summer bathing suit season was as good as dead anyway, I acquiesced.

The drive from Jersey City down to the areas we were targeting, Robbinsville and Bordentown, all in the vicinity of Trenton, did not take nearly as long as I anticipated. The dark clouds could be seen above, but my hubby assured me that we were not in the path of the storm. We were on a mission to find the “best” version of “Tomato Pie,” that mysterious delicacy that the area was known for. (I say that lightly, since, I imagine there are other things the area is known for, but they were not on our itinerary.) Our first stop was Papa’s, a very homespun-looking place in Robbinsville, complete with Tiffany lighting and low-maintenance decor. They claim to be “oldest family-run pizza restaurant in the USA," but since we were on a tasting tour and not on a fact-checking tour, we couldn’t validate the accuracy of the claim…and we didn’t care to. We came for the pizza! 

We’d heard Papa’s made something called a Mustard Pie, and that was what we ordered, along with one called Italian Flag—ricotta, spinach, roasted peppers. Both came out of the oven piping hot: The Mustard Pie was a traditional plain pizza with a distinct bite of mustard hiding beneath the cheese. It was different, and while there might be a place for it in the annals of pizzadom, I think I’ll stick with mustard-less pies in the future. The ricotta on the Italian Flag was the creamiest ricotta I had ever tasted. Not spicy at all—probably could have used some hot pepper, but that was my fault, not Papa’s. Bottom Line: The crust on both varieties was excellent; crisp, not too thin. Had I lived closer, the Italian Flag, with a few sprinklings of hot pepper flakes, would be a regular favorite.

Our next stop was Palermo’s. It is off the side of the highway in Bordertown, and so nondescript that we overshot it and had to backtrack to get there. Their Tomato Pie had the thinnest (but not the crispiest) crust of all we'd tasted. The sauce was a bit sweet, and the cheese “layer” was barely discernible, but the combo worked. This was what I envisioned a “tomato pie” would be like. It was not your standard cheese-laden slice, and it was quite good.

De Lorenzo’s in Hamilton was our next stop. It came highly recommended and it was there that we encountered our first glitch. The place did not open until 4 pm and it was only 3 pm. It could be dangerous getting in the way of some die-hard pizza tasters, but in the interim we walked around Bordertown, and brushed up on some Revolutionary War history. When we returned to De Lorenzo's  a little after four, the place was jumping! As unslick as Papa’s atmosphere was, De Lorenzo’s was the exact opposite. We’d heard that they've been in business since 1947, but this was obviously a new location, trying to attract a different crowd. We took our pizza (half sausage and black olive and half plain) to go. 

 I read that De Lorenzo’s “burns” their crust if you don’t warn them, and since we didn’t, they did. I however, like my crust well done, so no worries. I am a fan of this type of pizza. The crust was closer to the Neapolitan-style pizzas you find in Italy; rough and bubbly and alternately flecked with burnt spots. This pizza was more artisanal than the old-school types. The sausage was tasty, but not well-done enough to my liking, which was so ironic since the crust was way past done.

As we toyed with the idea of venturing on, we decided to visit a place hubby had read about that was closer to home: Satillo’s in Elizabeth; known for its Sicilian—And while comparing Sicilian to thin crust is akin to comparing apples to oranges, we rationalized that this was a rather unscientific study anyway (and besides, it's the hubby's favorite). Around a corner, down something like a driveway, Satillo’s had a lot of, shall we say, “character.”  The pizza was huge, and well-done at our request. I am not a real fan of Sicilian—too doughy, but as Sicilian goes, this one was okay. Very saucy, very cheesy. The crust was not as crisp as I liked it, but the melted cheese was nice and stringy when you bit into it. and pulled away. (Pizza mavens will know just what I'm talkin' about.) 

As we headed home, the suggestion of trying just one more place was vetoed by one of us…guess which one. I felt I was supplied with enough ammunition with which to make my recs. And so, here they are:

Best crust: Papa’s 

Best sauce: Palermo’s 

Best all-around: De Lorenzo’s (They also get a star for atmosphere.)

Did I learn anything from this culinary crawl other than that my pants do get tight after eating slice after slice of pizza? Yes…Pizzeria owners are like mothers, they each claim their baby is the best. I've never met a pizza I didn't like, but I have met pizzas I did not love. I'm still partial to NYC pizza, and Motorino is my fave, but I do have to send a shout out to Otto in Harvard Square. Their Butternut Squash Pizza (probably a blasphemy here in NY) still calls my name to this day.

 I predict that I will be coerced into going on more pizza crawls in the future, but not before a few sessions at the gym. I hear they make a mean pizza in Tucson, so I'll add it to the bucket list.

Book Review: A Front Page Affair

The year is 1915. War has been declared in Europe, the US is on alert due to the sinking of the Lusitania, and there’s been a murder in New York City that needs to be solved. So begins Radha Vatsal’s debut novel A Front Page Affair, presumably what is to be the first in the “Kitty Weeks Mystery” series. 

I am not a huge fan of historical novels per se, but I can’t pass up anything having to do with New York City, so when I heard the author being interviewed as part of a “Reading With Robin” Literary Series in Bryant Park, I was drawn to this story from the start. The time period, when women surprisingly enough, were writing, producing, and directing films, as well as holding positions in many prominent fields also intrigued me.

A murder mystery set in Old New York City

The feisty Capability Weeks, better known as Kitty,  is a writer for The Sentinel who has been relegated to covering stories for the “Ladies Page.” While working at a party attended by high society, one of the guests winds up dead. Kitty becomes enmeshed in the story and soon realizes that one and one don’t add up, making for a very complicated tale that involves foreign intrigue and may even change the course of history.

The determined heroine who’s been raised in Europe and struggles to find her niche in the US, does not comply with the rules that conventional 1900’s culture tries to impose upon her. She drives, runs her father’s household, and is very much her own person. I found her to be high on the “likability index.”

Young sleuth tries to solve a murder against all odds.

The author’s skill at weaving an entertaining mystery and intertwining it among the strings of an historical setting is quite good. The story wends its way as quickly as Kitty does through the streets of Old New York in her bright yellow Bearcat. Scattered in with the unraveling of the murder are interesting details about the city, world events, and life during that period. Their inclusion is deftly handled, and seems to fit in rather well with the narrative.

Ms. Vatsal has put together a highly engaging story for her debut. I look forward to reading more of her writing and hope she has more escapades for Capability Weeks up her literary sleeve.