Happy Birthday, Bob.

Meanwhile, at the food court…

Is a Shake Shack worth waiting on line for forty minutes?

You tell me.

I couldn’t resist…

Medici Slot-Machine:Object, By Joseph Cornell (1942)

Queens’ finest…

Okay, so the next time you are in the area, do yourself a favor and hit Szechuan Gourmet, which is on 39th Street between 5th and 6th. I went last night with my friend Mark who has been several times for lunch. He told me it’s considered “the best Szechuan outside of Flushing.” All I know, is that it was wonderful, whether you are up for adventure (Duck Tongue w/Sich. Pepper Corn-Scallion Pesto, Fish Head w/Napa, Bamboo, Cellophane, Smoky Wok Tossed Frogs) or not.

We had a standard appetizer, Szechuan Pork Dumplings w/Roasted Chilli Soy, and they were far and away the most delicious dumplings I’ve ever had–delicate, flavorful with some kick. They were so good, we didn’t let the waiter remove the extra sauce when the dumplings were gone. They seemed to appreciate that, but I wasn’t kidding. I wasn’t giving up that goodness without a fight.

Most of the customers were Asian, large tables of nine, ten people. The wait staff alternated between being polite and dismissive but they were never rude. I love that unpretentious attitude (you can ignore me some cause I’m a gringo just don’t be a jerk about it). It got me to thinking how wonderful Chinese restaurants can be, what a staple they are of New York Life.

Say word.

[Photo Credit: Parla Food]

A New York City Classic:

My brother, sister and I had bedtime when we were kids, through middle-school if I remember correctly. It got pushed later and later as we got older of course, but my mom was not into letting us stay up late during a school night to watch TV. So we’d start watching a movie and then have to go to bed halfway through. Mom would tuck us in, kiss us goodnight, and then go back to the living room of our small two-bedroom apartment and watch the rest of it.

She filled us in the next morning over breakfast, the story slowly coming back to her as she sipped her coffee, spread a triangle of Laughing Cow on a burnt piece of toast, her face still creased from the sheets, her voice still thick with sleep. Mom came to this country in 1967 from Belgium but never completely lost her French accent. When excited, her voice would get dramatically high, but not in the morning. It wasn’t sing-songy but full of melody, inflection and animation (nothing frustrated her more than watching a woman getting chased by the bad guys in a movie…”Kick him in the balls, kick him in the balls!” she’d say. “I don’t understand why they don’t just kick them in the balls.”)

In re-telling the movie, Ma never cut to the chase. She traced her way back into the story and then proceeded to give us a blow-by-blow account in painstaking detail. Sometimes she’d pause, not remembering the sequence of events, and spend five minutes sorting out what happened. Aloud. I would hang on her words, annoyed by her deliberate pace, not for one minute comprehending the way the female mind worked. I just wanted the payoff. What happened? The important stuff, not details of the scenery and costumes.

One movie that she told us about one morning was Cactus Flower, a movie I’ve never watched, but for a minute or two here or there, since. I like it better in my memory, listening to Mom, who loved Goldie Hawn and Walter Matthau, telling us what went down.

There was something about Goldie Hawn that she could relate to–they both had the ability to be light and fun, and were not afraid to laugh at themselves. They were both adorable when they were young but their looks changed as they got older and their voices got huskier. They were tested by life and proved not to be pushovers. Still, there was something, if not innocent, then refreshing and bubbly about both of them that links them together in my memory. I image that the Goldie Hawn of Cactus Flower brought my mother back to a time that I was too young to remember, when mom was young and new to this country. Before she had kids and her marriage got dark and ugly.

The Times on Stoner Cuisine. 

[Picture by Bags]

The media blitz promoting a re-issue of the classic Stones record Exile on Main Street has been a real turn-off–Keith Richards even hosted a quiz between innings on the HD TV at Yankee Stadium last weekend–but then again, as a friend said to me the other day, the Stones never have left a dollar on the table.

And, Exile is a great record, so it’s not all bad.

Neither is this:

The Kiss, By Auguste Rodin (1889)

[I’ve wanted to incorporate a regular movie column to the music, art, and food features here at the Banter for more than a minute now, so here goes… My good pal, Matt Blankman, who is mad for movies, will contribute his take, as will some of the other regular Banter contributors. Here’s our debut, cue the lights…Alex Belth]

I’ve spent the last few days enjoying a rare moment of pop culture serendipity which has placed my brain squarely in the 1970s, the decade of my birth. First there’s been Josh Wilker’s fantastic new book Cardboard Gods (which we’ll assume you’re already familiar with to some extent if you’ve been keeping up with the Banter). Josh’s memoir isn’t just largely set in the 1970s, but it’s obviously shaped by it as well, and he sincerely attempts to make sense out of those strange times, how they came to pass and what they meant (and continue to mean) to him.

Soon after seeing Josh do a reading from “Cardboard Gods” last week, I found myself at home watching a new PBS documentary on the John V. Lindsay years (1966-1973) in New York City. To look back at those years now, with clear eyes, one can see many ways that the hope and exuberance of the 1960s gave way to the despair and confusion of the 1970s. How the New Frontier and Great Society faded and left us with gas lines, custom vans, pet rocks and malaise.

Finally, I watched a film from 1971 I’d never seen, The Hospital, which felt like a fictional illustration of so many of the issues present in both the Lindsay doc and Wilker’s book. The Hospital was written by Paddy Chayefsky, who was still enough of a big deal in the early 1970s that he may have been the only screenwriter ever to get his name above the title. Chayefsky’s script was directed by Arthur Hiller, a director who managed to have a lengthy career marked by a number of “big” movies and yet never once seemed to have any discernable personal style. (I’d call him a hack, except he always displayed a knack for comedic timing and knew to trust his script and cast. He may not have been much of an artist, but he wasn’t incompetent.)

(more…)

How about a fried green tomato blt? Why the hell not?

Tough loss last night. Time to shrug it off, cause hey, it’s never to early to feel sexy.

This is the one of the great can’t-miss records of all-time. Hard not to move to this one. It’s a Lady-Killer.

Movin’ in the right direction…

Light in August, By Willem de Kooning (1947)

Since we are still riding high from a sweet win, why not get right to some eats. Buddy of mine has been watching Treme and got to hankerin’ for some Hubig’s Pies, a New Orleans specialty.

I’ve never had one. They look sweet, gross, n’ great. Hu-dat?

[Photo Credit: YatBazaar]

“Untitled (Tomato and Knife)” By Richard Diebenkorn (1963)

Here’s a great cookbook from Fuchsia Dunlop.

Peep the review from Tigers and Strawberries.

Early beat today, from the more bounce to ounce department:

Sébastien Tellier – Look from Record Makers on Vimeo.

Look lively and Happy Monday.

Tasty Cherce: Homemade Pop Tarts.

Yes, please.

Picture and recipe from the Smitten Kitchen (via Saveur).

And then there’s this guy…