There's No Place Like Home

I had really wanted to go to Europe on our honeymoon, but due to timing it wasn't possible.  So, when the opportunity arose to go this summer, I jumped on it.  For me, it wasn't a first. I had spent a semester my Jr. year in college studying and working in London.  On our first day in the program the director made it clear that there were great differences between American life and life on the other side of the pond. "You might notice here in London we drive on the other side of the road," the incredibly astute program director noted. "It's not wrong, it's different," became the motto of the program and her answer to explain away why most people took grimy baths instead of showers or why dental care seemed to escape the Brits.  I hated the expression.

But the overall experience of seeing the world, of skiing in the Alps and hiking Cinque Terre and taking cheesy tourist photos in front of Buckingham Palace with 

my fellow collegiate Americans was life altering.  A taste of another life, of one not my own but on the surface far more glamorous than the perceived image of America helped to give me a greater understanding of who I was and who I was not.  This time would be different, M and I would forgo staying in hostels, bunking 5 girls to a room and paying 50 pence to take a shower in some places. 

We arrived in Paris after an all-night flight - dazed, exhausted and hungry. First order of business was to find a Starbucks.  "I need coffee," I whined to M as we deposited our bags at the hotel. So off we went on our journey to find a Starbucks. We walked and walked, but there were no Starbucks to be found. I was under the impression Starbucks were as ubiquitous globally as McDonald's, but I guess I was wrong. We settled on a brasserie right off George V. "Deux Cafe American avec au lait, s'il vous plait," I said in my best French. I had no idea how to say skim milk and decided whatever we got would be good enough.

 Damn my French teachers hammering in words like chat and chien. She answered me in English. Que Sera.  I lacked the language ability to ask for "to go" cups and spit the request out in English.  "No to go," the young French woman behind the counter said.  "To go" is an American thing, whereas the French linger over coffee and croissants and their morning paper.  

We toured in the morning - checking out the must-see sites: Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysees. By lunch we were starving.  "That place looks good." I directed M's attention to a brasserie across the road on the Left Bank.  It looked the same as every other place we had passed. In Paris, there seemed to be a lack of ethnic food and an abundance of Pastis looking restaurants. M gazed at the menu outside that hung on the window. 

"What's jambon?" he asked.  

"It's ham," I said.

"Everything has ham in it. A Croque Monsieur, a Croque Madame - even the salads all have ham. And can you explain to me why I just had to pay $5 to use the bathroom here? They charge you to pee?" M said utterly perplexed.

Neither of us being big pig eaters, we ventured on to another venue only to find the 

menu was a near replica of the other.  And so our trip went. Restaurant hopping from one to the next looking for "American cuisine". We couldn't figure out how everyone in France stayed so thin what, with all the ham and cheese and buttery croissants drowned in mayonnaise.  "Ugh," M said each time we sat down to eat and he inspected the menu asking me for translations. Meals were never easy, but a fun part of the day that included: finding a place that looked good, sitting down, studying the menu and then sneaking out in search of something we deemed edible. 

 On our 5th attempt at lunch on our 3rd day there, hungry and impatient and near an implosion I turned to M, "Just pick a place. Anywhere!! I don't care! We aren't in America. We can't get make your own salads or get plain grilled chicken. We can just eat cheese, it won't kill us. It's not wrong, it's just different."

By the end, I had lost 3lbs from sustaining a diet of fresh fruit, coffee and yogurt. We loved Paris, the City of Lights, the ineffable sense of romance, glamour and history we digested, despite our inability to digest the cuisine. And as our Air France plane touched down at JFK, my growling stomach did flips of excitement. It was good to be home. "When we get back to the apartment, I want to order the most American Upper East Side meal," I squealed in delight.

That night, we sat on the floor of our very American apartment, with our very American dog in our Old Navy sweats and ate giant hamburgers and 'freedom fries' from America's Hamburgers and Wraps (68th/3rd). There's no place like home....

Sugary Sweet

I went with my friend and her two year old twins to the mother of all kid-friendly restaurants for lunch - Serendipity (60th between 2nd and 3rd Avenues). It was a magnificent sunny afternoon, cool unlike the string of hot days before it.  "I think the kids will love the frozen hot chocolate," Jen said. "It will be such a treat for them."

I hadn't been there in years since it is the kind of place where unless you are going as a tourist or on a bad date, it wasn't worth suffering the interminable wait and cramp space.  I put Serendipity in the same block of places like the Empire State Building, Times Square and Rock Center during the tree lighting fiasco - a place that should be seen once in your New York life and then avoided at all costs.  

It was chaos when I arrived. A parking lot of Bugaboos, strollers and moms in designer jeans holding designer infants and designer diaper bags converged on the sidewalk out front, patiently waiting for a table to open in up in the famed eatery.  The noise of screaming tots drowned out the sound of passing traffic flying off the Queensboro bridge at speeds to fast for Manhattan streets.  "We're over here," Jen waved from across the street, her twins climbing in and out of their double-wide stroller.  "Sorry, it was just so crowded over there. We put our names in. Should be only 40 minutes or so."  

Forty minutes of waiting is nothing for Serendipity even at the insane lunching hour of 11:30.  I was utterly shocked when our table was ready a mere 30 minute later. Once inside the Victorian style townhouse we were seated in the cramped first floor dining area.  Jen prepped the twins for lunch, pulling from her enormous bag 2 bibs, 2 crayon packs, 2 placemats which served as coloring books and their own cutlery with Sesame Street characters.  You could barely hear yourself think let alone carry on a conversation with the person next you.

 "What are you getting?" I asked Jen. "Huh, what'd you say?" she screamed over the sound of the 5 kids at the table next to us playing I-Spy.  "What are you having for lunch?" I tried again.

The menu is huge to say the least with tempting treats such as the "Bi-Sensual Burger" and the "High Heel Pump" sandwich (Proscuitto topped with Brie).  It was hard to settle on one selection since, if memory serves, the food actually happens to be quite good.  After deciding on the Seafood Crepes we settled back with our cold iced teas and patiently waited enjoying the ambiance.  

Once I was able to drown out the noise, it is easy to get caught up in the adorableness of this place.  Cozy and quaint, it reminded me of a boisterous (extended) family gathering. The restaurant is filled floor to ceiling with antiques or things which resemble treasures you may have found in your grandparents' basement.  Its history as rich and colorful as its decor, Serendipity opened in 1954 and since they has hosted Marilyn Monroe, Andy Warhol (who reportedly paid for his meals with napkins drawings) and served as the set for the namesake movie starring John Cusak. The store in the front sells kitschy gifts from fake Tiffany lamps to Ts and mugs, but don't expect to find the recipe for the legendary frozen hot chocolate.  

The kids seemed to love the restaurant, their eyes wandering from the table next to us to the variety of visual stimuli everywhere.  It's the kind of place where, even from the vantage point of 30-something, childhood felt very nearby. We of course finished the meal with the frozen hot chocolate and the kids were on an upward trajectory from a sugar high.  "I think I am going to have a sugar crash later today," I said to Jen when the brain freeze ended.  "I feel like a little kid again." A feeling, which every so often, is pretty amazing to have.

Saucy in the City

It was both a Welcome Home party and a Going Away party at the same time."Why, Why?" I cried, half joking, but partly serious, "Why is life so cruel to give me one and take the other?" Rachel, after a 3 year hiatus of coastal living in San Diego just moved back to the Upper East Side - at exactly the same time that Melissa is packing up her Upper East Side apartment and heading to Pittsburgh. Leaving us only a few weeks, the three of us, together on the UES.

Converging from points of equal distance, we opted to celebrate and mourn over dinner at Saucy on 75th and York. "I love the name," Melissa said as I read her a review from online. "I love the concept," Rachel added. I just thought it was fitting: three saucy girls going out to get sauced.

Rachel and I arrived first.

We were shocked to see such a trendy restaurant so far east, seemingly out of place among the other bland faced restaurants and stores. The sprawling glass facade opened up into a clean-line modern dining room with zebra wood tables and a ceiling which was more art work than any I have ever seen. Suspended above our heads were burlap sacks of dried spices from around the world reflected from above by a mirror that spanned the entire restaurant. In the back corner a couple were sucking face.

"Eww," I pointed to the two nestled into a corner seat. I watched as he delved into her mouth, maybe checking for lost food. "Isn't it too early in the evening for that kind of PDA?" I said as the early evening sun streamed in through the glass wall. "A date or an affair?" Rachel wondered aloud. "An unappetizing start to the meal," I added.

But that was the only

unappetizing portion of the evening. After we sat down and ordered Lychee martinis Melissa arrived and we squealed at an octave only women in glee can reach. It had been months since we had all seen one another and we erupted into a full-on gigglefest.

The concept of Saucy was one that a

llows even the most finicky (read: female) eater a huge selection of choice. Offering organic chicken, meat, pastas and fish the diner can choose the preparation style and one of the 50 different sauces which are listed on the backside of the menu. For those lacking in creativity or without the desire to DIY, the restaurant's main menu highlights the chef suggestions and most popular combinations.

The owner himself, Simon Mann, a knowledgeable and hip guy was our server for the evening and our director in selecting the perfect dish. Melissa opted for the chicken done

in an Asian sauce while Rachel and I had a yen for the grilled Sea Bass over Thyme and Rosemary. "Get something different so we can share," I said to an intractable Rachel who refused to budge from her first choice. Each dinner comes with one side, everything from steamed broccoli to fresh grilled corn. The flavors are international from multiple origins, fused together to create a palate pleasing original taste.

The meal was fabulous - as was the company. We lingered over the final bites of dinner not wanting to depart in our different directions that night. As we got up to leave we thanked Simon for the great service and the amazing meal. "Any chance you are going to open one of these in Pittsburgh," she asked. He looked at her like she was crazy. "Just the Upper East Side right now," he said.