create your own

There were two magical dining spots during my college days.  One is the Columbia Cottage, which I still can't bring myself to blog about because it is so close to my heart.  It's like saying the name of your first love.  Suffice it to say that it's an alternate universe where peace and well-being and the deepest conversations flow as freely as the all-you-can-drink boxed wine.

The other is Milano Market.  Located just around the corner from my sorority house, this specialty market was rife with sandwiches, soups, pre-portioned entrees and sides, and many imported and fancy little products (olives, pickles, mustard, candies).  These kinds of markets are common in the City.  It's not at all where you would do your regular grocery shopping (in fact, most people don't even "go shopping," per se, but rather have their groceries delivered to their apartments), but when you want some special and frivolous little bite, it's your spot.

But the real draw - the main attraction - was the salads.  The concept was simple but genius.  Exactly like Subway, or any other restaurant where you customize your dish based on your whims.  You have a choice of three different salad greens:  romaine, spinach, baby mixed greens.  Then you just go crazy, telling the guy to put anything and everything in there.  I want to say there were about forty options.  Chicken (grilled, pesto, sundried tomato), ham, bacon, olives, broccoli, carrots, chickpeas, tomatoes, peppers, pepperoncini, avocado, kidney beans, cucumbers, boiled eggs, raisins, dried cranberries, croutons, and probably twelve choices of dressing (and so much more).  He mixed it all up for you in a big bowl, then popped it into a 20-oz container with a lid.  Dinner:  done.  I could not begin to count the nights that we stopped here for a salad before Chapter Meeting and ate it on the stoop.

The most awesome part was the price!  For a salad with chicken, I think it was about $7, with unlimited toppings.  Certain ones, like avocado, might have been an additional charge.  (Warning:  this was all 7-10 years ago.  Things may have changed!)

I find myself craving these huge, satisfying salads all the time.  And the thing is, it's really much more economical to go somewhere and pay for it because amassing all those ingredients in the proper quantities and eating all of them before they go bad would cost much more than the price of your single salad.  Or even two or three of them.

I brag on our sweet neighborhood all the time, but we are missing something like a Milano Market.  Should I open one?  Should I finally allow Jeff to satisfy his lifelong restaurant dream?  Only thing is, there wouldn't be sit-down service.  This is strictly a drop-in, take your lunch or dinner home or back to work kind of place.  I think East Nashville might love it.  Thoughts?

the time i got hired at a famous coffee shop without applying

I worked a lot in college.  I wasn't really getting "spending money" per se, and New York is ridiculously expensive.  Sure, my meals were covered by a dining plan, and my boarding was covered by loans, but I had to earn whatever I wanted to throw at pitchers for beer pong or going to clubs when my best friend Amanda dragged me downtown. 

Among other things, I had:  an office job, two internships, a gig as a guide for Spring break high school workshops, a job at a creperie, and a job at a sandwich shop.  Also I helped Amanda one time doing a birthday party where we dressed up in fairy tale costumes.

At the beginning of junior year, my friend Matt told me they were looking for a counter girl at the sandwich shop where he worked.  It was called the P & W.  It was about four blocks from campus, right across from the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.

I went and spoke to Wendy, the owner, and found myself the proud owner of a P & W apron and 15 hours a week behind the long butcher block counter.  I fixed coffee, soup, bread, and took sandwich orders to give to our sandwich guys.  I also cashed people out at the antique register.  There is a lost art to cashing out.  P & W only took cash, no cards (much to most of the customers' consternation), and it wouldn't automatically tell you how much change to give a customer.  So you actually had to figure out how to count change back! 

P & W was also a specialty market, and Wendy would let us take old stuff home.  This job became a lifeline for me, as I was paid in cash and often arrived home with a paper sack full of baguettes, jams, leftover cold cuts, milk, cheese, and other fancy little things.

After a few weeks, I learned more of the history behind the place.  P & W stood for Paniotis and Wendy.  Paniotis Binioris, a Greek immigrant, had assumed ownership of the old and landmarky Hungarian Pastry Shop, next door to P & W, around 1980.  Wendy had taken a job as a waitress there, and they met, courted, etc etc.  They had four delightful kids who attended the Fieldston School.  The shops were connected by a passageway in the back.  Paniotis was a very kind man with a wicked tennis game and a soft spot for foreigners trying to make it in the city. 

That's Misrak in the photo!  Don't be fooled - it's a wig.  A very common practice among Ethiopian women:  shave your head and wear amazing wigs.

 

The women who worked at the Hungarian were gorgeous and intimidating.  They were almost all Ethiopian, with perfect bronze skin stretched over high cheekbones.  Their slender fingers worked the espresso machine and tied up boxes of sweets like second nature.  They talked a lot in Coptic, probably making fun of the dumpy white people like me.  While we were working our shifts next door, we could get snacks and drinks at the Hungarian, so I got to know a few of them pretty well.  I especially remember Misrak and Lili.  All the girls were somehow related, and they were almost all Coptic Christians.  Lili was about sixteen, and she was living with distant relatives after she had arrived from Ethiopia.  She was in high school, working full time, and also caring for a small sibling.  Her life could not have been further away from my heady college years of intellectual pursuit and partying. 

One night, the crowd at the Hungarian overwhelmed the ability of the waitstaff to keep up (this was common).  Paniotis came next door to the P & W, saw me absentmindedly reading the Spectator at the counter, and said, "You're coming next door."

"But . . . I.  I can't work the machine.  I don't know what anything costs."

"You'll figure it out."

"Um . . . okay."

Thus began my first night at the Hungarian.  Let me pause here to say that Columbia students apply to work at the bohemian, dimly lit Hungarian like college seniors apply for Teach for America these days.  It's practically a rite of passage.  The percentage who get hired is . . . none.  The Ethiopians really have a corner on the place.

But there I was, trying desperately to keep up as they shot each other disdainful looks over my head.  I burned the absolute crap out of myself on the milk steamer (they assured me that everyone did this at least once and that was how you remembered not to do it again).  I tangled myself in the spool of the drop-down pastry box tier-upper.  I mixed up orders.  I was slow.  It was awful.  But they still needed me the next night.  And then the next one.  And soon I was working there more than I was working at the sandwich shop.  The Ethiopians started letting me sit at their "staff only" table. 

I went through a hard time after my mom died (obviously), and had to quit some of my extracurriculars so I could focus on school.  I left P & W and the Hungarian then, never to return as an employee.  But whenever I visit the City, I make a stop there.  I buy some Branston pickle relish, eat some prune hamentaschen or a Linzer tart, and reminisce.  And Wendy is always there to say hello and inquire after me. 

applemint mojito

The co-ed literary fraternity at my college (I feel so ridiculous even writing those phrases) had a fun traditional fundraiser every spring called Hot Jazz.  When I was but a lowly freshman first-year, many of the older students who lived in my suite were connected with the fraternity.  I didn't receive an invitation to Hot Jazz that year, but some of the older gals invited me to help them get ready.  (Why I ever agreed to do this, I'm not sure.  I'm the queen of not getting dressed up or decked out to go out.) 

Several of the girls there had just returned from a semester abroad in Brazil.  There, they had become very good friends with a concoction called the caipirinha.  To make this drink, you use a big stout wooden stick called a muddler to mash a bunch of limes up before mixing them with liquor.  My main job at the getting-ready-preparty was to muddle up these drinks for them.  Now that I reflect on this experience, I feel like they should have at least tipped me!

Our CSA delivered us several stalks of applemint today.  It tastes like a mild variety of mint, without the burning pungency of spearmint, but with the same scent.  I sniffed it and immediately thought "mojitos." Like the caipirinha, this Cuban drink uses a muddler (or just the handle of a wooden spoon, in my case).  And I was transported back to those first awkward months away at school that are somehow now ten years ago. 

This drink is crisp and refreshing - a perfect way to utilize the mint that is starting to proliferate with the season.

Applemint Mojito
10 leaves applemint
1/2 lime, cut into four wedges
2 T sugar
1 1/2 oz light rum
1/2 C club soda
ice

Put the mint leaves and one lime wedge in the bottom of a sturdy pint-size glass.  Mash them up thoroughly together with a muddler or the end of a wooden spoon.

Add two more lime wedges and the sugar and muddle together again.

Fill the glass almost all the way with ice.  Pour the rum over the ice and top off with club soda.  Stir it up and enjoy!

peace corps

At the beginning of my final semester of college I went into a panic.  I had no clue what the next step was, and I had neglected to take any of those pesky tests that you need to do little things like go to law school or business school or anything school.  I was graduating summa cum b average, and I certainly hadn't applied for any fellowships.  My majors - Religion and Creative Writing - left me few workable skills, and I had studied Latin, which gave me no useful language experience. 

So what did I do?  What any right-minded Democrat who enjoyed helping people would do!  I applied for the Peace Corps.  I also applied to be a New York City Teaching Fellow.  And, finally, to hedge my bets, I applied to the one type of school that didn't require a GRE:  Divinity School!  I applied to Union Theological Seminary and Vanderbilt Divinity School.  I was accepted to both, so that left me a little cushion.

I was also accepted to teach in a special-ed classroom as a New York City Teaching Fellow.  Making the decision between the two adventures was one of my hardest.  I could stay with my best friend of all time Amanda in the City, creating new and wilder adventures than ever, or I could go off by myself across the seven seas and a life of total immersion in a new culture.  What to do?

I chose the Peace Corps.  It seemed so exotic and fun.  Also, I was attracted to the sort of accessibility and standard-issue feel of the program.  I went to their New York recruiting and training office, I had interviews, I had blood tests (they took sooo much blood.  It was like a quart).  I learned that I have no health impairments or chronic illnesses!  Yay!  Curiously, my one strange result from the blood tests was that I have high iron, which is extremely rare for women of childbearing age.  I was all ready to go.  I set aside my fears of being a woman alone in a strange land, and I steeled myself for the shock of going to a place where I was not part of a majority group. 

I waited for my country assignment.  We graduated!  And I kept waiting.  I moved back in with my stepdad in Kansas (very temporarily of course).  And I waited more.  I went and worked for what I thought was my final summer at Mountain TOP.  I kept waiting.  Jeff and I prepared for an ultra-long distance relationship.  Then, finally, I heard the sad news:  I had no real skills for the Peace Corps.  They wanted people who had science or math or medical backgrounds, who spoke French or Spanish, who knew how to teach people English or design water filtration systems or organize community health projects.  I knew how to diagram Latin sentences and write papers on Hindu cosmology.  I was told that there would still be a placement for me, but it would be a long time coming. 

I was advised to get a job in the meantime.  So, I scanned the web and found openings for the local school district.  I could be a para-educator in an elementary school.  I had never really been around kids much, so it made me nervous, but I needed a job!  . . . . (to be continued tomorrow!)

true life: i met an olsen twin

During my first year at college, I lived in a building called Hartley.  Hartley is the site of the Living Learning Center, which sounded really great in theory.  Groups of thirteen or so residents, of mixed age and gender, would live together in a suite, share a kitchen and two bathrooms, and receive funds to do cultural stuff together.  You know, like eat Indian food or watch foreign movies or go see a Japanese art exhibit. 

It never quite worked out that way.  Mostly we tried to figure out ways to launder that money so we could buy kegs and have parties. 

I digress.  There were two football players who shared a room in my suite in Hartley.  They were both from California.  One was a surfer dude, one was from LA.  It took only a few days after we all moved in for word to circulate around the suite that the one from LA was in a relationship with Ashley Olsen!  Yes, THE Ashley Olsen. 

The one we all grew up with as Michelle on Full House.

As the fall wore on, it became clear that LA dude and Ashley Olsen had a pretty typical late-teenage romance:  lots of fighting, lots of making up, lots of existential angst.  Ashley was still in high school in California at this point, so they were long-distance as well.  Until she came to visit!

Her visit was unannounced, so I was shocked to walk out of the bathroom with my hair dripping wet, and come face to face with a celebrity!  I smiled, but she didn't smile back.  She looked kind of sad.  I may have just been projecting or imagining things, but she looked like she was sick of everyone looking at her.  As much as I hate celebrities who complain about people wanting to know about them (ooohhh, being famous is soooo harddddd . . . then don't be famous, or just move to Idaho like Demi and Ashton), there was a palpable sense of wariness and heaviness about her.

If I remember correctly, that visit was when LA roommate and Ashley finally broke up for good, so I never saw her again.  But I do have our one little chance meeting as my claim to fame!

rip bialetti

The first week I was off at college I knew I needed to get a job.  I was eligible for work-study funds, and in order to cash in on that grant, I needed a qualified employer somewhere on campus.  In the stairwell of my residence hall, I saw a flier for the Italian Academy.  It was the first thing I'd seen advertising for employment, so I called them up and got an interview. 

I ended up working there for all four years of college.  The Italian Academy for Advanced Study at Columbia University in the City of New York (this is actually how I had to answer the phone . . . every time) is a cooperative endeavor of Columbia University and the Italian government to house and stipend post-doctoral fellows for a year of research.  It's a beautiful old Italianate building on the Columbia campus, and it became my second home.  Some of the perks of this unbelievable job: 

*a film series every fall and every spring.  I got paid to show up of an evening, sip Prosecco and eat chunks of Parmiggiano-Reggiano cheese, and take money from people.  Then I continued to get paid to watch an amazing old subtitled Italian film in a stunning teatro.  Did I mention I got paid for all of this?

*I got to work at events like the following:  the Italian Prime Minister came to speak with both his wife and his mistress.  There was lots and lots of Prosecco for all.  I also got paid for this.

*Long lunch breaks, wine in the afternoons (this is an Italian custom . . . enjoying a glass of wine at your job!?), getting sent down to Little Italy on the company Metrocard to pick up the Italian films from Evergreen Cinema.  I really learned the city by doing all the little errands for the fellows and the staff.

*Learning what it means to work in a professional environment.  I had to wear business casual, I had to offer guests Pellegrino or espresso and take their coats.  I am embarrassed to say that I regularly showed up in sweatpants for my first semester there.  After a stern talking-to by my unbearably chic supervisor Olivia D'Aponte (a half-Italian Brooklynite who ended up leaving to travel around the world with her fiance), I straightened up my act and got some suits and heels.

*When I finally did graduate and leave, they gifted me with the most generous surprise:  dinner for two, whatever we wanted, at a spendy Italian restaurant down the street - charged to the Italian Academy's account.  I took my very good friend Zack, and we had a meal to remember.  We finished up with an affogato, which is basically like an Italian espresso float.  A scoop of vanilla gelato drowned in rich, strong espresso.  Yum. 

When I graduated and set up house for myself, I knew I needed an espresso maker.  I had no funds to buy a nice big electric one, so I got a Bialetti.  This is a trusty Italian-made stovetop espresso maker.  It works somewhat like a percolator:  you put water in the chamber below the pot, fit in a filter basket filled with ground coffee, screw the whole thing together and put it on the heat.  The water is forced up through the coffee and into the pot, and you pour it out into your cup once it's all done.  It's brilliant and elegant in its simplicity. 

It was my way of bringing a little bit of the Italian Academy into my home.  I have used it nearly every morning for the last five years. So, the other day, when I took it apart to wash, I was so saddened to see this:

The inner rubber fitting has melted!  It's time for a new Bialetti.  It's not the cost I'm worried about - these little suckers are only about twenty or thirty bucks.  It's just that I'm sentimentally attached to my Bialetti.  It's been with me through some hard times.  But I suppose all things must come to an end.  Arrivederci, Bialetti.