Reading my own dineLA promo yesterday reminded me that I’ve been somewhat shirking my restaurant critic responsibilities lately. Even when I was billed mainly as a restaurant critic on my show, Karen’s Restaurant Revue, back in the day, I really critiqued everything in life, which is how this E-zine got born. But, don’t think for a minute that I’m not still eatery-obsessed. So, I figured it’s time for another restaurant review. [Note: I'll try to get to more of them this year. That's a resolution.]

And, with my life in New York forever changed with the recent death of my precious mother, (which means that, in a year from now, I won’t be spending as much time in the Big Apple as I always do, and especially not in my beloved Brooklyn,) I decided the first review of 2012 should be on one in Brooklyn. On their newly-famous mini restaurant row, to be exact, which is on Cortelyou Road in Ditmas Park. I love the area, but not Purple Yam, one of it’s most famous residents.

The torture chamber seating.

I was taking my sister out to dinner in mid-December, (will wonders never cease???,) and had wanted to try this unassuming Filipino (with other Asian influences thrown in) place for quite awhile, so I suggested it. She jumped at it, as she had already eaten there, and loved dish or two. Let’s just say it’s yet another thing she and I disagree on. At least I have two varying opinions to give you here, so that’s a bonus.

Purple Yam was just an overall weird experience, with a strange menu, to boot. It’s also deceptively expensive, and appeared kind-of dirty, with horribly uncomfortable booths. My back was killing me the whole time. The seats were like some kind of torture chamber. Very odd choice for the designer of the place to make.

The basic view I had all evening. Delightful, eh? NOT!

And I usually love mis-matched dishes, especially at a funky afternoon tea, but here they just looked gross. I felt like they were procured at an unsanitary garage sale, and never yet washed, or something like that.

Worse than all of those to me was the service by the very odd-looking staff. They were kind-of scary, in an opium den-denizen kind-of way! And our waiter kept touching his face..and not washing his hands! I wanted to throw-up. And nearly did! And when I asked him for a second napkin, which was not an over-bearing request, by any stretch of the imagination, he handed me a paper towel!!! I told you—weirdos. (By the way, even Betty said the service was “peculiar.”)

In regards to the cuisine, we did try a lot of dishes, with my sister liking most of them, especially the sauces, which even I admit were interesting. It was all good enough, just not special to me; there was not one dish I would ever again crave, and a couple, like the pork sliders and chocolate rice dessert, I wish I could take the memory-erase pill to forget.

The creepy pork sliders.

Speaking of the pork sliders, they were all fat!!! It’s the cheapest dish, but the meat was downright inedible. In yet another weirdness, it was just $6. and listed as an entree, when the rest of them were in the mid-teens. They must realize that they’re serving you just pork fat, so they don’t want to charge more it.

In the okay category, in my opinion, but excellent category for my sister, were these dishes: chicken adobo; watermelon, green mango & jicama salad; and deep fried spring rolls with pork, mushrooms, carrots, jicama & sweet-sour pineapple sauce.

Can it get any more unappetizing than this???

She loved her dessert, which was a “young coconut” pie, (which the waiter tried to explain for quite awhile; his description was essentially akin to what students who don’t study try to have pass for knowledge during oral exams.) Mine, on the other hand, was one of the grossest desserts I’ve ever had the misfortune to see. It was described as “sweet rice in chocolate & cream,” which sounded kind-of yummy, topped with ice cream. (Since I hate coffee, the flavor it came with, I chose the questionable “young coconut,” which was the only really okay part of the meal.) It was downright disgusting! It was basically rice swimming in some thin chocolate liquid. It was something that some desperate pre-teens would come up with on a rainy week-end, and throw-out before their parents discovered it.

The $12. scallion pancake.

The one thing that bothered me more than all the other glitches, and not from a money point-of-view, but from a fairness one, was this: because of my sister’s crustacean allergy, we had to order the scallion pancake without the shrimp, which should have been a choice to begin with, with so many vegetarians dining out these days. When I very politely pointed-out to our delightful waiter, (I hope that even The Big Bang Theory‘s Sheldon can recognize my sarcasm there,) that had charged the full $12 for what was essentially a vegetarian pancake, he informed me that he couldn’t charge lass for it because they “don’t have a marking in the computer for that!” That one takes the cake! (I wish it had taken some of the other dishes with it.) Then how about comp a dessert, pal?! Especially the sickly liquid rice one, which should have been comped anyway, due it’s grossness.

I had better luck in Manhattan this time, and I plan to tell you about the positive experience later on this week. So you’ll have a little yin and yang. Maybe Purple Yam should get some, as well!

1314 Cortelyou Road, Ditmas Park, Brooklyn 718-940-8188 www.purpleyamnyc.com

This is a “dining” experience I had this summer, when I was hanging with my little mo during her hospital and physical rehabilitation ordeal. It’s still kind-of pissing me off, so, with today being a slow news day, here it is. [Note: I wrote most of it while it was still fresh in my mind, so you can rest assured that all the info is correct.]

After a week of eating nothing but White Castle, which was right near the Brooklyn hospital my mother was in, (and, believe me, I was totally grateful for it!,) I knew I had to step up my culinary choices in New York, particularly in this happening foodie borough.

She was now in a rehab facility in Coney Island, (which is a whole story unto itself—look for my upcoming column of rehab tips,) so I had more dining choices. Several of my friends were kind enough to give me a much-needed break and take me out to real restaurants, (which I really can’t thank them enough for,) but when I was left on my own, I just needed to pick something up, or have it delivered, so I could go home and try to sleep. (I stayed overnight with my mother every night, as everyone should do for their loved ones in the same situation, even if they have to sleep on a mattress on the floor, as I did, and stay pretty much awake in case of emergency. Again, keep an eye out for my rehab tips column, which I hope will finally be ready soon.)

So, one day, I decided to head over to the near-by Sheepshead Bay “restaurant row” because I knew that they have several easy-to-pick-up-from choices. After a quick perusal of the eateries, I decided a burger sounded just perfect, so into the new-ish Top Brgr I ventured.

I was instantly perplexed by the menu. Basically, what they offered were outrageously expensive Kobe beef burgers! At a fast food, order-at-the-counter place in what’s essentially a strip mall!!! I thought it was just my sleep-deprived delirium kicking in, but, alas, it was not.

When I lamented that I don’t like Kobe, (the beef nor the Player!,) the counter-girl tried to talk me into the $13. black angus burger. Great alternative, eh??? The gross-sounding deep fried hot dog, at $5. made me want to puke, on both fronts, so I went with your basic chicken sandwich at $7. Remember, these prices were at a simple fast food place.

The fries presented yet another ordering debacle. They ran $4-$6 and were fat steak fries, which so don’t go with burgers. I had asked the unknowledgeable order-taker what they looked like, (as I always do with new fries,) and she didn’t know. She said they were regular, normal fries. I made sure to inquire, “They’re not fat, are they?,” since those are not my favorite potatoes and were labeled (correctly, as it turned-out,) as “steak fries,” and she assured me they were not.

When I received the order, and saw that they were indeed “fat,” ones, I pointed it out to her. Her answer? (You’re going to love this one!) She didn’t know that “fat” and “thick” were the same thing!!! I guess her boyfriend can call her “thick” and she’ll be fine with that! Especially since she is thick—in the head!!! By the way, I had even demonstrated “fat” with my hands, in relation to the fries, and she still didn’t get it!

Maybe she’s the one who wrote the “Toppings” on the board because it was full of mistakes. For one thing, they had “mayo” listed twice, and for another, they had “sour cream” and “chives” listed separately—even though you can’t have them as such! It’s bad enough that they can’t spell “brgr” with the vowels, but give me a break on the toppings.

I believe the main attraction here is the huge patio, looking out at the water. Perfect for summer days. Even for Spring and Fall ones, a bit. But I can’t wait to see who will eat here in the winter. When you’d have to sit inside, on one of the ten stools or eight table seats, looking outside at the near-by cold weather, chowing-down on burgers that will set you back part of your month’s rent, I can’t imagine it will be packed.

I kind-of hate to say this, but the food turned-out to be pretty good. Not delicious, but pretty good. I’m always willing to pay top dollar for amazing palette-pleasing fare, such as the best ice cream ever at Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, but not for just a pretty good chicken sandwich. So, unless every other eatery in Brooklyn is closed, and I’m starving, you can bet that I won’t be returning to Top Brgr.

2267 Emmons Ave. Brooklyn, NY 718-646-2747

After a week and a half in New York, which included throwing my little mother her birthday party and attending that early morning women’s breakfast I told you about yesterday, not to mention having the soles fall off not one, but two, pairs of expensive shoes (hey, thanks Donna Karan!, said very sarcastically,) I needed some refreshing. My hair was dull and frazzled (so, it matched my brain at that point!,) and just about all of my usually-beautiful nails had broken. I was a mess.

The view of Grand Central Station out the window of the salon. All photos by Karen Salkin.

I had met an attractive female at the Celebrating Women breakfast who recommended getting some pampering at the Angelo David Salon, across from Grand Central Station, (which, just by the way, is one of my most hated places on the planet.) The location does make it convenient to most New Yorkers, so don’t mind my prejudice against the station itself. (Long story for another time.)

The view of the reception area as you get off the elevator.

So, a couple of days after my mother’s very successful party, and wallowing in the gloom of a week of rainy New York City days, I took a beauty day for myself and headed over to Angelo David. Since I don’t have a computer in New York, (yet another long story,) I asked Mr. X to look it up for me, and he said, “It’s a really classy place!” And we know if there’s any place that I fit in, it’s a classy one! (Yeah, right.)

After a harrowing subway ride, (I hadn’t taken one in about eight years, and this made me remember why,) I needed some calming down when I arrived. And that’s just what they did. Pretty quickly, I met my stylist, Meaghan Frayne, who’s actually their artistic director, (at such a young age!,) and she went right to work, analyzing my coiffure needs. She didn’t say anything bad about my tresses, as some hair people think they must, to show their clients that they know best, so I liked her right away.

Meaghan was the perfect balance of being in-charge without foisting her vision on the client. She’s a normal, nice, cute girl who doesn’t act like she’s all that. I didn’t even know of her high position at the salon until I noticed it in tiny writing on her business card! (That’s the same writing that states my position as “Major Celebrity” on mine—I don’t need to knock people over the head with it. Either they realize I’m a major celeb or they don’t.) She’s very easy-going and just into getting it done, all the while singing the praises of the head guy, Angelo David himself. (More on him later.)

My hair--the finished product!!!

I’m thrilled to say that she kept my hair just about the same shade that it’s been my whole life, so it looks really natural, just fresher. But she trimmed my hair in a way that I’ve been wanting to try, without me mentioning it! It’s still super-long, but instead of the straight across that it’s been on the bottom, it’s more of a V shape, with just a bit of layers there, so that it will have some wave to it, even when blown. That’s what I had been trying to ask other stylists to do, but they didn’t know what I meant. Meaghan thought that’s the way it should be without me even mentioning that that’s the style I was interested in! And it looks so cute in a ponytail now, too.

Marianna working on someone else's manicure. (I'm a pretty good photographer, but not that good that I could have taken this one of myself!)

While I was resting my weary head on the sink, waiting for a quick conditioning treatment to work its magic, I had the most fun thing happen—a lovely woman, Mariana Kryekurti, gently took my hands. At first, I didn’t know what was going on, but it turned-out that she was starting my manicure right then and there!!! I didn’t have to spend any of my limited New York time having the services in a row—she came to me, and did the manicure during the conditioning, continuing on while Meaghan and her trusty assistant, Charley Keating, blew my hair–I was triple-teamed! What luxury.

I hate having non-uniform nails, whether long or short, and when Mariana was done, they were perfect. Even the ones that had broken all the way down. (New York is always murder on my hands.) I could get used to this kind of special treatment.

Now that I was finally calm and attractive (well, compared to how I looked when I showed-up, anyway,) I was ready for a tour of the salon, courtesy of Carlos Perez, who’s an expert in their specialty of hair extensions and what they politely refer to as “additions.” (Hairpieces, for those of you not up on the politically correct jargon.) I had seen a number of private rooms, and was wondering what they were for. Now I know they’re to respect the privacy of hair-challenged clients, which I think is just great. Since I have enough hair for ten people, (as people who need an hour to blow my luxurious locks usually tell me,) I felt a little guilty realizing just how many people really need assistance in this area. But it’s good that those on the east coast have the Angelo David Salon to help them.

Carlos Perez and Angelo David.

Towards the end, I met Angelo himself, who looked like the guys I went to high school with in Brooklyn, which made me comfortable right away. We didn’t get to talk long, since Carlos and Meaghan had already given me the low-down on everything I could possibly want to know about the place, and it was raining and I was anxious about taking a dreaded subway ride back home. (With good cause, as it turned-out. Standing on a subway car is far from the best thing for a herniated disk.)

Artistic Director Meaghan Frayne and Charley Keating double-team blow-drying another client.

Meaghan was kind enough to pin up my hair and help me cover it with the scarf I was wearing around my neck originally, so that it wouldn’t get too messed-up by the weather, and then she excitedly exclaimed, “Wait, I have something for you!” It was a brand new Angelo David umbrella! I was beside myself with happiness to receive it because I could just hear my mother lamenting that I had ignored her pleadings to bring an umbrella that day.

And I must tell you that both my hair and nails held up not only for that ride back to Brooklyn, but for the rest of my New York trip and back to Los Angeles. My time at the Angelo David Salon even made me loosen up a bit on my intense dislike for Grand Central Station! Who knew all it would take is some good grooming and pleasant company?

Angelo David Salon 48 East 43rd Street NYC 212.883.6620 www.angelodavid.com

When I was in New York last month, I was invited to an early morning event that “celebrated women,” hosted by The New York Women’s Foundation. It sounded classy, so, of course I was in. Then I noticed that the invitation said “7:30 sharp” and I couldn’t imagine just who would want to be someplace that early, especially in New York, where it takes at least an hour, door-to-door, to get anyplace. So, I almost dropped-out. But then I realized that I was staying literally a block away from the Hilton that it was being held at, (there are at least nine Hiltons in Manhattan,) and I was back in.

All photos by Karen Salkin.

I was overwhelmed when I entered—there were about two thousand women, (and a handful of men,) in business attire, looking awake and ready to go! I was in shock! Perhaps I shouldn’t have spent the previous evening in a bar/lounge, no matter how much fun I was having. (I wasn’t imbibing, of course, since I don’t drink—I was just out later than I had planned, expending precious energy. Can you see why I wasn’t one of the “powerful women?”)

Anyway, this event was quite impressive, even to someone who’s attended more events than one would think possible, on both coasts and major cities in-between. It was held in the gigantic Grand Ballroom of the official New York Hilton, and had big screens throughout the room so that we all could see the speakers in front of the dais, as well as hear them. And, I’m happy to report, although there were still very many texters in attendance, most of the assemblage was paying rapt attention to what was being said, which was pretty important stuff.

There were too many speakers and honorees to tell you about in-depth, so here’s a list of them, followed by the website link where you can find everything you’d like to know about the foundation: Ana Oliveira,President & CEO, NYWF; Jennifer Buffett, President, NoVo Foundation; Maria Hinojosa, Anchor & Managing Editor, NPR’s Latino USA; Faith Ringgold, Artist, Activist & Feminist; Sade Baderinwa, ABC Eyewitness News; Carolyn Buck Luce, Chair, NYWF Board of Directors; Taina Bien-Aimé, Secretary, NYWF Board of Directors; Lorraine Cortés-Vázquez, Treasurer, NYWF Board of Directors; Hyatt Bass (a name worthy of Gossip Girl,) NYWF Board of Directors; Susan R. Cullman, NYWF Board of Directors, Co-chair of Celebrating Women® Breakfast; Anne E. Delaney, NYWF Board of Directors; Antoinette E. La Belle, NYWF Board of Directors; and Yvonne S. Quinn, NYWF Board of Directors. Whew! www.nywf.org

Okay, no matter how classy and intellectual I’m trying to be, you know I was all about the food. The hotel did breakfast an absolutely brilliant way. (Or maybe it was de rigeuer for early morning events—I wouldn’t know—I’m never out and about that early. Although I am always up and at ‘em in the wee hours, writing away for you guys to have something fun to read about!) When we entered the Ballroom, it was laid-out for us already, so the proceedings could just begin—there was no “just dining” time where the serving would have gotten in the way of the speeches. As I said, brilliant.

We each had a plate of gorgeous, colorful fruit surrounding the main dish—an apple-cranberry bread pudding on vanilla sauce. It was delish! Each setting also had a full water and an orange juice, which made the serving of coffee the only busy work for the servers during the speeches. Also on the table, for the whole group, were mini-breakfast pasties: danishes in several fruit flavors, blueberry muffins, croissants, and bagels, with pre-packaged cream cheeses and jams and jellies. So simple, and all anyone could need at that hour. (I later realized that they set it so early because all these powerful women have jobs! I guess that’s how they got to be so important to begin with.)

As if that repast and schmoozefest weren’t enough, several of us then got ushered into the VIP post-breakfast reception,which had on-hand full-sized breakfast snacks, like bagels and muffins. I could not believe it. And with even better goodie bags than we received at the earlier breakfast. (Sadly, my bag, that was chosen at random, was missing the best gift that seemed to be in the rest of them. Maybe if I were a more powerful female…) This reception was really great because we got to actually talk to the honorees/observe them up-close and personal.

I must mention one person who was seated at my table, even though he’s male. But he was one man I really wanted to thank for something. He’s John Mahdessian, the president of Madame Paulette’s, the luxury cleaning specialist in Manhattan. I’ve never been to it, but earlier this year, at yet another event, I received a couple of their easy-to-use Professional Stain Removal Kits. I filed them away for an emergency, hoping none would ever come.

But, when a wonderful friend took me to the recent Rod Stewart-Stevie Nicks concert at the Hollywood Bowl, just such an emergency presented itself. The short version is that someone stepped on a container of very greasy salad dressing, exploding it, which splattered the mess all over my favorite turquoise cotton dress. I was crushed, but had to sit through the whole second half in that condition. I didn’t get home until almost four hours later, and tore open my Madame Paulette’s kit, even though I had little or no hope of it being able to alleviate the horrible set-in grease stains. After I used the suggested part of the kit for awhile (in truth, this mess really required two kits, but what the heck,) I put in in the washer, still dreading the outcome. But the stains were mostly gone!!! I’m still shocked over the terrific results.

So, when another tablemate pointed John out to me, I just had to thank him. He probably hears stories like that all the time, but you know me—I always have to give props where they’re due. And Madame Paulette’s was due major kudos from me and my poor little dress.

So, on every level, the Celebrating Women Breakfast was a super worthwhile event, and one that I’m glad I made the effort to get out of bed for.

My recent trip to New York was a twelve-day whirlwind, highlighted, as I told you yesterday, by the birthday party that I threw for my little mother. There was so much I had to do, making it hard to just get out and relax.

But I really wanted to have one hip night at an eatery, so I chose the almost eight-month-old Lair in Soho. It was near the location where Will Smith so rudely had parked his humongous movie trailer, with no regard to the neighbors, so I figured I’d witness his rudeness along the way. But the city had ordered it to be moved before I got there, maybe out of knowing that I, a visitor from the West, would need a place to park. Or not.

Anyway, Lair is more of a late night bar scene and private party venue, but my friend, Lauren, and I had to go early because we were due at a “powerful women” breakfast early the next morning. (We’re not the powerful ones—we were there to listen to the real impressive females. I’m planning to tell you about it tomorrow.)

Going early worked-out perfectly for us because they cheerily accommodated us by lowering the music so we could easily converse, we got to meet many of the personnel, including the chef, and watch some of an exciting NBA play-off game on one of the gorgeous big-screen TVs. Unfortunately, having the early morning wake-up looming over our heads prevented Lauren from sampling one of their signature cocktails, as she had already started on a perfect vodka martini straight-up before we perused the menu, and I don’t drink at all, so I can’t tell you about them first-hand, but the other patrons seemed more than satisfied with their choices.

I had already read the creative Asian tapas menu on-line, so I knew there wasn’t much that I ate, but I had been invited to a private party for an author that was being held there the next night and was feeling bad that I would have to miss it. So, I wanted Lair to be the one new restaurant/lounge in NYC being that I would try on this trip. And Lauren likes to eat healthful food, which this primarily is. And we’re both hip chicks, so this place was the perfect choice on many levels.

Shockingly, Lauren and I reversed our usual roles, with her going nuts over the desserts, which she usually eschews, and me winding-up being really into the tapas dishes that I tried. It was fun for us to step out of our usual mind-fixes. (It’s also surprising that I managed to try any food at all because the workers were so fun that I just yapped away all night! More on them in a second.)

I recommend beginning each visit to Lair with their Chinese chips, which, with three different varieties of chips and house-made duck sauce, is quite the bargain, not to mention a necessity as a go-with for the Asian-influenced cocktails. While the roasted bone marrow is a rare treat for people who love it, neither of us eat marrow, so we were wishing that the accompanying delicious scallion pancakes were a dish unto themselves. Vegetarians would go nuts over them, too!

Lauren also liked the crispy wonton rolls filled with lobster, bacon, and avocado, and loved the oysters on the half shell, that were paired with seared scallops. But her hands-down favorite was the chicken and foie gras dumplings.

I had two intriguing choices as my faves: the coconut bao bread with honey hoisin butter, which was perfect and delicious, and the crispy chicken skin that came with the chicken “pillows.” I’m ashamed to say that I love crispy chicken skin at all times, (probably the worst thing for you, health-wise,) but the rendition at Lair was even more mouth-watering than any other. I could have eaten a whole plate of just that one dish!!!

The best part of the food is that each order comes with enough for about four people, and everything is meant to be shared. I do wish that I had arrived with my usual posse of four, as well, because I would then have extra opinions to regale you with. As most of you already know, I’m not the most adventuresome eater, and Lauren’s almost worse than I am! But we decided to go out so last minute that I didn’t have energy to call on any of my other “junior reviewers.” Just trust me on how fun this food, and the entire ambience of Lair, is, and try it for yourself.

Desserts.

Here’s the funny part—the desserts are sort-of exotic, which means that I didn’t eat them. (I’m a basic chocolate and milk girl.) But Lauren, whom I’ve never seen eat dessert in five or six years of friendship, went to town on them!!! I loved that! Her favorites were the sorbets, in mango and honey apple, but she also loved the caramel apples/crispy plum one, and the home-made walnut-crusted marshmallows. My little mother and Mr. X would have loved that one, too.

Karen Salkin with Triple-C, Chef Chris Cheung.

At the end of the meal, we met Chris Cheung, the chef. He was fascinating—he grew-up near me, in Brooklyn, at a time when there were few Asians. So, he and I knew all of the old school Cantonese places, which I loved chatting with him about. Most chefs of Chinese food nowadays just don’t care about Cantonese cooking, so Chris was a refreshing change for me.

Engaged-to-be-married Lair co-workers Nicole Kelly and Al Azemi.

I met Michael, one of the two owners, for just a second, but he turned us over to Nicole Kelly, the server who really cared about serving! She couldn’t have been more pleasant. At my insistence, she brought over her fiancé, who’s also the bartender, Al Azemi, who’s really just a big kid from Bay Ridge. I loved talking to them both, and wish them so much happiness with their wedding, which coincidentally takes place on the one-year anniversary of Lair, October 15th. I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that Lair moves its celebration (which I’m assuming they’ll have) to another night, because I want to attend both!!! (Just kidding, though Nicole and Al are now my new best friends, of course.)

And, last but not least, I can’t forget about the ambience. The darkness is just perfect, sitting at the bar looks like tons of fun, and the three or four low-tabled areas are all inviting. No matter where you sit or stand, or what you eat or drink, or who serves you, Lair is sure to please. I’ll see you there in August!

201 Lafayette Street NYC 212-334-5247 www.lairnyc.com

With snow once again blanketing the east coast, (but with me warm and dry back in Los Angeles,) I figure this is a good time to tell you about all the elements I encountered in the last month in New York. (BTW–I’m not complaining–I love snow!)

Mr. X and I spent most of December and the beginning of January with my little mother in Brooklyn. [Note: Being that this was our first Christmas without Clarence, it would have just been way too painful to spend it in the usual way at home in L.A.] And this time, when I say “in Brooklyn,” I totally mean it–we went to Manhattan on just New Year’s Day! We were even snowed-in the house for a week. Most of what you heard reported around the country about the city’s super-slow snow removal is absolutely true. On our block there, they didn’t come until the middle of the night on Thursday, over four days after the storm! Totally unacceptable.

We were glued to the news the entire week. When I wasn’t out shoveling snow, that is. (Yes, you read that right–I did, indeed, do hard labor. Which means I’ll have a big update on my herniated disk situation in an upcoming column.) I was so grateful to be moving, after this past year of inactivity, that I was actually happy to be out there working with the males in the ’hood. Of course, Mr. X did the hard stuff, like dig us out of the house to begin with, but I really did do more than my share.

Notice our official Charlie Brown tree in the center of the gifts.

But wait– I’m getting ahead of myself. First, I’m happy to report that my little mo’s first Christmas (she never celebrated one before) was very successful, although, like a little kid, she asked to open the presents ever day for the whole week that they were wrapped. And, as an avid doll and stuffed animal collector, especially ones who sing and move, she wanted them all to be dolls! That was part of my plan to begin with, but when we found an attached Raggedy Ann and Andy, who sing I Got You Babe, we knew that others would pale in comparison, so we didn’t get her the rest. (She’s insanely in love with the adorable dog who flattens out to become a pillow, though. I must admit that I snuck a hug or two from him myself.)

On each of my usual month-long trips to New York, I spend at least four days in Manhattan, and time away, too. (I.e. either a week-end in the Hamptons or a whole week in Rhode Island.) This time, though, out of the twenty-three we were there, I spent four days at the mall and seven days in the house! And I had pizza five times during my stay and Nathan’s hot dogs four. Healthy trip, eh? But it really was cozy, fun, and delicious.

So, on the night of December 20, (well, really the early morning of December 21,) there was an unusual lunar eclipse. For the first time since 1658, (the date I heard reported, though a few different years were bandied about later,) this was happening at the same time as the winter solstice. Mr. X, who was bothered by the way-below-freezing temperatures, went to bed at 1AM and suggested I do the same, since the wind chill factor was in the low single digits. I got into bed at 1:05, but just knew I’d be tossing and turning, wishing I were witnessing this historic event, that could be viewed on my own back porch!

Me, lying in the snow. I told you I looked like Ralphie's brother!

So, I got up, but on my thermals, another five or six layers of clothing, fuzzy boots, and my winter jacket, (I looked like Ralphie’s little brother in A Christmas Story,) and unlocked the back door for probably the first time in three years.

While it was beautiful out, to me, I jumped about ten feet in the air every time the wind made something creak. (In addition to the news of the impending eclipse, all night there were warnings that the “Flatbush rapist” was loose in the general neighborhood. That terrified me, though I should have realized that my thousand layers may have been a natural deterrent if he were hiding in my backyard.)

Me lying on the hood of the car, viewing the eclipse. A photo I'm not proud of, btw, but it portrays what's going on so perfectly that it had to be shown.

I kept calling Mr. X (on our cells, though his window was just a few feet above where I was perched for the viewing,) and when he reminded me that I had binoculars in my suitcase, I finally convinced him to come down and join me. We had such a fun time!!! We watched from all different vantage points, (with him at my side, I was brave enough to venture off the porch,) our favorite being lying on the hood of our car, leaning back on the front window. It was truly heaven.

Being that the whole event took two painfully slow hours, we kept running into the house to sip hot tea. We’d look out the window to see how the eclipse was coming, then run back outside when we detected movement, only to stand around for another ten minutes. It was a riot. We felt like we were back on a movie set, doing the “hurry-up-and-wait” bit that’s de rigueur in our business. At least this wasn’t a production of Waiting For Godot, though at times it felt like it, but the full eclipse did finally come at about 3:30AM.

Truthfully, it wasn’t as spectacular as had been prognosticated, but I’m so grateful to have witnessed it. I’m glad we didn’t stick around to watch the other side of the moon appear for the next two hours, though. I knew I could figure that one out in my head. And I needed to get some sleep for some more junk-food-devouring and mall-visiting the next day.

So just five days later, we woke up to the Great Blizzard of 2010! Using my eclipse garb, (only this time with my knee-high, weather-proof Sorel boots,) I walked around the block in it to get the Sunday paper before it turned ugly. I must confess that the wind whipping the snow in my face was not as much fun as I had imagined in my romantic mind. But I was in love with the beautiful winter wonderland it left the next day.

Until it turned into a gray nightmare over the next few days. When I finally heard the snowplows arrive after midnight five nights later, I, at first, watched from the upstairs front window, but then, grabbed my trusty fat outerwear and ran downstairs to protect my driveway from them. I flagged-down one of the drivers of these one-man caged operations, and said, “I see you’re piling-up the snow in some driveways,” to which he replied with a bald-faced lie, “We’re trying not to.” But they were filling-up the one across the street to the sky! I asked them to please not do it to mine, and went back to bed. But I ran back down a half hour later to make sure. I think I spent more time out in the elements in the middle of the night than I did in all the days combined!

The highlight of my trip came on New Year’s Day, our one day in Manhattan, when I witnessed my favorite dancer, Los Angeles’ own krumper, Oldz Kool, (who’s the one in t Featured Video on this site,) performing on the plaza between the Plaza Hotel and the Apple store, with New York dance group Breeze. The stunned crowd went wild to see a mature white guy krump dance with such expertise and panache. We all loved him! His performance was more exciting than all the store windows and Rockefeller Christmas tree and skating combined! It was the perfect way to start off 2011!

Okay, so you all know about the herniated disc in my lower back already. After three months of not walking at the beginning of the year, I worked it out myself, without drugs, surgery, or therapy. I’m still in constant discomfort, and can’t exercise or wear heels, but I’m doing okay, knock on wood.

Massage room.

But, when I was in New York this Fall, I thought that “okay” meant “all better” and I was far from wrong. All of a sudden, I found myself driving and walking again, and in excruciating pain from doing so. My caring friend Lauren took one look at me and insisted that I visit her massage therapist, Alex Kaminski, at the Office of Integrated Medicine at their spanking new offices on the Upper East Side. She swears by him. (And by the rest of the place, too! Please make sure to read down to the part about the fabulous facialist, Liliya Chernova.)

Alex was fabulous! A former Olympic athlete with not one, but two herniated discs himself, he really knew his stuff, let me tell you. This was no fun namby-pamby massage! Alex was there to help me to get around comfortably and heal. He helped me a lot in just one session. I can only imagine how much good he could do if I lived there!

Lauren wanted to show me around the lovely new offices, but I was out of time. But I thought about it for a few days, and was so grateful to Alex that I wanted to go back and find-out more about their services. [Note: I hope to visit him again this trip, so I’ll report on any updates in January.]

The beautiful, classy waiting room.

It’s run by a well-thought-of chiropractor, but since that’s the wrong kind of doctor for a herniated disc, I didn’t need to meet him. But I did spend time with a couple of members of the lovely office staff. (More on them later.)

It was towards the end of my month in New York, so I thought it was time to relax with a therapeutic facial from the aforementioned Liliya Chernova. It was wonderful! Finally, an aesthetician who knows enough to include the most important neck and shoulders! (Most of them ignorantly stop at the chin.) This facial was truly the single best beauty treatment I’ve ever had. No wonder she’s billed as a “Beauty Therapist!”

During most facials I’ve received over the years, I lie there hoping that the aesthetician will do a long massage, but rarely do they. Liliya gave me one so long and thorough that, I swear, I think I was actually hallucinating! I was really in and out of consciousness because I was so relaxed. I could never even begin to emulate what she did, but it was just perfect. It’s what a facial massage should be, and never is!

And, the second best part was that she didn’t say anything bad about my skin, in an attempt to sell me products or set-up more sessions. Ladies–you know what I’m talking about! She even told me that I didn’t need any extractions! The others always try to make you feel bad and insecure, and Liliya was only complimentary. Loved her!

Then, I met Alex Aranjo, the manager of the cosmetic surgery division. He couldn’t have been nicer and less pushy, also. He answered only the questions I asked, and showed me how they do some basic procedures, without even once suggesting that I needed any “work.” I really appreciated that.

He introduced me to Isis Harris, who’s the medical aesthetician, as opposed to Liliya, who’s the cosmetic one. Isis said she loves doing little procedures to the skin, and showed me how easy some of them are. These two really seemed to love doing their jobs and improving patients’ looks and self-esteem.

I was so relaxed and comfortable that, had I not had a screening to get to, I could have spent a few more hours there! I felt I was among friends, and that they were really looking-out for my well-being. Which is actually more than many of my actual friends do!

635 Madison Avenue New York 212-277-4406 www.officeofintegrativemedicine.com

This is the kind-of review that makes me miss doing my show, Karen’s Restaurant Revue. It would be so much better to talk it out, rather than try to write it in a cohesive fashion. I know just where my audience would be gasping and guffawing. But I’ll give it my best shot on paper. You’ve got to read down to the end, though, because this is a juicy one. And by “juicy,” I mean one of the worst reviews I’ve ever given. My mouth waters. (But definitely not from their food.)

The only good thing we can say about this place is that at least the dishes are pretty!

Though I could not find the exact meaning of the root “-alicious” anywhere on-line (I research just about everything I tell you guys, to make sure I’m correct at all times,) I think that we can all agree that it’s used to connote something good. So, unless “chikalicious” means “awful, unsanitary rip-off” it’s not. Anything “licious,” that is.

I wish that I had taped what my smartest friend in the world, *Sharon, and I had to say on the ride home, because her bon mots, especially, were perfect. But we were just getting it all off our chests at the time, and I can’t remember everything we uttered in outrage against this supreme Emperor’s New Clothes of eateries. I will try my best to convey to you our creepy experience there.

For years, I had been reading about this three-course dessert bar in the East Village. I imagined a lovely afternoon tea-esque girly experience, in a tiny, but beautiful, space. What I got was far from. It all. I’ll go in a row.

For some unknown reason, they have a host for this minuscule 17-seater! (Eleven stools at the counter, six chairs at tables. I think his name was Don, and he was quite genial and the best thing about the place. (Unnecessary water-pourer, Jorge, was also lovely.) The goodness ended there.

Don suggested we sit at the counter to watch the action. There was plenty of that, but it all made our hair curl. It turns-out that the owner is a thin Japanese woman, Chika, hence the shop’s moniker. I had thought it referred to “chicks,” and was therefore fun for a girls’ afternoon out. My bad. Not only were her teeth far from lovely, which indicated to me to maybe not consume her confections on a regular basis, but her uniform was dingy and the rag she had on the waist to wipe her hands was downright repulsive. We should have left as soon as we spied it, but we’re no quitters.

The deal here is that, for $14, you get a chef-chosen “amuse,” which is a pretentious way of saying a “tidbit,” (and, for their information, the correct term is actually “amuse-bouche,” not just “amuse“) to start, then you choose a main one from a short list of desserts, then get what they’re labeling “petit fours,” yet another example of their pretentiousness because, even though the definition of a true petit four is “a small confection generally eaten at the end of a meal,” in America we generally accept it to mean little square iced cakes, which these were definitely not.

We had the misfortune of getting “served” by the most obnoxious chef ever, David, who was downright rude, bordering on abusive. The Soup Nazi has nothing on him!!! I’ve been to the soup guy’s former window, and he doled-out his orders with a twinkle in eye. David just seemed to get off on his own nastiness. (After we had choked down the crumbs that he served, the girls next to me had something else, and I asked what it was. He snidely answered that it was their signature dish. When I said I wish I had known about it, he rudely retorted, “You didn’t ask!” What an idiot–how would I know to ask?! He should have let us in on it, knowing that we were new customers. No loss, I’m sure, if the other dishes are any indication.)

Okay, so one would think that since, as David informed us, we were getting an amuse and petit fours “chosen by Chika and myself,” they’d ask us our preferences and choose accordingly. No such luck. What they “chose” for us is what the entire assemblage got! It’s what they felt like making that day. Nothing “chosen” about it, except for the fact that every chef chooses his or her menu! Morons.

But, always open to new experiences that quite often work out well, Sharon ordered a cappuccino and we settled back to, as their website states, “enjoy fabulous desserts while watching both their preparation and plating.” Trust me, I wish that we had averted our eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

The amuse, David obnoxiously proclaimed, was “coconut ice cream on chocolate gelee.” Sounds good enough, right? It was a thimbleful of slightly chocolate-flavored gelatin with a small oval of the ice cream on top. But–this is the worst part–guess how he shaped the ice cream into an oval??? Ready?–IN HIS BARE HANDS!!! I think I’m going to throw-up writing this.

Not to reference Seinfeld again, that I’ve seen only a few times in my life, and those were in reruns, but it was exactly the episode where the chef went to the bathroom and didn’t wash his hands. Sharon and I were hitting each other under the table, but we were in such shock that neither of us had the temerity to just leave. We just swallowed it in two bites and hoped the experience would improve. And we were starving. We hadn’t eaten much beforehand because we all know how three courses of dessert will fill you up. Except in this case.

That's my petite hand in there to demonstrate just how lilliputian this fare is!

Sharon chose what was described as “Warm Chocolate Tart with Pink Peppercorn Ice Cream and Red Wine Sauce.” What she received was laughable. It was a mini-cupcake-sized shell with a dollop of basically tart chocolate pudding. A couple of inches away was another oval of ice cream, shaped again in his non-washed hands, (believe me, I watched every move they made back there,) with an isolated miniscule swirl of some red sauce. Even I, the slowest eater on earth (just ask CBS executive Paul Gilbert about my French fry-eating sometime,) could have eaten everything on the plate in three or four bites.

My supposed apple soup with buttermilk ice cream and biscuits was basically baby applesauce with another gloveless hand-rolled ball of ice cream and three thimble-sized squares of dough. I don’t know how we held in our laughter. On the way home, when we were discussing just how insulting this whole thing was, Sharon likened it to food at a baby’s party. She said, “Not even a two-year-old’s party–a one-year-old’s.” I said, “not even a child’s party–this wasn’t even enough food for a doll’s tea party!”

The three "petit fours." At least "petit" is the correct description of them!

Okay, so we finally came to the aforementioned “petit fours.” What a joke! These are the three pieces we got: 1) a miniscule ball of chocolate goop, which actually dissolved in a few minutes when I put it in my napkin to take to the car to get a close-up picture of, to share with you guys. 2) A thumb-nail sized marshmallow with shredded coconut. And 3) a sliver of tasteless brown cake from a basic cupcake-sized cake that was sliced into twelve pieces!!! The nerve of them!

And the whole time, Chika and David acted like they were working hard, creating in front of our eyes. What they were doing was constantly opening and closing the tiny refrigerators and freezers and taking out what they had already made and placing the morsels on pretty plates! They definitely could have just plated the non-perishable petit fours pre-opening and served them right away!

Instead, they made us sit there way after we wanted to leave, so that it looks like they’re working hard, and also to create a line of people waiting to get in, like something special and coveted is going on in there! (FYI–there were no lines either on our ways out or in, so that’s most likely a myth, as well.) The whole experience, from start to finish, should have taken about twenty minutes. Instead they held us hostage for about five times that! What a supreme waste of time, money, and blood boiling.

I’m giving you the info, but begging you not to use it, unless it’s to give to the Department of Health!: 203 E. 10th Street New York 212-995-9511 www.chikalicious.com

*Not her real name, but she’s so nice that she doesn’t want to be identified because she hated saying unkind things. So, she’s not only my smartest friend, she’s my kindest one, too! But I showed her this column pre-posting and she agreed with everything in it. And don’t even try to guess her identity because she’s not a regular cohort I’ve written about before.

I was sad to hear of the passing last week of Elaine Kaufman, famous owner of her even-more-famous eponymous New York restaurant, Elaine’s.

I dined there only three times in all these years, but each one was memorable. The first time was when I was just starting out in the business. I became friendly with Robert Altman’s film editors here in L.A., and the group happened to be in New York for a premiere when I was there for my father’s birthday.

Photo by Shanna Ravindra.

It was perfect–we had all met up for the event the night before, and now it was a Sunday afternoon in December, and freezing out. A member of Altman’s inner circle brought me to his house for a casual afternoon. I was so young and green, I really wasn’t even sure who he was! As a matter of fact, when people who knew me heard about this meeting, they all assumed that Altman would “love” me, and make me one of his kooky stars. I really knew nothing of his ways then, but if I had known about him, I would have thought so, too!

But no, he basically brushed me aside because I don’t drink. And that was a group of hard drinkers, let me tell you. I rarely have anything of significance to say to drunk people, let alone grown men who imbibe, so I was just quiet from being uncomfortable. I didn’t care how fabulous this crowd was–I wanted to get out of there.

Until, that is, Altman said we were going to Elaine’s for an early Sunday night dinner. I had never heard of it, (remember–I was nescient then,) but I perked right up, just at the thought of going to a Manhattan restaurant! As soon as we entered, though, I knew it was something special. Elaine greeted Bob as an old friend, which I’m sure he was, since, as I now know, she hung around with the artsy crowd.

Anyway, the only food I remember from that day was the specialty polenta, which I had also never heard of (did I mention I was young?) and did not like at all, but I can tell you where everyone was sitting and what they had on. Well, actually, I can do that with most places, but at Elaine’s, I felt like we were in a very New York movie.

As years went on, and I moved away from that crowd, when I read of Elaine’s, I was always a little jealous of my younger self.

Photo by Shanna Ravindra.

Until I started dating Mr. X, that is! Believe it or not, he was the one with all the fun plans than, not I! (I was still very young, and hadn’t become “Karen” from Karen’s Restaurant Revue yet.) So, we stayed at the Plaza Hotel and he shepherded me to hip clubs and eateries in New York. He took me to Elaine’s on a Saturday night, and they gave us a great front room table. I’m even more impressed over that detail now.

All of a sudden, we saw tons of flashes go off, and wondered just who had arrived. It turned-out to be Mr. X’s ex! And they didn’t talk at the time. And she had been my pal, too, and didn’t know that he and I were together yet. (Don’t get your panties in a knot–I didn’t steal him; it just worked-out that way. And we were totally meant to be together.)

The whole thing was a very uncomfortable show biz moment, and when Robin Leach took us to dinner the next night, (don’t ask,) he had already heard about the incident. I was surprised, because it really was just our private business, but then I realized–of course word had gotten out–it happened at Elaine’s!

So, years went on again, and I had been to about a zillion New York restaurants by then. But my friend, Buzzfoto founder Brad Elterman, was coming to town while I was there, and my mother told me that he called and said to tell me he was taking me to Elaine’s the next night. Since my dream is to eat at every restaurant in New York and Los Angeles, at first I was a tad disappointed because I had already been there. Twice. But then I thought–how often does someone else make the plan, and how often does someone take me to a wonderful institution such as that? And I was instantly appreciative and looking forward to it.

I would have been happy to just be in New York having fun with Brad, but this made it even better. Walking into Elaine’s that night, I still felt like that little girl with the Altman gang. Until Keith Hernandez, former Met and now an announcer for the team, and Elaine’s regular, said hi to me because we had met in Aspen that summer, and hung-out a bit. It made me feel like I belonged.

Brad and I had a wonderful time, and loved watching Elaine herself flit from table to table, in her caftan, noshing along the way. And now that we’ll never have the opportunity to watch her do that again, I’m especially grateful for that time.