Exploring the left coast aboard the Norwegian Bliss

Sunrise as we enter San Francisco Bay.

Wendy and I spent some time recently traveling about the left coast, from Los Angeles to Vancouver, with stops in San Francisco and Victoria.

Most of the getting from here to there was done aboard the Norwegian Bliss, one of the new class of mega-ships that is filled with an assortment of bells and whistles -- water slides, hot tubs and pools, go karts and a large laser tag venue, restaurants, bars and a wannabe shopping mall.

The ship has a crew of 1,200 and can accommodate well over 4,000 guests. The Bliss isn't exactly blissful -- way too many people -- but it is new and sparkly and, I'm thinking, a perfect getaway for young adults traveling with kids.

Anyway you parse it, the lovely Miss Wendy and I are no longer, ah, young and our kids were at home taking care of their kids.

Wendy making her way across Santa Monica Beach.

Fortunately, extending our journey out west both before and after the cruise was a winning idea that turned what could have easily been a lackluster holiday into a memorable adventure.

We stayed in Santa Monica for two days before visiting relatives and friends around Mission Viejo. Santa Monica is a lovely beach community with shops and restaurants, expansive green spaces and an iconic pier filled with additional shops and restaurants.

There's also an amusement park for tourists and, better yet, miles of walking and cycling trails along the nearby beach.

We spent a couple hours following the trail into Venice Beach and exploring the aging hippy community there that has morphed into a sort of hip-hop, grunge and bikers mecca. The area, jarringly, also appears to be home base for many homeless and disenfranchised folks from across Southern California.

Bucket list alert: Cruising under the Golden Gate Bridge.

When we weren't walking or window shopping, we were eating. Wexler's, a New York-style Deli -- aren't they all! -- was conveniently located just a few blocks from our hotel and helped jump start our vacation on a gastronomical high. Can you say pastrami ... hot pastrami!?

Santa Monica proved to be a tasty starter on our holiday getaway, but after dashing about Southern California we were ready for the main course.

The Bliss, despite its shortcomings, managed to deliver us to a couple of world-class ports: San Francisco and Vancouver.

Both cities are touristy delights. They share much in common: expansive green spaces, soaring skyscrapers and picturesque neighborhoods.

They also have splendid waterfronts featuring a pleasant blend of souvenir shops, retail outlets, restaurants, bars and marinas filled with a wide and varied assortment of sailboats, fishing skiffs and sightseeing vessels.

Vancouver's Waterfront offers grand view of city's skyline.

Wendy and I spent a couple hours walking along the waterfront in the City by the Bay, from Pier 39 -- chock full of tourists and a pod of seals -- to Fisherman's Wharf, then up to Ghiradella Square and Russian Hill Park. Off in the distance we could just make out the outline of the Golden Gate Bridge that, hours earlier, we had cruised under as we made our way into San Francisco Bay.

A few days later we were in Vancouver where we spent a longish weekend hoofing it across the city. We went on several walking tours and eventually made our way from Gastown -- an intown neighborhood filled with restaurants and nightclubs, fashion boutiques and art galleries -- to Canada Place, Coal Harbor and Stanley Park.

After our six-hour trek, I posted a few photos and this blurb on Facebook: Take the big city vibe of Manhattan, striking architecture of Chicago, waterfront beauty of Miami and diversity of San Francisco ... stir briskly and garnish with a hockey puck and, voila, Vancouver on the rocks!

I stand by the A-Plus review, however it turns out that the top highlight of our time out west came a couple of days earlier and 60 miles south of Vancouver. After mentioning to several friends that we would be stopping in Victoria, most everyone told us we had to visit Butchart Gardens because, well, it's incredible.

One word to describe Butchart Gardens: Spectacular!

They weren't exaggerating!

The gardens, a National Historic Site in Canada, is about a 40-minute drive from Victoria. It spreads across 55 acres and features 900 bedding plant varieties serviced by 26 greenhouses and 50 full-time gardeners. In a word, the gardens are spectacular -- okay, they are also beautiful and delightful, mesmerizing and other-worldly!

Wendy and I happened to visit when most of the 160,000 Tulip bulbs planted months earlier were on full display. The colorful and fragrant flowers shared space with a wide variety of other plants and trees, including English Daisies and Elephant Ears, Dogwood trees and Trout Lillies, Christmas roses, Hyacinth, Skunk Cabbage, Forget-Me-Nots and Poor Man Orchids.

I don't know the difference between a petunia and a pansy, but the pleasant blend of flowering plants, water features and hardscape designs had me -- and a million other visitors each year -- entranced and thrilled we made it to Butchart, the bloomin' center of the world!

Frigid trip a really cool adventure

Ian, Larry and me all dressed up and ready to explore.

My brother Ian and I were on our way to Jackson Hole Airport, returning to Atlanta after spending a long weekend exploring some of the iconic natural wonders in and around the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Parks.

"So, how was your stay," our Uber driver asked as he gingerly maneuvered about the icy roadway between Jackson, Wyo. and the airport.

"Chilly," I said.

The driver chuckled, then responded that that was probably one of the main reasons tourists visited the area in winter, "to get a taste of real frigid weather."

He's probably right; at least that was one of the primary reasons that I and two of my brothers -- Ian and Larry, who had said his goodbyes earlier that day -- had decided to make the trip.

We weren't disappointed.

Temps ranged mostly from lows in the single digits to highs in the mid-20s. Most mornings and late evenings, however, the mercury would dip into minus territory. It was a numbing sort of cold that I had never experienced, a frosty frigidity that attacked with an unforgiving icy grip.

First Stop, the Grand Tetons just outside of Jackson, Wyo.

That's not to say there weren't warm and unforgettable moments during the trip. All three of us had spent time in the area and seen most of the major attractions, but the region glistens with an icy charm during the winter that melts away in the spring and summer.

Since we were all a little skittish about driving on icy roads, we booked two, day-long tours and left the driving and navigating to seasoned guides. The first focused on wildlife around the Grand Tetons and the second on the natural wonders to be found in Yellowstone.

Turns out, even in the dead of winter, there's lots to discover and lots to see if you know where to look. Fortunately Steve, our guide, knew where the elk and bison were wintering; also, a herd of mountain goats, some coyotes, a bald eagle or three, and a wandering moose.

So, why did the moose cross the road? Because he could!

The wildlife was strikingly positioned about the majestic peaks and tranquil valleys of the Grand Tetons, a poetic placement that managed to be both natural and wondrous; thanks and a tip of the beanie to Mother Nature!

The next day we traveled an hour or so north of Jackson in a specially outfitted van -- really big tires to handle roads and trails filled with slush -- to explore the natural wonders of Yellowstone.

The National Park spreads across 3,500 square miles of land in the northwest corner of Wyoming -- it bleeds over into Idaho and Montana -- and I imagine we managed to cover about 50 or so miles from the park's southern entrance to the Upper Geyser Basin.

The area, filled with the largest concentration of geysers in the world, was decked out in a dazzling coat of ice and snow. The sky was a frigid blue, the perfect backdrop for all the natural wonders and beauty on display.

Yellowstone is a geothermal wonderland.

We even got to see Old Faithful pop off before venturing off on a short hike that included an up close and personal look at a series of hot springs and mud pots. The surrounding landscape, meanwhile, offered up an extravagant mural of wintry delights: icy brooks and waterfalls, snow-covered woods and mountain peaks, and achingly beautiful meadows that -- at least poetically -- stretched into tomorrow.

The trip, as expected, was memorable -- and, yes, brutally cold! The weather, however, was manageable because we spent 30 minutes each morning dressing for anything Mother Nature might toss our way.

That meant after tugging on a base layer of Merino wool underwear, I followed with a pair of warm and water-resistant socks, thermal snow pants, a flannel shirt, sweater vest and fleece hoodie, quilted puffer jacket, balaclava and woolen beanie. Finally, after pulling on and lacing up a pair of Merrill Thermo Chill Mid-Waterproof boots, I was good to go. And go we did.

Up Next: Someplace warm and toasty!

Another trip north and another grand adventure!

View of lower Manhattan after hiking across the Brooklyn Bridge.

Feeling a bit restless and having a few hundred bucks in airline credit to burn, it only made sense for the lovely Miss Wendy and me to take yet another nibble out of the Big Apple earlier this year.

We had visited New York in December, but decided to embrace the ancient Talmudic belief that you can never be too thin, too rich or visit Manhattan too often!

Atlanta chums Margaret and Peter, also in need of a chilly getaway, joined us on the trip north the first week of February, adding a whole new level of fun and adventure.

We spent the first afternoon zig-zagging our way about Midtown, strolling by Central Park and the Plaza Hotel, St. Patrick's Cathedral, Radio City Music Hall and Rockefeller Center, Times Square and the Broadway Theater District.

Yummy way to end the day when visiting NYC.

Another ten minutes and five blocks along Broadway and we found ourselves in front of Ben's Kosher Deli -- can you say righteous hot pastrami? Can you say yummy? We can and we did!

An hour or so later, after a deli-licious dinner of corned beef and hot pastrami, chopped liver, matzo ball soup and a choco-licious slice of warm babka, we managed to shuffle our way onto Broadway and back to the Theater District.

Margaret and Peter were off to see "Come From Away", the Tony Award-winning musical focusing on the residents of Gander, Newfoundland and the thousands of airline passengers stranded there following the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center.

Wendy and I had seen -- and enjoyed -- the musical on our last trip to New York, so we decided to spend the evening with Bernadette Peters, aka Dolly Levi, and say "Hello"! It was a splendid, toe-tapping choice and a grand way to end the day.

Up early the next morning, Peter greeted us with the news that New York's a wonderful town, explaining giddily that the Bronx is up and the Battery's down. Okay, I'm playing a little fast and loose with his words so I can get the lyrics of "New York, New York" into this post. But I'm not exaggerating the ebullient vibe that had us all psyched and ready to take on another day in the city.

Wendy and Peter crossing the Brooklyn Bridge.

After a little "ride in a hole in the ground" -- yes, that's another musical reference, this time to the city's world-class subway system -- Margaret and Peter headed over to Ellis Island in search of their ancestral roots, while Wendy and I strolled around the World Trade Center.

In recent years we've visited the "footprint" fountains on the site of the downed Twin Towers and the nearby museum raised in honor and memory of the nearly 3,000 victims of the 9/11 attacks. But we'd never actually been inside the new building.

The structure towers over lower Manhattan, 104 stories of glass and steel soaring a breathtaking -- and symbolic -- 1776 feet high. There are 54 high-speed passenger elevators, a special few that can zip you up to the One World Observatory on the 102nd floor in a stunning 47 seconds.

Both the ride -- the elevators are equipped with digital screens that offer a unique glimpse at the history and growth of the region -- and the observation deck are 21st century amazing!

Wendy and I enjoyed all the bells and whistles that greeted and welcomed us, took time to watch one last video that set the scene, then stood in amazement as the screen lifted revealing a jaw-dropping vista that stretched off to the distant horizon.

World Trade Center towers over lower Manhattan.

The observation deck -- actually two floors that include a snack bar, restaurant, meeting rooms and gift shop -- circles the tower, offering a 360 degree view that includes Manhattan, Queens, Harlem and Long Island to the north and east, the Hudson River and New Jersey to the west, and Staten Island, much of Brooklyn and the Jersey shore to the south.

If you're lucky -- and we were -- you can see forever. A gaggle of skyscrapers, roadways, bridges and green space dot the landscape. It all blends together like the phantasmagoric work of a master builder, a mighty ode to the greatness of America.

During a 30-minute stroll, high above it all, we managed to spot Central Park and Rockefeller Center; the United Nations, Chrysler and Empire State buildings; the Manhattan, Brooklyn and Verrazano-Narrows bridges; Times Square and the Statue of Liberty.

After making our way back down to earth and meeting up with Margaret and Peter, we wandered about Greenwich Village, visiting Chelsea Market, the nearby High Line, a 1.45-mile-long elevated linear park, greenway and rail trail, and Washington Square.

We then began a slow and chilly trek up Fifth Avenue. In fact, trekking pretty much filled the next day or so.

Margaret takes a little spin on a carousel in Brooklyn.

Before calling it quits and heading back to the land of cotton and warmer temps, we criss-crossed midtown yet again, traveled back to lower Manhattan and hiked across the Brooklyn Bridge into the Heights and the gentrified district of DUMBO.

We then stumbled about SOHO, NOHO and the East Village before making our way to Rafele -- can you say sangria? It's one of our favorite New York restaurants just the other side of Bleecker Street in the West Village and only a hop, skip and a cannoli away from Rocco's, a pasticceria worth visiting if you're in the neighborhood. We were and we did!

Weary, but happy, Wendy and I bid our traveling companions a fond farewell the next morning and returned home -- Margaret and Peter hung around Gotham another two days. To paraphrase Julius Caesar: We came, we saw, we ate, drank and conquered. And so it goes!

Taking another bite out of the Big Apple!

Exploring new transport hub near World Trade Center.

The lovely Miss Wendy and I were four hours into a six-hour walking tour of lower Manhattan when we stumbled across Rocco's, a pasticceria in the West Village. The shop was a sugary delight and one of the many highlights of a recent trip to the Big Apple.

Yet again Wendy and I had pulled out our winter gear -- heavy coats, scarves and gloves -- and traveled north for what's become an annual pilgrimage to New York; a trip to the really big city to attend a few Broadway shows and eat our way across Manhattan. This time around we added a couple of tours so we could finally get an up close and personal look at several of the diverse neighborhoods -- Chinatown and Little Italy, SoHo, NoHo, the Meatpacking District and Chelsea -- that fill and define the southern end of the city that never sleeps.

The walking tour offered a sweeping historic overview of the area, from its founding and development around the southern tip of Manhattan to the impact its early settlers and residents had on the rapid growth of the region and country. A second tour at the Tenement Museum off Delancy Street on the Lower East Side focused on the immigrants who flooded into the area during the last half of the 19th Century.

Thumbs up: "Evan Hansen"

The tours were both fun and enlightening, but it was the delightful blend of Gotham energy, entertainment and good eats that made the trip memorable. Of course Broadway, as usual, was part of the mix!

"Dear Evan Hansen", one of three shows we attended during our four-day vacation, is breaking box office records at the moment and was the proverbial cherry on our holiday sundae. It's a musical with a message, exploring loneliness, bullying and suicide with a powerful and creative digital twist.

The two other shows -- the long-running musical "Chicago" and a one-woman play, "Not That Jewish" -- were amusing and distracting in an entertaining, if predictable fashion. "Evan Hansen", meanwhile, is wholly unpredictable and, I'm thinking, will be a big winner at this year's Tony Awards.

Sangria at Rafele's packs a tasty punch.

Fortunately, there was plenty of time between tours and shows to enjoy a few of the city's classic and unique delis, bakeries, diners and restaurants. We stumbled across a couple of new places and revisited a few familiar spots: Ben's Deli in Midtown and Le Marais, a kosher steakhouse a few blocks north; Zabar's on the Upper West Side and Katz's just the other side of Houston Street and around the corner from Russ and Daughters, the Jewish grocery specializing in caviar, smoked fish, herring and bagels.

What's mostly lingering about in my noggin at the moment, however, is the wine Wendy and I gulped down at Rafele's in the West Village. The restaurant -- we discovered it on a food tour several years ago -- has the best sangria I've ever tasted. We started off with a single goblet of the fruity nectar, but managed to polish off another two glasses as we dined on an assortment of Neapolitan dishes.

Italian bakery in West Village perfect way to end the day.

We then staggered out into the Village, a lightly falling snow covering the neighborhood with a modest dusting of the white stuff. The setting and vibe seemed just about perfect -- or maybe it was the alcohol ... I did mention there was booze, right? The day's outing only got better when we found ourselves wandering passed Rocco's.

Turns out the Italian bakery is a New York institution -- who knew? It's filled with a variety of goodies that are fresh and tasty and a perfect way to end a perfect day! Despite a yuge variety of cakes and cookies, pastries and other such sweets, we kept things simple and shared a mini-eclair and fruitamisu, a bit of pastry topped with a hefty glob of cream and fresh fruit.

I'm thinking we'll be back again, both to Rocco's and New York. After all, if you can eat it there you can eat it anywhere! Not at all sure what that means, but if it was good enough for the Chairman of the Board, it's good enough for me!

Pastry, politics and hoping the madness will stop

My mid-morning snack at Sugar Cakes in Marietta.

It being a lovely day in the neighborhood -- thanks and a tip of the hat to Mr. Rogers -- I made a snap decision to get out of the house earlier this week and head over to the Square in Marietta.

It was difficult pulling myself away from cable news and the latest happenings on the campaign trail. It seemed that, yet again, the talk was skirting policy issues -- the economy and jobs, healthcare, education and such -- in favor of a bizarre and misstated position on "the right to life" and nonsense on nukes; arrest warrants, hot wives and all manner of ways to steal delegates from the guy with the golden hair.

I eventually settled in at Sugar Cakes, a patisserie and bistro hidden away on a bustling side street just across from the Square and a squadron of youngsters and their moms enjoying the fresh air while ignoring a yellowish-green wave of seasonal pollen -- can you say ACHOO!

Sugar Cakes is a tiny restaurant with big ideas, featuring a gussied up menu for breakfast and lunch. Since it was too late for breakfast -- the sun was high overhead -- and, at least for me, way too early for lunch, I decided on a mid-morning snack.

The choices were lovely and luscious, heavy on caramelized fruits and glazes, whipped cream and sauces. It all looked good to me! But after a moments reflection and jarring thoughts of my ever expanding midsection and finger-wagging physician, I decided to stick with the basics: coffee and pastry.

Okay, truth to tell, the pastry was a hefty blend of sugary stuff, whirled and swirled and topped with peaches; a delicious treat that was probably filled with a ton of calories. It's the sort of thing I would have shared with the lovely Miss Wendy if the lovely Miss Wendy had been around.

But she wasn't and the pastry was! And this sense of guilt, I'm sure, will soon be a fading memory.

Now I'm back in front of the tube, listening to the latest political rhetoric and spin on the blather from the campaign trail, learning -- once more -- how best to make "America Great, Again!" by building a wall and threatening to nuke our enemies.

I'm thinking it might be time to revisit the Square and grab another hit of sugar or, just maybe, go ahead and bury my head in the sand until the madness stops!

Might be helpful if God started a podcast today

At the risk of stating the obvious, it's funny how my mind works. I was listening recently to a cable news station when they played portions of two new political ads. The messages were predictable, but what caught my attention was what I heard playing in the background.

Both used generic bits of music -- quiet, yet expansive, slightly and lightly melancholy -- that triggered something in my thoughts and, after a moment, had me thinking about a film I'd once seen.

I couldn't remember any details -- name of the film, plot line, time and place. I did recall, in a blurry fashion, the male lead, but couldn't put a name with the face. The more it all lingered and swirled about, I was pretty certain that the film was centered in the 1950s, either produced then or evocative of that simpler time.

This all played out in a few minutes, morphing from a vague notion filled with bland street scenes to my muddled mind latching onto an actor who seemed to be puzzled about some sort of existential issue.

For whatever reason -- I have no real idea how my thoughts play out -- an image of God popped up in my mind and it seemed to be that the film, whatever it was, touched on the cosmic and divine in some fashion.

And so it was, still in my pjs and bathrobe and munching my breakfast cereal, I began googling films about the 1950s and God. After tossing aside blockbusters like "Ben Hur" and "The Ten Commandments", both produced in the late '50s, I added "small town USA" to my search.

Bingo!

The actor stored away in my memory bank tuned out to be James Whitmore and the film, released in 1950, was "The Next Voice You'll Hear". BTW, it's worth mentioning that Whitmore's wife in the film was played by Nancy Davis, the woman who would marry Ronald Reagan two years later and eventually become the "First Lady"!

The movie details the impact on a small community when, for no apparent reason, God begins broadcasting messages over the radio. The voice of God is never actually heard, while the film focuses on the reaction -- confusion, disbelief, fear and faith -- the words have on the local citizenry.

The film was produced only five years after the end of World War II. Harry Truman was president, the Korean War was just beginning and the Cold War was just heating up. Relations with China were stretched to the breaking point and Russia, just a few months earlier, had tested its first atomic bomb.

Yikes!

This dark and jarring mix of woes had folks on the home front feeling a little skittish and filmmakers in Hollywood looking for a way to calm nerves while offering up a bit of hope with a tasty bag of cheesy bromides.

Given the sad state of the world today -- terrorist attacks across Europe and a weak economy that has yet to right itself completely following a global recession nearly a decade ago, a presidential election that has all the gravitas, at least on the conservative side, of a SNL skit and at least one scary candidate who seems to be a bizarre mix of Hitler, Mussolini and Bozo the Clown -- and I'm thinking it might be nice and helpful if God decided to make a sudden appearance across the World Wide Web!

"The Next Voice You'll Hear" ended on an ambiguous note while offering up a message of hope and unity -- essentially we're all in this together and everything is going to be okay if we pull together.

Sadly, I'm not at all certain if an entire pantheon of gods could right our woes today. As one notable blowhard with an awful comb over might say, "It's simply too yuuuuuuge of a job!"

Love, loss and hope

On a recent gray and dreary day, the lovely Miss Wendy and I thought it a perfect time to visit our neighborhood multiplex cinema. We ended up seeing a horror flick that still has me rattled.

That's all a bit surprising, since I was raised on a jarring mix of films featuring werewolves and vampires; stumbling and bumbling mummies and fantastical blobs; the Frankenstein monster and a wide assortment of aliens. In recent years, I've even sat through some really frightening misadventures featuring flying superheroes, massive explosions and ubiquitous car chases.

Of course all these Hollywood creatures and creations were ephemeral, mostly filled with special effects and comic bogeymen hiding about in the dark.

"Still Alice", meanwhile, is a film that has little to do with make believe monsters and demons. The spooky stuff it offers up is scarily grounded in reality. It tells the story of Alice Howland, a middle-aged professor of linguistics at Columbia University, who is bright and beautiful and, unfortunately, slowly losing her mind to early-onset Alzheimer's disease.

Julianne Moore won the Best Actress Oscar earlier this year for her quietly moving and point-on portrayal of Alice, capturing her intelligence and lust for life that is achingly lost as her mind and memories wither away like a flower wilting in the noon-day sun.

The first hint of something gone terribly wrong in Alice's perfect life -- she's smart and lovely, has a wonderful job and a beautiful family -- is when she ever so slightly stumbles about in search of a word while giving a lecture. Only days later she's losing her way when out on a daily jog, soon enough forgetting the names of friends and family and misplacing her cell phone in the fridge.

In a world turned upside down, Alice finds herself taking baby steps in reverse, losing all the special qualities and unique experiences that had once defined her charmed and special life. Her family watches in quiet horror, trying to figure out how best to continue living in a world now frighteningly askew.

Their choices and decisions, both good and bad, are the stuff of life, an aching reality captured in Alice's slow descent into a mindless hell. Ever so quickly, the third act is upon us, and even quicker yet, it all dissolves to white.

Lydia, Alice's youngest daughter (Kristen Stewart, a jarring blend of anger and defiance, mixed with  love and strength) takes center stage, speaking a jumble of words that, after a time, morph into a lyrical monologue of hope.

I was so taken with the moment that I spent a few minutes on the web and discovered the scene was borrowed from Tony Kushner's "Angels in America": "And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles and formed a web, a great net of souls ... Nothing's lost forever. In this world, there is a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we've left behind, and dreaming ahead."

Lydia asks Alice if she understands and Alice, staring off in dazed befuddlement, becomes reanimated -- if only for a moment -- and manages to say "love ... it's about love."

It's a somewhat satisfying, if melancholy ending to a sad and melancholy film. It also, at least for me, had the ring of truth.

Five years ago my mother was lost and stumbling along the road that "Still Alice" explores. After a couple of years of steady decline, her last days were spent in a kind of suspended animation -- gone, but still here; mute, dazed and befuddled.

I often stopped by the nursing home where she was living and helped feed her if I was around for lunch or dinner. On one particular day, I managed to get her to eat several spoonfuls of some sort of pureed goo, then handed off the chore to a nearby aide.

As I stood to leave, my mother glanced up at me and, after weeks of silence, managed to say, "I love you."  They were the last words I ever heard her speak.

So I'm thinking Alice had it right; it's about love. I'm also thinking that Lydia got it right when she shared the words of Tony Kushner: "Nothing's lost forever. In this world, there is a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we've left behind, and dreaming ahead."

New York, New York, it's a helluva town ...

So yet again the lovely Miss Wendy and I were in the Big Apple last week, enjoying the sights, sounds and, yes, even the frigid weather. Hey, it's the one time each year that I have the opportunity to wear a really heavy coat, a scarf and gloves. Cover up just right, and even when it's sleeting, you just might manage to feel toasty and warm while looking cool in water-resistant basic black!

And so it was that Wendy and I found ourselves high up in the balcony of the Lyric Theatre on 42nd Street, waiting out the final minutes before the curtain went up for "On the Town," a glorious revival of the happening musical that first hit Broadway during the waning days of World War II.

Those of us of a certain generation will recall the movie version of the show, starring Frank Sinatra, Gene Kelly and Jules Munshin; focusing on the ups, downs and conquests of a trio of sailors on a 24-hour leave in the Big Apple.

Wendy and I had, in fact, been in the city for several days and, in a fashion, had been playing out the touristy bits of the show; making it uptown and down, even riding in a "hole in the ground", living out the frenetic tone set in the show's signature number:

New York, New York, a visitor's place,
Where no one lives on account of the pace,
But seven millions are screaming for space.
New York, New York, it's a visitor's place!

Indeed, a visitor's place! Have I mentioned the food?

Wendy and I once again managed to eat our way across Manhattan, adding a few new and nicer restaurants -- Le Marais, a kosher steakhouse in midtown and Rafale, an Italian ristorante in the village -- to our usual stops at delis offering up a smorgasbord of Jewish delights: matzo ball soup and mushroom barley; corned beef and pastrami; chopped liver, lox and bagels; knishes, kugel and kasha varnishkes! If you have to ask, well, let's just say kasha is a Jewish delicacy and leave it at that!

Now pass the Rolaids or, better yet, Bromo-Seltzer!

Somewhere deep in our gluttony, we managed to push back our dinner plates and make it to several Broadway musicals. Aside from "On the Town," we tapped our tootsies at "Wicked" and "A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder".

What lingers about most when thinking of these two shows is the final number in "Wicked" leading into intermission, "Defying Gravity". As some of you may recall, Elphaba, the lovely and talented Caroline Bowman, tells us that it's time for her to trust her instincts and "leap," time to defy gravity.

And, wow, does she soar, high above the stage and audience. It's one of those transcendent moments in theater when most everything -- the music, singing, lights and special effects -- blend together splendidly, offering up a fantasy that momentarily springs to life.

Another such moment took hold at the Lyric Theater, seconds after the lights dimmed but a moment before the curtain went up for "On the Town." As I mentioned earlier, Wendy and I were high above the stage, surrounded by tourists and locals, folks from around the world and down the block; all of us settling in for a little fun and frothy entertainment.

The front of the stage was covered with an American flag, a huge piece of artwork that I thought in some fashion might be linked to the red, white and blue vibe of the show -- you know, sailors out and about in search of fun and romance!

With little fanfare, the full orchestra began playing the national anthem -- yes, the U.S. National Anthem! I looked about, a bit puzzled, and spotted folks around me looking around, confused and uncertain how to react. Was this part of the show? Should we stand?

One by one, then row after row, people began rising, then singing. The orchestra played with gusto and, taken with it all, the audience responded. After only a moment, the Star Spangled Banner filled the theater, the acoustics catching the lyrics and tossing them about, a chilling spectacle that built on itself. The final words, "land of the free ... and the home of the brave," hung lightly in the air as the room went absolutely quiet, then burst into spontaneous cheers.

The flag lifted, the show began and five minutes into the production we were lost in the music and lyrics of  Leonard Bernstein, Betty Comden and Adolph Green as we learned that "the Bronx is up, but the Battery's down ... people ride in a hole in the ground ... New York, New York ... it's a helluva town."

And so it is!

Code Black: Scary look into our broken healthcare system

The always lovely Miss Wendy and I stumbled onto an interesting film recently in our little corner of the world that was entertaining in a scary and informative sort of way.

Code Black isn't a summer blockbuster, features no caped crusaders, car chases, or scantily clad vixens; and the good guys -- a hearty and wholesome band of emergency room doctors-in-training --  definitely don't always win. After all, the movie is a documentary, not a fantasy.

The film moves along at warp speed, an adrenalin rush of activity focusing on the daily grind inside the emergency room at Los Angeles County Hospital. It's a bustling and happening place, as often as not laboring under a "Code Black," the designation offered up when waiting rooms and treatment bays are spilling over with patients.

It's been said of "C Booth", the hospital's legendary trauma bay, that more people have died and been saved there than any other square footage in the country; death hangs heavily in the air. But, thankfully, so does hope.

Given all the guts and gore splashed across the screen, it would seem likely that the dramatic tension of the film would have to do with the doctoring at the heart of the action. But, no, the documentary gains traction as the filmmakers explore the impact of our anemic economy on healthcare today and the growing bureaucracy that is slowing down the works.

As the needs of the community grow exponentially, one harassed administrator is forced to shutdown a wing of the emergency room for lack of operating funds and the loss of nurses to higher paying jobs at for-profit hospitals.

Meanwhile, patients wait patiently for care while doctors are kept busy filling out paperwork -- requisition slips, medical records, privacy forms and such. It's all a little maddening. One frustrated resident, clearly upset by the misplaced priorities that rule her life, explains she often has only a few minutes to spend with patients, then must spend precious time documenting visits.

During breaks in the action, the soon-to-be physicians share their back stories, hopes and dreams, and worry about the future of medicine.

It would have been easy for the film's producers to take a political stand, weighing in on Obamacare, questioning the high-cost of care and insurance, wagging a metaphorical finger at the senseless and infuriating gridlock that's taken hold in Washington.

But to their credit, the production team steers clear of partisan politics and focuses their energy on examining the day-to-day problems that have become emblematic of a healthcare system in turmoil and the wannabe physicians struggling to hold onto their humanity and youthful idealism.

I'm thinking it's a battle worth paying attention to in a world just slightly out of whack -- and growing whackier by the day!

“42” manages to cover all the bases

Those of you who’ve spent time with me on these digital pages already know my cosmic belief that all things in life come in three flavors: good, bad and okay. Everything, and I mean absolutely everything – movies, books, food, vacations, jobs, lawn services, back rubs – fall into one of these groups.

And, truth to tell, so far it seems that as often as not the “okay” bin is where most of life can be found; and that, well, is okay. So it’s really nice when I can report that I recently had a “good” experience at the neighborhood multiplex, thoroughly enjoying a film that falls just short of great.

Oh, right, there is a fourth classification. But I hold it way out on the spectrum of cosmic happenings, the place reserved for only the most memorable events of life that linger sweetly in my mind. But I digress.

The point of all this rambling is that the lovely Miss Wendy and I went to see “42” over the weekend and I’m thinking the filmmakers managed to hit a grand slam with this movie about Jackie Robinson. Most of the highs and lows that Robinson experienced – and there were many – as he went about integrating major league baseball is the stuff of legend.

So the power of “42” isn’t the story itself. The drama – the move from the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro leagues to the Brooklyn Dodgers via its Montreal affiliate – has been fleshed out for years in newspaper articles and TV interviews, books, films and plays. No, it’s all the little details that defined the man and the sordid times that the movie’s director, Brian Helgeland, captures and wraps in mythic tones that set the film apart. Mark Isham’s soaring score adds both and exclamation point to the effort an occasional goose bumps.

There’s also Harrison Ford. He’s been around forever and forever it seems he’s been mostly playing himself – anyone recall Cowboys & Aliens? This time around, he’s been handed a bigger-than-life character, Branch Rickey, and manages to get most everything right.

Rickey is a complicated mixture of capitalism, religion, decency, and courage, all gussied up in a curmudgeonly façade. Ford plays him with gusto, balanced out with that crooked smile he’s polished and perfected over the years.

Meanwhile, Chadwick Boseman offers up a Robinson that is quietly heroic, a man able to bend and not break in a country filled with racists. The truth is often troubling and, in hindsight for a certain generation, it makes little sense today that America and the world had managed to destroy fascism while racism remained a way of life from sea to shining sea.

If nothing else, “42” puts the lie to “I remember when,” the melancholy ode offered up by aging Americans – many of them the heart and soul of that group of folks now fondly recalled as “The Greatest Generation”. And yet, even as the country was changing, lunging painfully forward, there was something splendid and grand taking place.

That’s the feeling that lingers about as the music swells and the credits begin to roll. It’s a feeling that, even for the cynics among us, comes with a lump in your throat and the notion that “42” is definitely lots better than just okay.

It’s Rocky by a knockout in Stallone’s new flick

After glancing at our schedules and realizing college football is really done and over for the year, the lovely Miss Wendy and I were hunting about for something to do. We were both too lazy to head out to the gym and too bored to spend time in front of our TV.

Fortunately, Rocky offered up a fun and amusing way to spend a few hours just a hop, skip and jump away at our neighborhood multiplex.

Sylvester Stallone’s latest flick, “Bullet to the Head”, opened over the weekend and I managed to talk Wendy into joining me in a little mindless fun. That pretty much is the kicker to anything else I might write about this film.

The story – okay, it’s really much too lame to be anything more than a plot outline – has Stallone, a New Orleans hit man, teaming up with a DC cop to bring down a batch of really bad guys. So “Bullet to the Head” – hey, you really gotta love that title, right? – is sort of a buddy flick, mashed up with a police procedural, wrapped together with a fish-out-of-water subplot.

The bottom line, at least for me, is it mostly works because Stallone mostly gets everything right. This time around he’s playing that oh-so strong, silent guy, who, when he talks, says something pretty funny. He can also still throw a punch and, let’s be clear here, there are lots of punches thrown.

There are also lots of fights, shootings, knifings, explosions and one smashing car chase. The really good news is that director Walter Hill does a nice job of making it all come together while tossing in a few surprises along the way.

So, if you have a little free time and are looking for some mindless fun – I did mention that already, right? – there are cosmically worst ways to spend an afternoon.

Hot and tasty way to begin a memorable meal

Let’s forget about all the wondrous high-tech stuff I came across on my recent visit to Indianapolis and focus on the really important stuff – food! Specifically, I’m thinking about the shrimp dish that burned its way into my life at a well-known and happening eatery, St. Elmo Steak House.

Josh, my son-in-law and high-tech guru extraordinaire, suggested we begin our adventure in Indy by scarfing down as much protein as possible, an energy boost to help us work our way through the high-tech expo that spilled across the city’s convention center last week. He had visited St. Elmo’s a year earlier and had only good things to say about the restaurant. It’s in the heart of the city, conveniently located on the same spot it’s called home for the last century or so.

Timing was the only problem. Turns out lots of folks had the same idea we did and the only available reservations were either in the late afternoon or after 9 p.m., an hour when I’m thinking more about slipping off to bed then digging into a juicy hunk of steak!  But, hey, I’m nothing if not flexible when it comes to food.

And so it was that we pushed our way into the restaurant as the moon hung heavily on the horizon. The place was filled with patrons, good cheer and the savory smell of cooking beef. We had to wait only a few moments before being summoned, seated and watered! The menu was presented and featured, well, beef – New York Strip, Filet Mignon, Porterhouse, Ribeye, Prime Rib; you know, all the usual stuff!

The usual stuff also means a shrimp cocktail, the ubiquitous item at steak houses that, occasionally, sets the tone for the meal and defines the experience. That’s certainly the case at St. Elmo’s! I did mention this was a fiery happening, right? I’ll explain.

The cocktail is a euphonic blend of huge shrimp deeply buried in a creamy sauce that has the texture of rich mustard and the color of a fine rosé. It packs a wallop! Only the uninitiated – that would be me – spear the shrimpy meat, slather it with sauce and bite away. I found out it bites back!

The experience will be lingering in my mind for years, a fiery rush that spilled through my nose and spread across my sinuses. It had me leaning back in my chair; eyes shut tight, beads of sweat popping out over my brow and noggin. Oh, it was also tasty!

It turns out the cocktail’s creamy sauce is a mixture of fresh horseradish, a splash of tomato sauce for flavor and color, more horseradish and, just to provide an added punch, a bit more horseradish. Apparently, the chefs at St. Elmo adhere to the ancient Talmudic belief that you can never be too rich, too thin or use too much hot stuff when preparing sauce for its signature item. Go figure!

How I spent a lifetime at JFK’s Terminal 3

A trip is often about the journey and not the des- tination, and sometimes the journey is just plain awful. That certainly sums up at least part of my getting from here to there and back during my most recent journey to Israel.

Finding a pigeon resting inside an airport terminal isn't

all that usual; that is of course unless you're travelling

through JFK in New York.

As often as not, the entire traveling experience is an adventure for me. Truth to tell, there’s no question that air travel has become onerous in recent years. But with the proper attitude and the right drugs the lines and delays, security checkpoints and pat downs all become, ah, fun and funny, part of some sort of cosmic joke.

But the joke this time around was pretty much on me after I managed to pull together a travel itinerary that had me spending close to 16 hours – eight hours going and eight hours on my return – at New York’s JFK International, one of the worst airports in the country.

Not that long ago I could have flown directly from my little corner of the world to Israel. For some yet unexplainable reason Delta, my hometown airline that sloganizes it’ll always be ready when I am, canceled its one daily flight from the Land of Cotton to Tel Aviv. Go figure!

So to get from here to way over there I had to travel through at least one other airport. New York seemed the logical choice. Unfortunately, the two flights offered up on Delta’s website when I started finalizing my plans came with challenges.

One flight only allowed me 90 minutes to make my connection. The other fell at the opposite end of the waiting spectrum, offering up a whopping eight hour delay in the Big Apple. Making my way back home came with pretty much the same challenges – dash and pray or cool my heels at JFK; say that just right and it sort of rhymes. That said, there was nothing pretty or poetic about my decision!

I came down on the side of caution, worrying that if there was any kind of delay – bad weather, bald tires, drunken pilots or deranged flight attendants – I’d miss my connecting flight and then have to wait, ahhh, many extra hours in New York. Okay, I know I ended up waiting many extra hours. But at least that was part of my plan!

And it would have been okay if JFK wasn’t a seedy little rat hole, filled with the devil’s spawn who work as ticket agents, baggage handlers, security guards and fast food clerks and cashiers. Apparently I’m not the only passenger in the last year who has taken note of the disaster called Terminal 3.

A little background and context might be helpful. JFK began life in the early 1940s when the city of New York began filling in the marshy tidelands of Idlewild Golf Course. Initial plans were to create a modest airport of about 1,000 acres. But by the time construction was complete, Idlewild Airport had grown to five times the original size.

Commercial flights began in 1948. Today, John F. Kennedy International Airport – it was renamed in memory of the nation’s thirty-fifth president in 1963, a little over a year after JFK was assassinated – is the nation’s leading international gateway, with more than 80 airlines operating from its gates.  

Unfortunately, city and airport officials have paid little attention to the mega-airport in recent years and apparently haven’t noticed that the world is moving at warp speed now that we’ve entered the twenty-first Century. JFK is difficult to fly into; it’s a jarring blend of terminals, pieced together with dismal walkways and miles of sidewalks. Buses, mini-vans and light rail will move you about from place to place; but service is often slow and sporadic.

Most of the terminals are suffering from neglect, real fixer-uppers with holes in the roofs, water stains spilling across the walls, broken tiles, ratty carpeting and birds flying about. The folks at Frommers.com have taken note. They ranked JFK’s Terminal 3 as the worst in the world.

"Terminal 3 is known for endless immigration lines in a dank basement, an utter lack of food and shopping options and three crowded and confusing entry points,” Frommers.com said. "There's also a sense that the cleaning crew gave up in despair a while ago."

I’m thinking Frommers got it right. Oh, did I mention that it was Terminal 3 where I spent 15 of the 16 hours waiting at JFK? In short, a lifetime!

Mickey D’s gets fresh, modern McMakeover

Zipping about recently, doing a few errands and in search of a hot cup of Joe, I spotted what I thought was a new fast food restaurant taking shape in my little corner of the world. After a second glance at the construction site, I realized it was a very old burger joint simply getting a massive face lift!

Once upon a time the place with the golden arches in my neighborhood had sold a billion burgers – give or take a few million. McDonald’s was located on a happening spot, the perfect intersection to draw in families, teens and business types jonesing for two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun! In recent years the joint has started showing its age and its customers have started finding other fast food alternatives.

I’m thinking the burger bosses decided the best fix was simply to go back to square one and start over – again! So in late spring they leveled the existing arches and the building it soared above on Sandy Plains Road and started from scratch. And now, they’re back!

The new site has an oh-so modern vibe about it. It’s a lovely blend of brick, glass and stone; an open and clean design that has the feel of something pulled from the archives of Frank Lloyd Wright. Even the iconic arches have been updated and pulled into the 21^st Century, soaring mightily above the new structure.

Now all the corporate toads need to figure out is how best to update and modernize both its menu and its service. In a report released last week by the American Consumer Satisfaction Index (ACSI), McDonald’s found itself at the butt end of the pack, easily bested by Papa John’s, Subway and Taco Bell.

Unfortunately, the ranking isn’t new territory for McDonald’s.  Except for 2009, when the burger giant edged ahead of KFC and Burger King by a percentage point, McDonald’s has consistently placed last in the ranking since 1995.

Despite such dismal ratings, there’s still a bit of magic in the Golden Arches. I’m thinking with its spiffy new look and efforts to cut out much of the fat, oil and sugar from its products that Mickey D’s will yet again have patrons lovin’ its stuff!  

Jewish treasure: Rugelach from Marzipan

It’s loud and colorful and full of smells that are overwhelming. Machane Yehuda – that would be the Jewish Market in Jerusalem – is an absolutely happening place and one of the iconic shops pulling in the crowds is Marzipan.

It’s mostly a wide blip in a long walkway, filled with an oven, trays of baking racks, some work tables and mounds of manna – soft and luscious challah, berry-filled pastries, cinnamon rolls and cookies. But it’s the rugelach that takes center stage here, a Jewish delicacy that’s a euphonic blend of cookie and pastry.

Most mornings, especially on Friday with the approach of Shabbat, lines of Marzipan fans start maneuvering for position, waiting for the first batches of rugelach to be pulled from the oven. It’s a special bit of sweetness that is offered up, a gooey bit of goodness filled with chocolate. Forgive my mixing of food groups, but the cookies sell like hot cakes!

I mention all this now because I’ll be returning to Jerusalem this spring and will be paying a pilgrimage to Marzipan. This time I know the rules and won’t be grabbing whatever’s around being offered. Let me explain.

Back in 2009, after reading about the bakery and all that it has to offer, I managed to stumble on the shop. Machane Yehuda was coming to life, hundreds of locals and tourists milling about, shopping for fresh fruit and veggies; spices and sweets; fish, poultry and beef. Oh, and rugelach.

In fact, it seemed that half the city was camped outside the doors of Marzipan, crazed from the sweet smells wafting from its innards. When I finally managed to make it inside, I saw that there were a half-dozen women standing about. I wasn’t certain how to go about placing an order, but it seemed that everyone was deferring to me. Go figure! So I raised two fingers and did a little pointing, handed over a few shekels and walked out with a bag of goodies.

It was only a few moments later when I spotted the baker pulling out yet another fresh tray of rugelach that I realized I had just managed to scarf up the dregs of the last batch. I’m thinking the appropriate cliché is “live and learn”!

Truth to tell, Marzipan’s rugelach is an acquired taste. For some folks, it can be a little too gooey and a little too sweet. There are at least a half-dozen other bakeries in the same area selling versions of the Jewish cookie that’s light and flaky and just this side of the uber sweetness of Marzipan.

A footnote: Despite the foolish belief of some foodie novices, there’s absolutely no marzipan in Marzipan’s cookies; and, for those who care, the iconic cookie is called rugelach, not marzipan. That said, no matter what you call it, don’t forget to call me if you’re in my little corner of the world and happen to have a bag of the stuff.

Who knew chickpeas could be so tasty!

Half the fun of going on vacation is planning it out. That’s how I spent the last few days, checking on things to do in Israel, mostly around Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. I’ll be jetting off to the Jewish homeland just about the time the weather here in the Land of Cotton hits the scorch setting.

At least Israel is all about a dry heat, lovingly caressed by gentle and cool breezes off the Mediterranean! But I digress. My recent research was mostly focused on good eats of the Middle Eastern persuasion – falafel, shawarma and, the crème de la crème, hummus!

There are shops, large and small, across Israel offering up tasty delicacies with a Middle Eastern accent and most of these take pride in their hummus. Each region, city and, well, neighborhood provide a little twist on this ubiquitous Jewish soul food.

So, say hello to Hummus Mashawa, one of my recent discoveries. It’s a little shop in a special neighborhood in the heart of Tel Aviv on Pinsker Street. Unless I’m mistaken, it’s within walking distance of Dizengoff Center – sort of the Lenox Square of the area – and just a hop, skip and jump away from my hotel.

Chickpeas – that would be the main ingredient of hummus – are lovingly mashed up and mixed with a few special spices and oil next to your table at Mashawa. I’m thinking that nifty operation takes the concept of freshness to a whole new level. The mixture is gently stirred, warmed and served up with fresh pita and salad. This Israeli feast will cost you less than a Big Mac and probably won’t clog up your veins with gunk.

Up next? Fun with falafel!

Me, my Kindle and a brave new world

I spotted yet another friend recently enjoying themselves with their latest high tech toy – a shiny new e-reader. I figured it was about time I joined the club. After doing a little research online, I started checking out demo models at various retailers.

I was excited about the gadget, but all the demos – at least initially – had me stepping back a step or two, wondering if a new model would be as slow, tricky and bothersome as the test model. Then I checked out a Kindle at my neighborhood Target.

The clerk actually seemed to know something about the product and the slim and sexy model on display had me at first blink! The Kindle demo showed off the basics, then allowed me to take a quick test drive. A half hour after walking into the store, I sauntered out with my new toy, anxious to tap into Amazon’s kajillion books and begin life as a digital reader!

And that’s almost the way things played out, except for the little detour I was forced to take on the information highway when Amazon decided I already had an account and sweetly demanded I tap in my password. An hour later I was still trying to tap in my password; I had forgotten it and my best efforts to create a new one failed – many times.

Finally, after momentarily thinking I just wasn’t meant to be part of the 21st Century, I came across a user’s phone number, managed to reach a real person who managed to solve my problem in, well, about five minutes. Go figure.

So this has been my experience. The Kindle is pretty and pretty intuitive to work around. Downloading books literally only take a few seconds. One tap and you’re reading; another tap and you’re turning a page. Tap yet again in the right space and you can change the size and font of the type – a really good feature, especially for those of us with oldish eyes that get tired after a few hours of reading.

There are menus that allow you to maneuver easily through books, the reader and the Kindle store. After playing around a bit with the controls, I downloaded “The Hunger Games,” the bestseller that has just shown up as a blockbuster hit at my neighborhood multiplex. Perhaps it’s just the novelty of the Kindle, but it seemed I was zipping through the book much faster than if I’d been holding a paper version in my hands. I polished it off in two days.

Now the downside. Not much to report, but there are some problems. The touch screen –at least the model I have – needs a little work. Every so often when I tap to turn the page, it jumps ahead a page or three. Because there are no page numbers, I’m not exactly sure how many pages I need to jump back. There is no heft, no pleasant sense of accomplishment as you turn a page or polish off a chapter; no idea really of how much has been read and how much remains – the Kindle does tell you what percentage of the book you have completed as you read through it.

These issues are a problem only because I’ve spent six decades holding books and turning pages. I’m thinking that in another week or so the need for tactile feedback when I read will be going the way of the dinosaur; which brings me to the last – and biggest problem.

Publishers of e-books have yet to catch up with the new technology. In the past, when reading a book, I might come across one, maybe two typos. In the e-book I’ve just started – “Voyage”, by Stephen Baxter – I’ve spotted at least a couple dozen typos, and I’ve only just begun the novel. It feels sloppy, cheap and the mistakes are really distracting. I though perhaps I’d picked the one book that was poorly handled. But, no, apparently publishers are simply not up to the task yet of digitalizing their products.

I’ve got to believe that all this sloppiness will soon go the way of the dinosaur also. After all, if I can be pulled into this oh-so brave new century, certainly book publishers – who’ve watched their mega-stores close and their revenues plummet –can clean up their act and meet me half way.

Good friends, food at really good restaurant

The lovely Miss Wendy and I finally got around to checking out Seed Kitchen & Bar over the weekend. It’s a happening new eatery in my little corner of the world that bills itself as a chef-driven, modern American neighborhood restaurant. The buzz has been good – very good!

We met up with weekend pals Susan and John, Peter and Margaret and were seated in a little, yet roomy and comfortable corner of the light and airy dining room – an expansive space filled with an oh-so modern vibe.

Our server, a young woman filled with foodie passion, stumbled just a bit as she worked her way around the menu, detailing a few specials and offering up all the little details that her boss – Chef Doug Turbush – brings to the, ah, table each evening. Have I mentioned there was booze!

To buy a little time before focusing on the evening’s main event, we ordered a couple of appetizers – Pimento Crostinis, featuring country ham, apples and micro celery; and Garlic and Thyme Roasted Mushrooms, cradled lovingly in a pool of soft polenta, truffled pecorino cheese and local greens. Visually exciting and cosmically yummy!

All of this played out over 30 minutes or so, our server and her helpers bustling from here to there; deferential, quietly helpful. Despite being surrounded by dozens of diners – can you say hubbub?—enjoying their special night out, waiters and bus boys dashing about, the evening seemed to be moving along at a casual and lovely pace. I did mention there was drinking, right?

The moment of truth finally came and I opted for comfort food over exotic; Veal & Wild Mushroom Meatloaf, which to my utter delight was served atop a mound of garlic potatoes, all lovingly surrounded by a shallow pool of San Marzano tomato sauce – perhaps the best sauce evah!

Between bits and bites, I noticed that Wendy had yet again boxed herself into a kosher corner – veggie sandwich, thank you very much; John was devouring a thatch – group, gaggle, herd – of grilled shrimp atop a crispy wedge of polenta; and Peter, Margaret and Susan were enjoying something, I think, altogether fishy!

For a few moments all was quiet, just the light tinkling of silverware hitting china, euphonically blended with the rich aroma and delicious taste of our dinners. Enhancing the experience was the artsy and fancified presentation of each dish. Chef Turbush obviously takes pride in paying attention to all the little details, creating on the plate what fine artists manage on canvas. Unlike art patrons at museums, however, we got to eat all the little masterpieces placed before us – and we did, with relish and gusto!

And then it was time for dessert. We went the sharing route because we’re sharing sort of people. We also were full, but couldn’t deny ourselves one or two of the sweet delights offered up by Chef Turbush and his colleagues.

And so it was that we finished our grand meal with Chocolate Mousse Cake and a tasting of High Road Craft Ice Cream & Sorbet. All was good, but the scoop of vanilla ice cream just might be the best ice cream I’ve ever – yes, ever – tasted.

Seeds is a little pricey, but in this case the old saying, “you get what you pay for” rings true. We’ll be back.

Big Apple, Part III: A cheesy afternoon delight

Way up on the list of things to do when visiting The Big Apple is eating. The lovely Miss Wendy and I keep our chowing down simple when visiting New York, mostly searching out kosher delis – well, at least kosher-style delis!

So it was that we spent some quality time at the Carnegie Deli over the weekend, a mere hop, skip and jump from our hotel in midtown Manhattan. I once again let my stomach call the shots and ordered a hot pastrami sandwich – it’s a whopping pound of meat and costs a whopping $17.

I spent a good minute or two savoring the feast that spread out before me – slabs of thinly sliced pastrami spilling out from under two tiny pieces of bread – before pushing aside half of the sandwich and pulling off at least half of the meat from what remained in front of me, all to be eaten later that evening.

I scarfed down the now-manageable treat, enjoying the rich and deep flavor of the pastrami, nicely blended with a mix of spicy mustard, tangy bit of pickle and crusty slice of rye bread. A perfect bite! There would be many more.

A day earlier, Wendy and I dined at Ben’s Kosher Deli, an expansive restaurant with an expansive menu of Jewish treats. Yet again I feasted on a hot pastrami sandwich, but also enjoyed a steaming hot bowl of mushroom-barley soup. Yummy! Since Ben’s is actually a real kosher restaurant, Wendy ordered a brisket sandwich – moist and tender with just enough fat to tickle the taste buds.

It’s worth noting that we had breakfast at a few specialty diners in midtown and the upper west side of the city each morning and noshed on some dee-licious sweets from bakeries around Times Square most afternoons. All of this was a nice and classic way to eat over our long weekend holiday; but I was also hankering for something a little different and, ah, cheesy!

Late last year, while clicking through the cable channels on the tube, I came across a program on the Food Network focusing on a little specialty restaurant in Manhattan. It’s called S’Mac and its cooks – it’s way too small to have chefs – focus all of their culinary talents on one dish – Mac-n-cheese!

The 30-minute program left me drooling and promising myself that the next time I was in The Big Apple I’d be making a pilgrimage to the East Village. So it was that on a frigid afternoon in early February, Wendy and I found ourselves just east of Union Square in a gritty little space filled mostly with teens and young adults.

A dozen or so tables were spread about the room and a dozen or so people were waiting in line to place their orders. A large menu was on display across one wall, detailing the many ways S’Mac pulls together cheese, pasta, veggies, meat and spices.

Wendy and I kept it simple. I ordered the 4 Cheese Delight, featuring Cheddar, Muenster, Gruyere and a touch of Pecorino. Wendy opted for the Garden Lite – Cheddar, Parmesan, roasted cauliflower and portobello mushrooms, roasted garlic, broccoli and scallions. We weren’t disappointed!

Meals are presented in skillets nestled in wooden serving dishes, the cheesy tops still bubbling away amidst a heavenly aroma of cheese and spices. There’s a fine crunchy topping of bread crumbs that easily gives way to a euphonic blend of robust flavors.

It’s all so simple and fresh, and a perfect way to spend a chilly afternoon in The Big Apple. S’Mac – the full name is Sarita’s Macaroni and Cheese and you can find its website right here – is a happening place; cheesy in just about every way possible. We’ll be back!