Ivo and Lulu

Ivo and Lulu
558 Broome St
212-226-4399

I visited France for the first time when I was 13 years old -- the summer before eighth grade. It was a family vacation, and it kills me to acknowledge my teenage brattiness, but I complained incessantly about "having" to go. I couldn't help it! I wanted to spend the summer watching re-runs of Saved By The Bell and playing spin the bottle with my barely pubescent guy friends. I was far too cool to go on a family vacation, and I even dyed my hair red in protest (really I just wanted to look like Claire Danes in My So Called Life). Well, red is not my color, and my complaining was lost on my parents. My mother promised me I would eat some of the best meals of my life, so I shut my little snout and decided to have an open mind.

We arrived in Paris and immediately hit the town. I felt rejuvenated; glancing at streets filled with croissants and eclairs gave me a profound sense of excitement. However, my happiness came to a screeching halt when I entered the Paris Metro during rush hour. There is no real way for me to describe the stench I inhaled. My 13 year-old brain hadn't yet learned how to be discreet, and I let out a gasp of horror so loud people must have thought I was a pschizophrenic. I glared at my mother. I was deceived! How could people that smelled of such rancid B.O. produce the delectable food she had been raving about?

Don't get me wrong -- I love the French! I watch French films, devour crepes, worship freedom frites, and even find Gerard Depardieu's nose sexy. I mean, their national anthem is a little dramatic (Marchons! Marchons!), but at least it sounds cool. My newly teenaged brain, however, didn't yet know these things, and not even daydreaming about my favorite heartthrobs (Zach Morris and Jordan Catalano) could distract me from my disappointment.

Of course, the story ends happily because that night, I begrudgingly tried escargot for the first time. The little snails I sampled put me in a state of such euphoria I could have easily marched down to the crowded Metro and french kissed every single passenger. Smelly subway or not, the French can cook. That trip was a culinary journey to remember -- from the escargot to my first sip of champagne, I have been been an avid lover of snails and bubbly ever since.

I've had a hard time finding stellar French food in NYC that won't break the bank. Per Se or Le Bernadin are unrealistic, and my neighborhood bistros are all cute, but uninspired. I had heard about Ivo and Lulu for a couple of years and was intrigued by the unique menu and affordable prices, accentuated by its BYOB policy. We went with Hal, our buddy and favorite hedgie, whose career pursuits have taken him to some of the finest restaurants in the country. The restaurant is very chic and loungey -- a little loud, but it was Saturday night at 9 PM. Hal immediately commented on how unique the menu was, from the spinach mousse to the venison pate.

We started with the pear salad -- roasted fruit marinated with honey and topped with creamy blue cheese. Pear and blue cheese go together like peanut butter and chocolate; the sweetness of the fruit combined with the sharpness of the blue cheese is tres, tres magnifique. We also ordered the grilled avocado, which came stuffed with a creamy spinach mouse and shitake mushrooms, dressed in a sesame vinaigrette. This dish was so elegant, so sleek, and so striking that if it were alive, it would be Michelle Obama's arms. The word spinach mousse might scare you, but the the combination of the spinach and heavy cream, engulfed by a big, bold avocado brought me to my knees. The sesame vinaigrette was light and fresh, the perfect compliment.

What would a french meal be without escargot? When the server brought our order to the table, we immediately dove in. When escargot is around, I can't do a whole lot of talking. And if it's really good, I am in my own fantasy world, happily atop the Eiffel Tower savoring the city lights with champagne in one hand and a snail in the other. Maybe Catherine Denueve is there too, and we are both wearing berets. I guess that's what separates the good food from the unforgettable. The food that brings back memories and creates stories, real or imagined. And Ivo and Lulu nailed it. To quote Jeremy, "I think this is the best French food I have ever had."

But wait, there's more. We split boar and sage sausages for our entree -- uniquely spicy little links served over couscous and a fabulously inventive blueberry sauce. The fruit in the sauce lightened the dish up and gave it a hint of a "breakfast for dinner" feeling. We ended our treasure of a meal with the mango mousse. It looked a bit like an orange cloud when served on the plate, and how fitting, seeing as the dessert felt like a gift from heaven. Wouldn't it be amazing if Mango Mousse grew on trees?

So, bring your spirit of choice and head to Ivo and Lulu. Take a bite of the escargot, sop up the remnant sauce with some bread, and create your own private Parisian paradise.

There Is No Love Sincerer Than The Love Of Food

Dovetail
103 West 77th Street
212-362-3800

I first read the phrase "there is no love sincerer than the love of food" on a Carrabas menu when I was in tenth grade. I was so inspired by this statement that I made it the subject of a creative writing paper in my English class. My teacher gave me an A, a grade I hadn't seen for what felt like several decades. I was so shocked to receive it I wondered aloud if she had added a little something extra to her coffee when she was grading. My loquaciousness had a tendency to get me kicked out of class until teachers discovered that that only worsened the problem, as I was caught loudly hugging and gabbing with everyone that walked through the halls. This teacher, however, let me off the hook as she was shocked by the depths of my passion for half moon ravioli.

For years I credited the fine folks at Carrabas for inspiring me to receive my first (and as it turned out, my last) A in tenth grade. But a couple of weeks ago, as I watched The Iron Chef on The Food Network, I heard the host say, "To quote the great George Bernard Shaw, 'There is no love sincerer than the love of food." Oops.

So, George Bernard Shaw has become my new hero. And I believe this statement could not be more appropriate to have in mind as Valentines Day '09 came around. Whether you are single, married, dating, womanizing, man-eating, or even considering the priesthood, we are all united by a common love of eating. No matter what, I believe everyone should celebrate V-Day by indulging their palate with one of the great loves of their lives, whether it be pastries, pastas, or pork butts.

In my case, I celebrated with two of the three. We decided to do brunch to avoid Manhattan V-Day dinner crowds and tabs, and made a 1pm reservation at Dovetail. My friend, Cornelia, had raved about this Upper West Side Establishment ever since she spent time there as an intern. I have to admit I was a bit nervous upon arrival. It has the sort of minimalist decor that fools you into thinking it's casual until you spot someone like Diane Sawyer sipping a cappuccino a table away. It's serious food for serious people, and there I am in my three year-old skirt from TJ Maxx that has a slight hole in it. "Relax," I said to myself. After all, it's only visible up close.

I immediately started chatting with my Prada suit-clad server and was delighted to discover that behind his fancy attire, he was just as piggy as me. He spoke beautifully about the chef's signature dishes. I got so excited, I practically oinked. Brunch is 28 dollars pp, and in addition to whatever main course you select, you are provided with nibbles before and after your entree.

The first treat brought to our table was an assortment of sweet and savory breads. The standout was definitely the Gruyere cookie. It was like a Cheez-It touched by a culinary angel. Once we went through the ENTIRE basket, one of what felt like 40 different servers brought us another plate of snacks. The dish included a mini yogurt/honey parfait, a shot of parsnip soup, a mini cucumber sandwich, and the tiniest duck meatball I had ever seen. The thick and creamy whole milk yogurt combined with the fresh honey and nut-heavy granola was the unanimous favorite. It's the kind of breakfast you imagine would be served to Charles and Camillia on a Grecian vacation.

I chose the lamb meatloaf for my entree, and Jeremy ordered the duck goulash, which we were told is the chef's signature dish. I think the meatloaf should be renamed a "deconstructed gyro," seeing as it is served open faced with crusty bread, mixed greens, and a seductively delicious tzatziki. The term "meatloaf" has always sounded a tad vulgar to me and does not seem fitting for a dish so simple and elegant.

Although the meatloaf was my entree selection, the server made a tiny error and put the duck goulash in front of me. I decided to take a bite before handing it over to Jeremy, and as soon as I did, one person came into my mind. Oddly, it was Sigmund Freud. One of Freud's more significant theories is that there are no real mistakes in life. I always thought one look at my tenth grade geometry tests would have changed Sigmund's mind, but after that bite, the theory finally made sense. The dish was culinary poetry, and divine intervention caused it to land in front of me. I didn't want to hand it over to Jeremy, and I briefly thought of taking the dish, sprinting to Central Park, and hiding while I devoured every bite. The plate consists of duck confit ragu served over a bed of cavatelli and root vegetables, dressed with a poached hen egg. Watching the yolk spill into the ragu was like seeing Salma Hayek walk the red carpet in a low-cut gown -- a moment of unearthly beauty.

I did give the dish to Jeremy, and although it felt like sacrificing my first born, I managed to steal about half. The final course was a selection of sweet treats, and although my stomach was begging me to stop, my eyes forced me to push through. We were served a plethora of little treats, nothing supremely unusual, but all delicious. My favorite was the butterscotch pudding; Jeremy liked the home-made passion fruit marshmallow.

So take a trip uptown, downtown, crosstown, or over a bridge to Dovetail. Order the goulash and remind yourself how sincere true love can be.