Jillian's?

I dont have a photo for this place, only because I couldnt find it on the web. I couldnt find it anywhere.

Which made me happy. I might just have the name wrong, I have to have the name wrong, because there is no way this place goes along simply by word of mouth. Or maybe it does.

I've been stopping into Jillian's for years. It's right on Purchase Street in the center of Rye.
It's been the cherry on top of a whole bunch of sick weekends spent at the Concourse D'Elegance in Greenwich, weekends in Westport with friends that inspire, and just too good to pass up or pass by when in Westchester County.

I had to go grab a Maybach from Nick Faldo. I may sound overly familiar with Mr. Faldo only because we spent some time chatting at the Master's, and because I have a crush on his assistant (Maria). My dad actually has a good story about Nick (ask him sometime).

I took my time getting to Rye. Bus to Port Authority, Metro North to Rye, nothing to it. And when I landed, I was physched. I get to eat at Jillian's. Albeit alone, I didnt care. I sat at the bar and watched the end of the Yankee game (they leave men on base), I had a Bloody with the salad they pile on top, and I looked around, all good.

Red Snapper pan fried (which means they just use enough olive oil to get that nice brown coating), Ceaser salad with more than enough pecorino romano cheese, and one lightly grilled shrimp. Normally I'd bitch and moan about only getting only one shrimp, but in this case, it was enough. Life was good. Lunch was great.

Afterwards I sat in the Starbucks next door. I had time to kill and contemplated hustling a ride up the hill to the Westchester Country Club. I drank my coffee, read some of my book (Heat by some cat who willingly took a monkey job in Mario Batali's kitchen) and ventured out and up the hill to the course. I had solid fuel to burn, and that don't suck.

Nick came out from the announcer's tent and said "Billy.. you need a towel!".
I responded without a thought "It's all good, mate" in my best South African drawl.
"Cheers" and in the air coming towards my head came the Tiffany Sterling Silver key ring on which the Maybach gets it's life energy. And off he went.

And off I went.

Red & White

I used to work at Friday's. We had to wear red and white striped shirts and got scolded if we didnt have enough "flair". Flair was what they called stupid buttons and advert pins to make us stand out, to celebrate our individualism. Which was complete and utter bullshit because no matter how much you did to those stupid shirts you could still plainly see they were red and white striped and we were all exactly the same. Just like the menu. No matter where you go every Friday's you pop into will have the exact same menu, and be running the exact same disgusting frozen drink specials. They call it consistancy, I call it "The End of the World".

Last Saturday I was at a party in the new Wolfgangus Puck restaurant at the Borgata. I couldnt stop thinking about Friday's. It had a better decor, the staff was better, and it is nice to have food so close to a poker table, but Friday's stuck in my head. The place was mobbed. The food was just fine (you have to expect to pay out the wazoo as soon as you give the casino valet your car keys) and the wine list was the same you'd get absolutely anywhere else (only at a 200% mark-up instead of 100%). But it was a TGI Friday's, without the stripes.

I dont have a solution. I'm not even sure it it's a problem. And good for old Wolfie Baby, a good chef with a whole bunch of charisma and now he's an international franchise (ahum... Friday's.. cough cough>. There's something to be said for cranking out a product people seem to want, or think they want, or thought they wanted?

Sending Circles Into the Sky

Every once in awhile there seems to be an abysmal hole in the sky that opens up and pulls you through. Popping out the other side you feel like Captain Kirk as he acclimates himself to his new surroundings; phasers on stun.

The new universe is foreign and the ground is soft beneath your feet, but you know you must walk or risk dying of stagnation. Of all the deaths, stagnation has got to be the worst. Being eaten by a shark would imply you set out on the ocean with great anticipations of fun and adventure. The same would can be said had you perished in a plane crash. Now I know you could be on the plane for some stupid meeting in Detroit, but let's just say for the sake of this blog you were going to Tahiti, cuz I think at one time that was some sort of hot-spot destination (I'm not even exactly sure where Tahiti is). Dying en route is far more sexy than dying cuz you were afraid or indecisive about moving forward. That's just sad. Even more sad than if you were to survive a plane crash in the ocean only to be eaten by a shark.

Sometimes we feel like we're dying. Even though there is no obvious cause. Sometimes we know what's best, but we hide from it knowing full well it's the only way. Taking the bull by the horns doesnt sound too good to us, so we dont.

(NOTE: The girl in the photo is in no way related to my stupid rant. I just wanted something to cheer me up.)

Here's the Best thing about Mikki

She's in love with Ross. Ross is in love with her. It's actually kind of nice to see people making it happen.

We went to Pazzo Pazzo in MoTown on Thursday night. Lots of pretty folks (and lots of Jersey Idiot Morons), and it was so thick you needed a little piece of bread to soak it all up. Mikki is what you could call a "facilitator". She puts people together. She's not shy, and she inherently knows how to have a good time. It was something she was born with, and being a rockstar on the NYC party people circuit enabled her to hone her skills. It's always fun to roll with Mikki.

We met some Pharma cats who just couldnt help but speak to each other in German. Hayden was from Iceland and spoke a whole bunch of languages and I suspect was a little put off by me and Ross being so familiar and what he had to think was crude (fork 'em). It was hawt as balls outside but they wanted to smoke so we dealt. I was enjoying the moment and told Mikki (like an asshead) that I liked Ross better, and that set her off. She's getting sick of bringing her boys into the fold only to have them run off and develop non-sexual crushes on her future husband.

She's a girl and they like attention and if you even insinuate that it might be threatened they throw shit-shows and if you're vested you had best step up and fix it or you wont have a Mikki no more.

And that's how the story goes. Forgive the vague Bjork reference, I couldnt help it. I loved the sugarcubes and always will. Some monkey jerkoff gave me crap for having Depeche Mode's "Policy of Truth" as my text ringtone on Wednesday at poker. He said it was "gay". He and I ended up splitting the pot that night, had I not been 6 beers through and in the land of VOZ, I would have handed him his ass head's-up.

Moral of the story? I have no idea.

This will be our last goodbye

But you dont care,

so I wont cry.

This is actually my second attempt at this post. My first was scathing and was basically a lash out at the guy who hosts Park and Orchard in Rutherford, New Jersey. I went to click the "publish post" command and got an error message, then went back to an empty screen. My friend Mikki says it's destiny and the way it's supposed to be, and she's smart so I'll just let it go.

I'd be lying if I told you he didnt have a powerful negative impact on what was otherwise an awesome night, so I wont. But I will tell you about what is ordinarily one of New Jersey's very best restaurants.

Park and Orchard must have been an auto body or gas station or something in it's past lifetime.

But now it cranks out fresh and unique meals to people who all seem to really appreciate it. Like any great restaurant anymore there's still the mangagalupe in shorts and a Tshirt, but for the most part people dress appropriately and the atmosphere is very crisp, very clean, and downright delicious.

I come here for lunch whenever possible. It's a little less crowded and I love lunch. Italians live their worlds around lunch, it's a nice way to live. Park and Orchard lives it's life to be different from the other restaurants that have found success in one of the most competitive (and densely populated) food service markets in the world. They've succeeded, and they've done so on their own terms.

I could mention the Grand Award they got from WS. But who cares. It means nothing.

What I will mention is that this guy has the stones to put wines on the list he wants his guests to enjoy. There are the standards, but then there's a whole bunch of stuff you've never heard of. Right up my alley. Buddy would like my wine list, I should send it to him. You could put just about any of my producers in a room with him and he'd probably come away with a new best friend. But that's the beauty of my winemakers, they're actually people.

We only had time for appetizers since we were going to be late for the show by the time we got sat, but they were remarkable. Some mussels, some stuffed mushrooms, a little tomato salad, plate of fresh mozz with the balsamic you pay a whole bunch for, the carpaccio.... everything was nice. The chick who got our table was a little bit in the weeds, but she was stellar, and her colleagues stepped right in to help her out (they were less busy... hmm?). We ate, we paid, we raced to the Meadowlands and saw the Police. Missed two or three songs, but whatever. It was fun. I made a new friend that night, got to see one of the bands that made up the soundtrack of my teens, and didnt get arrested. Overall.... a success.

Tourists Don't Know Where They've Been

And Travelers don't know where they're going.

If you had a choice to go anywhere; where would it be?

If someone or something came down (or up) out of nowhere and granted you the freedom to launch off to a place you've never been, where would you chose?

I dunno either. Brasil comes to mind first (for obvious reasons). I'd also like to take in Scandanavia. Especially now while it's 100degrees here in NY. I hear it never gets above 76 in Copenhagen, and that sounds like Heaven right about now.

With all the options the world presents it would be impossible to pinpoint where exactly the ideal adventure would be. If you developed the inner thirst to wander the earth, would that put you that much closer to God? My God has told me more than once she'd prefer I ventured into myself to find the answers to the questions I frequently ask. I try all the time, but always seem to come up remarkably short. Where there is clarity and feeling would be my ideal destination. Is that a place that can be reached by plane?

My role over the years has changed dramatically. The floundering (bouncing on the dry dock desperately seeking life/water/oxygen) has numbed my ordinarily good senses and dignity.

It begs the simple question; should I hit the road?