You only live once?

Take a walk down Las Olas on a Friday night. Circa 8 p.m. No, really, do. Patios are jam-packed with people waiting for tables – upwards of an hour, have you – and sipping on martinis made with premium liquor. The valet guys can only catch a break from parking Mercedes, Ferraris and Porsches when Hummer limos pull up. And women too old to show so much leg are attempting to keep eyes from their varicose veins by loudly displaying their two, humongous fake additions in dresses that appear too trashy to have cost $250. Men sport toothy, perfectly white smiles as they usher appetizers and drinks to bimbos they’ve never even met. As for an economic crisis, I wouldn’t even believe it. I suppose people would rather spend money on a fancy night out than on their mortgages?

At the culmination of my first official week of work, I felt entitled to a delicious dinner at a trendy hot spot. Missing Barcelona’s late-night scene and my “there’s-always-something-going-on” social life, I needed to escape from a dinner in the confines of my home. Las Olas, with its plethora of expensive, yet usually tasty restaurants, promised not only dinner, but a chic ambiance for a Friday night. I selected YOLO – a restaurant that opened after I left for Spain and nightspot that friend’s raved about.

YOLO (You Only Live Once) had mixed reviews online, but an eclectic menu with main plates ranging from $16 to $35. A call the morning of snagged me reservations at 8:30 p.m. (apparently everyone makes reservations for 7:30 p.m. and 8 p.m.), and my best friend, Andrew, and I arrived early to enjoy a drink on the lounge-style, South-Beach-wannabe patio before our meal. It was here that we played a rousing game of “Who can spot the most fake boobs.” Andrew, naturally inclined as a male, of course, won, but I like to believe this was because I was more intrigued by wads of cash folks were doling out, drink after drink (what about this economic crisis my parents swear we are going through?)

With a name like YOLO, I envisioned oily, bready, creamy foods smothered, covered, sautéed and flambéed in butter and, oh, I dunno, chocolate. I mean, that’s what you’d want to eat at a place that stands for You Only Live Once, right? The one-sided menu was more like that of a high-end wedding reception, with a choice of fish, chicken or beef. I opted for the rotisserie chicken marinated in crushed herbs, served with herb mashed potatoes, and Andrew ordered the New York Strip on special with gilled veggies and the same mash. I must say it was pretty “cool” that the hostess used a rather large stamp to punch the list of specials into our paper tablecloth.

My chicken was good, and the portion size was adequate. Just good and adequate. The potatoes were light and airy. You-only-live-once light and airy…not at all. The atmosphere, trendy and modish, added some needed pizzazz, and the meal overall was enjoyable (but perhaps that’s because I was in great company). So if you can really only live once (and you actually are in an economic crisis), then perhaps you should take a trip over to Jaxon’s Ice Cream Parlor and really enjoy some relatively cheap, worthwhile calories and fat in the form of a kitchen sink.

We all gotta start somewhere...

It’s pretty tough for a suburban slicker turned city chick returned slightly changed suburban slicker to keep her many lives separate. After four months of here and four months of there and yet another four months of somewhere else, I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster and just when my stomach catches up with the rest of my body, the ride plunges again. I find myself mixing my “excuse me’s” with my “perdona’s” with my “get the hell out of my way’s.” And I can’t for the life of me remember if I should walk, take the subway or drive my car to my destination.

Being home means being a team player. Contributing to household chores, running errands and remembering birthdays. With my newfound love of cooking (especially after taking a cooking lesson in Spain) and since I have to wash the dishes anyway, I figured that for my mother’s birthday I should prepare a dinner.

Calling myself a beginner chef would be a fallacy. If I told you I have prepared more than simple scrambled eggs, tortellini, oatmeal or tuna fish, I would be lying. I’d also be lying if I told you that I am an expert microwaver because I have been known to reheat food that’s still wrapped in tinfoil, and I have set off sparks when trying to boil water in a metal-insulated coffee mug. On occasion, I have left a pot on a heated stove without anything in it, and aside from packing the occasional brown paper bag lunch or baking pull-and-peel cookies, I can scarcely tell the difference between a whisk and a monkey wrench. I was never one to participate in preparation or cooking of my childhood family dinners, and it probably didn’t help that we ate out at least four nights a week. Thus, I got the gift of dinner table gab, but not the flare for food.

That being said, I suppose I should call myself a sorry fledgling – desperately trying but completely vying - in the kitchen. Mother bird is about to push me out of the nest and I am smart enough to know that I’m gonna land with one heck of a splat. So a dropped red wine bottle, a fried microwave and a terminally screwed-up electric can opener seem like minor issues that I’m sure every great chef messed up at one point. My mom’s birthday meal is a great excuse to catch up with my cooking faux pas in the comfort of my own home under the direction of my not-so-little younger brother, who relatively knows his way around the kitchen.      

I flipped through my mom’s Bon Appetite and the darling cookbook my mom’s friend, Cindy, sent me after I raved about her superb scallops. Because I believe every meal should be centered on a theme, I selected a hodge-podge of items to create a menu inspired by my trip to Spain (plus, I knew it would help my homesickness for Calle Aribau, 80).

A feast in honor of Mommy’s birthday

Assortment of Mediterranean olives

Creamy gazpacho with chunks of fresh cucumber, tomato and onion, garnished with basil and grated parmesan cheese

Spanish tortilla made with chopped sweet onions and sliced potatoes

Steak fajitas with grilled peppers and mango, served with a special, whipped sour cream-based sauce invented by my brother

Steamed carrots, broccoli and water chestnuts

Chocolate birthday cake (bought by my stepdad) 

The olives served as a Spanish “pica pica,” or a small delight for my family to nosh on about 20 minutes before the commencement of the formal meal. Thanks to Bon Appetite, I prepared a tasty tomato soup with a tad of garlic. I chopped and blended a day in advance so my gazpacho would have time to chill in the fridge. Cold soup is always my mom’s favorite, and I knew a completely homemade gazpacho would serve as a tasty treat in the humid Florida heat. It actually turned out to be everyone’s favorite part of the meal. 

The tortilla recipe I used for my premier plate was a traditional Catalonian one that I learned during my cooking lesson in Barcelona. It is, by far, my most preferred Spanish dish, so I knew that I would have to incorporate it in my menu somehow. The second plate, steak fajitas, was a concoction invented with the assistance of my brother, who has always enjoyed a hefty hunk of meat for his main course. I did, however, put up a few fights.

Perhaps I should backtrack for a moment. When I dine out, my orders tend to be reminiscent of Sally’s from “When Harry Met Sally.” “I’ll have the grilled chicken sandwich without the bun, but with extra lettuce and extra tomatoes and honey mustard on the side. You can hold the pickle. As for sides, well, I won’t eat French fries, so can I get a side salad with balsamic vinegar? Of course, I’ll want the vinegar on the side too. Thank you and that’s all.”

Needless to say, I needed to fight for my brother’s special sauce to be served on the side of the fajitas (not all of us are so athletically inclined and can easily lose unwanted calories). Plus, I have never been a fan of anything drenched in sauce - I think it’s a sign that either the main course isn’t strong enough to stand on its own or that the sauce isn’t flavorful enough to be served in moderation. I also suggested chunks of mango on the side since I felt the meat and peppers could use a bit of tangy sweetness (I have always had a sweet tooth!).

Lastly, to compliment the heavy fajitas, as well as to help out our digestive tracks, I served steamed veggies. I must admit, though, these came from a bag of SteamFresh and were nothing special. But when served with the rest of the dinner, these light veggies were just what we needed.  

Good food, however, does not make a good meal. A beautifully set table and proper presentation are key (at least all those childhood years of dining out taught me something!). I served my olives with rainbow-colored toothpicks, and the tortilla was cut like a pizza pie (I figured that if my food was awful, at least it would look pretty). The piece-de-resistance was my gazpacho, which I served in chilled wine glasses with a basil leaf sticking out and grated cheese.

The steak turned out a bit overcooked. The potatoes in the tortilla were not soft enough. I added a bit too much extra virgin olive oil in my soup. We didn’t begin eating until 8:30 p.m. since I totally miscalculated how long everything would take. And I put the SteamFresh bag with the wrong side up in the microwave. But everyone seemed to enjoy the meal and it was my first true experience cooking. No blown up microwaves (just a blown up bag of veggies) and no cuts on my fingers from all the chopping. Alright! 

So voila (and I learned they actually do say this in France) - my meal was a success. One small step for womankind, one giant leap for this kook in the kitchen KP.