Destination Food: Xi'an

And so, with a very long work push and many miles, takeoffs and landings beneath my belt, it is time to return to my roots. The core. Why I started this blog in the first place. Food. Inspiring. Eclectic. Wallet-friendly and no reservations required. Stamping out hunger while fueling creativity. First stop? A mid-January lunch on St. Mark's Place.

Like every food discovery I have ever made, it begins with a clipping, usually a handful of sentences at best, ripped from the pages of the Times dining section, Food & Wine, New York magazine, or of late, the New Yorker, whose front-of-book writing and layouts are as tasty as some of the places they write about.

My older son and I discovered this place a few years ago on a father/son movie date at the Sunshine (a taste of indie heaven!). The flick was "The Spectacular Now" (the early work of Shailene Woodley and Whiplash's incredible Miles Teller). The noodles? They breathe life into the words "hand pulled."

The rest, as duly noted, is self-evident...

The Flavors & Places of 2014

Cheung Chau Ferry, Hong Kong.

Chez Ken.

Garfield Corner store dawn. 

Dining room table, 2 a.m. snack.

Gill's Rock, Wisconsin.

Chatellailon-Plage. 

Park Slope kitchen.

Chelsea desk.

Front stoop.

Home.

Here's to good friends...Happy 2015.

Why We Write

An Important Editor is reading my new novel and as 2015 comes rushing in, I am on tenterhooks. My wish list is short. This story is a personal heartsong. I am confident it will touch others. I so want it to see the light of day.

2014 has featured a lot of iffy news for lovers of books. Nook is on the ropes. Amazon has been making headlines right and left, though I suspect it is mostly writers who pay attention. Today's Times ran a big story about what is good for authors, but I think it missed the point. We are not about the business (in fact we mostly stink at it!). I don't know a creative soul who stares down the blank page, contemplates knocking off 80-100,000 words, and conjures up images of wealth. (We do however fantasize about the "By the Book" profile in the Sunday Book Review!) 

In reality, when the blank page looms, we write because we have a story to tell, a burning desire to share it, and probably figured out around 2nd grade that we were better at this than math or science. The rest is luck, tenacity and literary history.

The other big story that mostly authors care about is digital versus print. Digital is easy. I have sold plenty of instant downloads of Food for Marriage to a seatmate on a long flight delay. It's a fun conversation starter and a quick buck. The chats are still longer than the earnings reports, but that hasn't slowed me a bit!

However, my preference is print! One of the great retro joys of riding the New York City subway is seeing what people read. I am happy to report that libraries are still in business and used, dog-eared copies of Nabakov, Hemingway and Garcia-Marquez are still widely in circulation. One of the sweetest pleasures of all the book groups I did this past year was meeting new friends who asked me to sign their copy. I've adopted a cloying, signature Food for Marriage author phrase: "Stay hungry!" I know I am.

Do books matter? It's my fervent prayer they do, and for the millions who received the world's easiest gift to wrap, I hope the proverbial image of settling in for a good read by a crackling fireplace remains relevant. That's the reader in me talking.

But the writer is still at it because it is what I do and what I love. I am willing to turn the business over to the wise and experienced rainmakers who still cling to their passion for making good books. Me? Pull up a barstool. Have I got a story to tell!

Helloooo in there!

Yes, I have been missing in action of late and it's funny -- friends have actually noticed! Thank you!! Believe me, there's no greater compliment. And it's been nagging at me, too. Has the well run dry? Moi, out of words? Nope. I just realized I've been running the engine so hard that there hasn't been one second to sit, pause, and think. So, having flown nearly 30,000 miles in 4 weeks, touched down in 10 cities, celebrated Thanksgiving, lost a dear relative, made a few dozen lunches and dinners, done my day job, written a new book proposal, submitted a few novels, read a few more -- even thrown a dinner party or two! -- I'm back. And that is thanks to our dear ol' friend Charlie Brown, who reminded me this evening quite by accident, yes, it is the holiday season! Time to slow down, look back, reflect, and appreciate just a little bit how quirky and weird and fleeting and wonderful life is. No more, no less. 

Been to the desert.

Crossed a few mountains.

Woke up over Siberia!

Weathered a big blow in San Francisco!

But closer to home, we celebrated the first thanksgiving without my father. Something was definitely missing, but we soldiered on...

Time to slow down and reflect with a very serious academic.

Raise a glass to Blossom, who is brave and alone and going it with a smile. 

And say goodbye to Uncle Julius, who filled a room like nobody's business and left us a lifetime too early.

How about we raise our collective voices near and far, for a little peace and a little understanding in these incredibly complex times.

Wednesday Morning, 4 a.m.

I do not have the words currently, either due to less than 45 minutes sleep in the past 24 hours or the fact I am about to miss my plane! -- but later I will explain how I ended up on a 19,000 mile, 72 hour roundtrip to Hong Kong, culminating in watching dawn turn to day on Cheung Chau Island before ferrying and train-ing and racing to the airport. For the time being, the images will have to suffice.  

I'm Mad as Hell and I'm Not Going to Take it Anymore

With a nod to Paddy Chayefsky, of late, I've noticed a large number of people I know burning up with this desire to "do something good." Some of them are between jobs. Some of them are out of work. Some of them have just been at the same darned thing for too darned long. It almost feels like a groundswell movement. People want to do something that truly makes a difference. 

This week I spent two days at the World's Greatest Problem Solver's Conference in Boulder, Colorado. It was put on by the Van Heyst Group, a juggernaut of dialogue and debate whom I've worked with all over the world for the past 20 years years. This event was different for me. For the first time, I was a participant, not a worker bee. I got to drink at the receptions (okay, maybe I've snuck a wee dram while working, in the past), meet cool people, and sit in and listen to discussions on some of the largest ideas keeping us awake at night. What's on people minds?

Preventing terrorism by enlightening the mothers of extremists. Plopping censors down every water well in America to understand drought. Confronting violent crime like an epidemic (think Ebola) to apply science to reducing inner city murder rates. Treating crop data like a renewable resource to empower farmers. Harnessing wind to create untold power and create new jobs. Placing the safety of children in the hands of the community through the use of technology to keep our kids safe. 

I could go on and on. What linked this extraordinary group of people was passion to the Nth degree. Their views were out there: disruptive, controversial, futuristic, and unique. From entrepreneur to filmmaker, Ph.D. to impact investor, they all brought one shared desire:  to advance a cause that was not about themselves. 

The meeting was small, the presentations simple and powerpoint-gentle. It was not about showmanship, but heartfelt words and bold ideas. Conferences can be boring. This one was not. We sang. We hugged. We dined and drank. We listened. We pitched in. We worried about our collective condition and linked arms to make a 21st century difference.

I have been paid to write "takeaway reports" for a dozen years. I was off duty this week. The takeaway was the feeling in the room and the snow in the air. Early winter put no one off. The blaze of ideas sent us all home thinking, "Yes, maybe I can make a difference." My takeaway? Maybe we can.

Ships that Come In

When the New York Times review for Billy & Ray appeared in last week's paper, my heart sank. I had to wipe away a tear. That's how close to home its discouraging words cut towards my good friend's life's work. But let's be real. Those words might as well have been directed at me. Haven't I spent every day for the past (how many???) years, putting it out there, in books, in film, in TV, awaiting that hallowed moment of glory when the world weighs in?  I wondered how playwrite Mike Bencivenga could go on. So I did what I had to do. I went to the box office of the Vineyard Theatre and bought my ticket to survey the damage. 

Mike is married to my childhood friend, Jenny, with whom I used to play jacks with on the 2nd grade playground of the Concord Road Elementary School in Ardsley, NY. Mike and I bonded instantly. He was into plays and I into fiction, so we weren't even competing for the same prize. He was easy to like, with a day job as a news editor and a big effusive personality. Mike was the guy you wanted to hang with at the bar with and trade war stories. He had a singlemindedness of mission and a complete lack of doubt -- or at least it never showed in the countless years of struggle and heartbreak. 

I planned to fly under the radar for what I anticipated to be a train wreck of an evening. The reviews weren't a week old. I was surprised and apprehensive when it turned out both Mike and Jenny were in attendance for the evening's performance. I naively assumed Jenny would be anywhere but here, and Mike would be home nursing a bottle of Jameson's with his beloved cat. The lights went dark. I hunkered down. Cut to:

Applause. Loud and sustained. Many stood in the sold-out theatre as the cast took its curtain call. In the ensuing talkback, everyone stayed. The questions were intelligent and provocative. This audience was engaged. The playwrite and actors responded with relief, laughter and clever repartee. Maybe they hadn't read the reviews. Uhh-huh. Sure.

Associate Producer Ali Skye Bennet, Sophie von Haselberg, Mike Bencivenga and Vincent Kartheiser.

The Q & A went on until the producer had to bring it to a close. The stars vanished stage right. The theatre went dark. Mike, Jenny, myself and a group of his friends went next door for drinks. Jenny, who might as well been co-producer she did so much to shepherd this work to life, recounted every humorous miscue and gaffe from the past 4 weeks of shows. Mike unwound, content I sensed, with a good evening of theatre. A clever and meaningful story that never would have existed but for his vivid imagination and dogged perseverance. 

The clock passed midnight. We finished our drinks and settled up. We hugged on the sidewalk. Mike and Jenny jumped in a cab. Billy & Ray would go up again the next night. Mike would be in the booth, watching again for the 4,000th time since his brilliant seed of an idea became a reality. But first he had to get some sleep, because he had to be at his day job at 8 in the morning. Just like the rest of us.

The Dinner Party

The Commute

Out there.

Visitor's field.

The El.

The scoop.

Mobile office.

New Space

About three weeks after my first child was born and we brought him home to an icy cold, windswept spit of land overlooking Rockport Harbor (there was a house there, too), my wife said, "Leave!" This was not a precursor (to the best of my knowlege). She was referring to my work ethic. We were young, inexperienced, and freelance. A most unproductive concoction. I opened the Gloucester Times classifieds. A week later I rented my first out-of-home office in a hundred-year-old schoolhouse. It was bliss. I have not worked from home, since.

About three weeks ago,  my latest New York office space went the way of so much real estate in the city. The rent to the company I was subletting from quintupled, they balked, and in the space of days, I was out on the street.

With Ben & Matty starting back to high school, working from home was simply not an option. I was far too used to my writing routines. Make kids lunch. Attempt to get them out the door on time. New York Times at a local coffee shop. Brisk walk to the subway. Q train into town. New Yorker, iTunes, or simply enjoy the never-ending show that 4 million subway riders a day provide. I couldn't bear the thought of working from home. Also, there was the problem of lack of external stimulation, ease of napping, and eating everything in the fridge. Within days, I wasn't even bothering with the bread.

I scoured the Web for solutions, but New York is hot again and rents have skyrocketed. Just as panic was setting in (de rigeur for the wordsmithing class), I stumbled upon a space that at first glance was too good to be true. A rent within reach for those of us who have not achieved Grisham or Flynn status. A spacious, cozy, wide open floor with great light and city views. Couches and easy chairs for naps. Free pretzels in the lunch room. And it is a sanctuary of creativity, open only to writers. I applied. I got in. I wept, and set up shop. 

The Room, as it were, is so appealing and enigmatic that I dare not give away trade secrets. I will only share this much. The view is to die for.

You can't beat the neighborhood.

If you're gonna create for a living, why not be around a little culture!

You've got all the basic food groups...

Good tunes for the ride to & fro...

Loads of inspiration...

You can even enjoy a little spiritual uplift when the muse is on break.

The writing life is chockful of surprises. I am happy to report, this blank page has turned out to be mercifully short and fraught with potential. Stay tuned...

The night is young!

Midnight Snack

Crudo! Striped bass, scallion, jalapeno, good extra virgin, sea salt, pepper, and a squeeze of fresh lemon. Goes well with CNN International and a crisp Sancerre.

Thoughts for the new year

Peace.

Love.

Remembrance.

Renewal.

Peace.

Starry Starry Night

I was recently reminded why I call this site The Ramen Blog. Not only because I have a deep and abiding love for chili-flavored salt and noodles, but because every artist I know struggles to be seen and heard. For many of us, this often involves making do with satisfying food that costs 25-cents a pack. But then every once in a while all that work (and salt!) pays off. 

On Friday night, my friend, the painter Elizabeth Reagh, had a show at the Ground Floor Gallery in Park Slope, home not only to the stroller brigades by day, but many deeply impassioned creatives by night. They came out en masse -- painters, graphics gurus, musicians, even a few novelists -- to support Elizabeth and the others who were featured in the show. 

The gallery was packed and the artists all spoke. Elizabeth waxed poetic about her process, sharing one story that especially resonated, about staring down the blank canvas and occasionally having to admit that there was nothing there. In which case the choice was to admit defeat and return to the drawing board. The results were dramatic. I think we all celebrated a little bit in our hearts for her success.

Afterwards, over Pisco Sours and delicious Peruvian food (the green sauce slathered on top of the crispy half-chicken at Coco Roco is to die for!), eight of us debated the process of marketing versus creation. The art of the sale we deemed a necessity, for if no one sees your work, what's the point? But the silent undercurrent of the evening was that for those of us who create, regardless of commercial success, there is no choice. We all have day jobs. But it is the stuff of our words and images that keep us up at night. 

"The Girls next Door." A group show featuring six female artists from the Park Slope/Gowanus area: Cecile Chong, Melanie Fischer, Rachel Kroh, Colette Murphy, Elizabeth Reagh and Liz Sweibel. Through September. 343 Fifth Street just above 5th Avenue in Park Slope. (http://groundfloorbk.com/)

Twin Views

Thirteen years ago my wife and I were together in Rockport, MA raising two boys, aged 1 and 3. Today, we're apart, raising two teenagers in Brooklyn, NY. The photographs below were captured and posted coincidentally within minutes of one another, just before midnight on 9/11.  Different lives, similar sentiment. 

Fish Tale

I have mercilessly teased a dear friend of mine for always insisting on grilling the waiter about the provenance of her salmon. I am a huge consumer of raw fish (I eat so much raw tuna it is quite possible that I glow in the dark), and I am not picky. If it looks and smells fresh, game on. Farmed. Organic. Line caught on a cloudy day. Whatever.

That was until last month when my friends brought home local Atlantic salmon from the fishmongress at the Intermarche in La Jarrie. I was skeptical, but assigned the task of chef I did my thing (despite being relegated to a gas grill. Mon dieu!) 

The result? I am nearly at a loss of words. This fish -- with nothing more than a little oil, herb de provence and sea salt -- was beyond belief! The flavor, the texture. Mouthwatering is the best word I can come up with. If Scotland secedes from the UK in 2 weeks, my grill dollars are on their second best-known export. Goes well with rice pilaf and a wee dram.

Kids without phones

A different stroll through Paris

I've been coming here since my early twenties: love at first sight. To this day, like New York, I feel at home the minute my feet hit the pavement. So what an incredible surprise it was to find myself a newcomer to Pere Lachaise.  First stop, its most iconic American resident.

Next up, a visit with the Republic's most famous chanteuse.

It was heartening to see reverent crowds at the stone of one of the world's great bards. His grave has been updated and glass surrounds it for protection. Still, the tributes are dropped over the side by fans of a writer who has not written in a very long time.

The park where all these amazing spirits reside is huge and the kids were completely taken.

You'd have to be a scholar of French history, or spend many days burning out your Google to even touch the number of famous people laid to rest here, but some of the monuments were especially sobering.

Then others offered a lighter perspective on lasting passage.

There was no lack of literary greatness.

But what I found most special of all were the incredible images that captured the eye and imagination at every turn of the path.

A New Yorker in Wisconsin?

Odds are when we NY types think of Wisconsin the word "Madison" comes to mind. Or perhaps the Brewers. Milwaukee. Green Bay! But even when you think of the Packers, who has ever referred to them as Wisconsin's team? So when my wife proposed a summer's week in Door County, my first question was, 'Where the heck is that?' 

This is what happens when you marry into the Midwest. 

There is a county called Door that looks a lot like Cape Cod.

But as close as you are to the water - Green Bay and Lake Michigan are just a few miles apart - you're never far from the American heartland. 

There's plenty of good food to eat.

But most of all, no matter what direction you aim your bicycle or car, you find this incredible rich patchwork of images, all scattered and hidden at the very top of the Great Lakes.

I heard the news today. Oh boy.

First:  On the front page of the New York Times, a picture of children killed by bombs on a beach, taken by a long-ago photographer acquaintance of mine. All I could think of was my step-nephew and other friends and relatives currently scattered across various locations in the umbrella of Middle East war.

When I got to work and logged in, I was greeted by a plane that had fallen from the sky over Europe. Within minutes, we knew it had been shot down and my wife and I were thinking about whether she would feel safe flying from her upcoming business in Malaysia to Paris in a few weeks to join me and the boys for holiday. The thoughts felt small in light of such tragic loss. The fear was real. I abandoned my office at midday to escape the news vortex and suck up a little comfort from the street. NYC rarely disappoints.

You try to move on. But with lunch not long over, I snuck a glance. Microsoft had edged into the headlines with news of a five-figure layoff. Nick Bilton of the Times wrote today about trying to wean ourselves from social media addiction.  Good luck with that! Now we were wondering if a good friend was about to join the ranks of the unemployed.

Day over. I find myself glued to CNN. Lives lost on MH 17 were enroute to the AIDS Conference in Sydney. We had talked about going just weeks ago. We have friends there now. The distribution of pain. So much to go around in just a few short hours. Six degrees of separation? I wonder how many others were palpably touched by the events of the day. 

"I know that I am like the rain..."

My favorite Simon and Garfunkel song.