Il Mulino

I always have a special place in my heart for classic New York City restaurants.  Today you can wear jeans or a t-shirt to pretty much any nice restaurant in town, but at a few spots jackets are still required and cocktail dresses are encouraged.  These dining experiences are not for any old night, but for an anniversary, birthday, or celebration of any kind they add an extra bit of special to the evening.  Il Mulino is just that kind of place.  If you are lucky enough to get a reservation (we called three weeks in advance and one time slot was left) then you can step into old world New York within minutes of arriving.  The ambiance is lovely and the restaurant is intimate.  My favorite part of the experience was the amuse-bouche that came out prior to the meal.  Mussels, Bruschetta, and blocks of fresh Parmesan were served before menus were even opened.  The actual menu itself is classic Italian - multiple pages of fish, meats, and pastas.  I ended up having the Caprese appetizer with Burrata, the spaghetti Bolognese, and fresh berries for dessert.  As you can see the food is simple but delicious.  However, the tabs are scary here – for example, the shrimp appetizer is $28 and you only get two shrimp (no, more are not on the way).  For these prices you may want more innovative fare like you might see at a Babbo, or if you are in the mood for red sauce Italian swing by the local Italian restaurant in your neighborhood so you can still pay rent and treat yourself to a meal.

Quick Getaway

In April, we went for a last minute weekend trip to the Bahamas to check out the newest tower at the Atlantis, The Cove.  I had envisioned quiet time on the beach, 9PM bedtimes, and snorkeling adventures.  I was met with poolside grinding, a surround sound DJ that seemed to always be on the clock, and pro athletes and their model girlfriends canoodling on outdoor beds.  Clearly my Havaianas and I had been misinformed about what type of vacation we were walking into.  While my man went to go play blackjack poolside, I tried to find a lawn chair that was not next to a pulsating speaker.  Although I did end the weekend fully up to speed on the latest hip-hop mash-ups, poolside blackjack is as dangerous as it sounds, and we also walked away with crippling losses cursing the grounds of that trendy money-vacuum.  That is until we got a coupon in the mail for free rooms and companion airfare after which my BF convinced me that it was the trip of a lifetime and we must return.  I am a pushover for sunshine, so off we went.  Since my first review of The Cove was less than glowing, I went in with low expectations (and fewer reading materials).  Surprisingly, round two was actually quite lovely.  We ended up going with a group and did lots of beaching and eating.  The highlights of the trip were our visits to the One & Only Ocean Club for a tour of their gardens, sunset cocktails, and a dinner at Dune.  The moral of this story is that The Cove is meant for groups (think Bachelorette party) and its great as long as you have an escape route from Nicki Minaj tunes pre-11AM.  Or as they say - if you can’t beat them join them and make sure your tribal chunky accessories and wedges are packed and ready to go!

 

Blow

I read once that your hair changes every seven years.  As a curly haired middle-schooler this gave me great hope for a future of glossy long blond hair in my high school years, even though I had not been blond since kindergarten and the only way I knew how to do my hair was in a slicked back bun.  I was often mistaken for a ballerina who had just come from a show and had left her hair done after haphazardly throwing on some ill-fitting cords and heading out the door.  Awkward childhood memories aside, my hair did not turn blond in high school nor did it straighten out.  Those with high maintenance hair can appreciate this tale and those who can hop out of the shower and air dry into a Pantene Pro-V commercial - no need to read on thank you very much.

For the wavy haired ladies out there, had we only had more than our ten dollar allowance and lived in New York City, we could have saved ourselves from a few uncomfortable class photos by frequenting my newest discovery: Blow.  Blow is a 'blow dry bar' in New York City that specializes in on-the-go blow outs done by professionals trained in their very own Blow Dry Academy (I know, only in New York).  I went in for the standard blow dry and when I began my usual hand-holding and hair coaching (Its wavy but you need to blow dry it straight, but keep the volume, and the wave, but only at the ends), the stylist smiled and told me he knew exactly what I meant as opposed to the eye roll I usually receive at hair salons.  Forty dollars and thirty minutes later I was out the door with the glossy mane that would have made my middle-school self proud.  Hopefully by our mid-twenties we have all learned how to manage our hair a bit more gracefully than when we were younger,  but if anyone ever asked you in your preteens if your head hurt because your hair was so tightly slicked back, this might be just the place for you.

Christmas in Connecticut

 

It's not Christmas in Connecticut without matching flannel pajamas and cocktails.

My mom below, I think what she is trying to say here is: 'Sorry I'm not sorry for having a boozy Christmas'

 

 Charades, Catch Phrase, and...Jenga!

 Cheers and Merry Christmas!

Holiday Party III

Since my first year in the city, it has been tradition that three girlfriends and I host a holiday party to ring in the holiday season and more importantly, get dressed up and dance around.  This year we hosted our event at Barolo and brought in a DJ at 10:30PM to turn the restaurant into a cocktail party.  Event planning glitches aside, such as the lights being on and all diners still in the midst of three course meals at 10:25PM, we were able to kick off the music and seamlessly transition into party-mode.  The night was a huge success full of sparkly dresses, a few love connections, and lots of champagne spillage.  I think I may have been the last to leave, exiting with the hopes of an Irish goodbye, but hugging and picture-taking with each friend, waiter, and near stranger on my way out the door.  Our third annual party may have been the best yet!

Wine, Cheese, & Disillusionment

Last night I capped off the work week with drinks and hors d'oeurvres at my dear friend's wine and cheese party.  It had been a long week and I was finally done planning my own annual holiday party, which was right around the corner and set for this Saturday.  In preparation for the big party this weekend I decided to take Friday off for a real 'me' day.  I was going to give myself a facial at home Thursday night, Soul Cycle with the milfy ladies who don't work in the morning, and treat myself to a mani-pedi in the afternoon.  My excitement over my dreamy day egged me on at the wine event to have another glass and next thing I knew we were clinking and cheersing our way through four bottles of wine.  Was I roofied by my dear friend, host of the wine and cheese party?  Probably not.  Did I end up drinking a bottle and a half of wine myself before stumbling home?  Probably yes.  The rest of the night is fuzzy but definitely involved me not washing my face before bed, let alone apply my high-tech overnight facial treatment, and becoming the kind of deathly ill I hadn't experienced since college.   Needless to say I was not in the the right place to be cycling with the competitive stay at home moms of Tribeca.  I missed my coveted non-refundable spin class and instead watched the '16 & Pregnant'  marathon on MTV.  By the time I emerged from my apartment and shakily joined the rest of civilization at 3:00PM I had vowed never to drink wine again, which leads me to the point of this post.  If you see me jovially drinking a glass of wine at the holiday party this Saturday night you have full permission to pour it over my head and slap me in the face.  Thanks, see you there! 

This is What 1 Degree Looks Like

 

To kick off the holiday season we escaped the crowds in New York (I had a harrowing experience with mob mentality near Rockefeller Center one year) and went up to Lake Placid.  The trip was booked easy breezy on Jetsetter and a few clicks later we had an action packed holiday weekend in front of us.  Although Lake Placid did not disappoint, the one trick about Jetsetter, which soon sank in, is the means to the end.  This turned out to be quite the hot topic because no air, rail, or car alone seemed to do the trick in getting us to our destination.  After much deliberation, and the cost it would have taken to fly to St. Lucia and back, we had an Amtrak train called the Ethan Allen Express and a limousine service (sorry, no sedans available!) from Albany signed up for the task.  Six Hours later, we had arrived.  We stayed at the Mirror Lake Inn, which I imagine is beautiful all year round, but was especially charming in preparation for the holidays.  Every tree was wrapped in lights, poinsettias lined the stairwells, and Christmas carols were on repeat.  By the time we left I felt like I had spent the weekend with Santa himself.  The action sports we envisioned - dog sled rides, snow shoeing, and skating a lap around the 1980 Olympic rink on skates were replaced with intense Scrabble games and glasses of Sauvignon Blanc by the fireplace instead.  In my defense, it was snowing and hovering at 1 degree all weekend, so short of buying myself a suspendered ski suit and bearing the elements, there was no better way to spend the time than parked by the fire.