The best lunch deal in town: Del Posto

Last fall, Sam Sifton gave Del Posto, the Bastianich/Batali mega-restaurant in the Meatpacking district, a 4-star rating  -- his first since he became the New York Times dining critic in 2009.  And while I generally believe rating systems with their stars, numbers, or other funny little icons to be inevitably flawed, I'm down with Sifton. After heeding a rec by my NYC neighbor who is a sommelier at the restaurant, I found Del Posto to be one of the best fine-dining experiences I've ever had. Of course, I'm the kind of person that is easily impressed by whipped lardo as a complimentary option to spread on your choice of three fresh-baked breads, cheese graters re-imagined as serving trays for dessert canapes with wooden pullout drawers revealing a second secret layer of more dessert canapes, and an off-menu children's entree of gnocchi with truffled butter. And did you see those gold-dusted cheese-risotto balls?

But on top of the exquisitely prepared dishes and drinks, the waitstaff also maintained a down-to-earth elegance, even providing a purse stool for our 4-year-old-friend's Dora the Explorer backpack. Later, our waiter conceded to the fact that most truffle oils are fake, including their own, enhanced by chemical compounds such as 2,4-dithiapentane to impart that certain je ne sais quoi - which, of course, did not stop that gnocchi from being inhaled like a plate of peanuts backstage at a circus show.

The damage:  $29 for a three-course lunch prix fixe. (Of course, the a la carte order of their hundred-layer lasagna is extra.) Info: www.delposto.com, 85 10th Avenue/16th Street, 1-212-497-8090.

Stomach apron

Straight to the point.

Good. Better. Best. Bested.

A few people have asked me how I came up with the idea of interviewing playwright Edward Albee for this month's fiction issue of Vice magazine. Basically, Albee wrote one of my favorite plays, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and last year, after falling madly in love with Montauk, I learned he also owns a barn out there, where he runs an artist-and-writer residency program. I applied -- and ultimately, did not get in.  (Yes, I was sad.) When Vice came looking for story ideas, it naturally occurred to me that I would've been just as happy having a conversation with the octogenarian, preferably sitting out by the beach at his Eastern Long Island abode. Of course, as much as we tried to schedule a meeting in Montauk, where he spends much of his summer, we ended up at his loft in Tribeca. I was not disappointed. However, I should note that I felt unusually nervous about this interview -- and I've chatted up many luminaries throughout my career, so I had prepared a very long list of questions. Turns out, I barely looked at them throughout the conversation.

P.S. Albee told me he has nothing to do with the selection process for writers in his residency program, so no hard feelings.

Coffee, butter, biscuit.

Over it.

This Thursday, Oct 28 at 1 pm, the New York City Council's Committee on Women's Issues is holding a public hearing about street harassment of women and girls. Show your support and attend: near City Hall at 250 Broadway, 14th Floor committee room.

And for future reference, if you're in a situation where a guy is threatening to do physical harm to you, has indeed just shoved you from behind, or groped you et al, and you draw a blank on how to respond - dial 911. After all these years of repeated assaults, I finally did the research. Even if there is no literal fire in his pants or guns or knives or bashing of a woman's head onto a metal sewer grate, etc. involved (yet), you still can call 911. And if the situation is safe enough, take a picture of the douche and post it.

Paris, je sorta t'aime

In other news, I have just returned from France, where I had the opportunity to see Rick Owens' Spring-Summer Collection '11 at Paris Fashion Week. Even though I had a seat directly behind his wife Michele Lamy, my photos were not nearly as good as these. Here is an excerpt from the show:



Though I have never truly entertained the idea of spending more than my rent (*I have an apartment in Manhattan) on a single item of clothing, I ended up going to his boutique at the Palais Royal and his section at Le Bon Marche to try on some of his coats. Of course, both times, I left empty handed. Tant pis.

In any case, I used to hate Paris. Now, on my sixth or so visit, I feel differently. Thank you Mr Owens, Mr. fig-avocado-cheese sandwich guy, bowl of buttermilk at Breizh, Bordier beurre aux algues, Velib, Mr. Montparnasse-cemeterie Pepe le Pew, citron yogurt in the glass jar, fans of Oscar Wilde, Christian Constant fat chip, Bibliothèque François Mitterrand and Jochen.

The tree house is up!

My Vice magazine story about tree houses, that is.  Read it here.
It's worth taking a look at, even if you've already seen it, because I posted new photos and edited the ending. In the original version, posted on the Vice site,  there was some confusion in the last paragraph about when I made the call to my neighbor. We talked at 3 a.m., long before I had arrived in the tranquil no-service zone of west Sonoma County. It's also worth it because it's my favorite story I've written in over half-a-decade.