Last night, the anxious crowd queuing down Alphabet City’s East 3^rd street outside the Nuyorican Poets Café for a storytelling event was ready to take matters into their own hands.  It looked like we weren’t getting in, and a young woman pointed to a fellow near the front of the line in dreadlocks and shouted.

“They’re not letting him to tell his story.  So he’s going to tell us one outside!  Who wants to hear a story?!”

We all cheered.  The 60-something Puerto Rican doorman with an unruly mustache sprung into action against the storytelling vigilantes.

“There’s no storytelling on the street! This place isn’t like it used to be.  This lady that lives next door will come down here and say, ‘Keep it down! I pay $4,000 to live in these apartments.’  Then she’ll call the cops.”

“That’s just wrong!” called out a disgruntled patron in line.

I wasn’t sure if she meant the infringement of First Amendment storytelling rights in Alphabet City, or the fact that the woman was paying that much to live there.

I had come to my old ‘hood to experience a storytelling night from an organization called The Moth, recently profiled in the New York Times.  What started out as an underground get together of people interested in sharing, well, stories, has turned into another way of meeting agents and producers—scoring an Off-Broadway show or book deal.

And hey, I’m willing to try anything to help get Alphabet City published—and also to keep up my enthusiasm for the project despite the daily onslaught of rejection (from agents, not you dear readers).  This blog is one of the ways I’m trying to escape the isolation of writing—getting it out there for people to read.  A shout out and thank-you to everyone who has commented either here or on Facebook—it means the world to me to get any type of feedback.  Keep it coming!

So, I thought checking out a storytelling night might spur some extra connections or ideas about what to do next—Alphabet City the one-man show or musical, anyone?  My friend Shannon—star of my movie GayTV and one of the KFC Glamour Girls in one of my crazier PR stunts (see Episodes 1-9 and scroll down to bottom for picture)—was the perfect companion for the night.  She had participated in a Moth storytelling event back in the days when people still called the East Village Alphabet City.

As I walked to meet Shannon, I passed by all the signs of continued gentrification of the old ‘hood—Whole Foods (mentioned in yesterday’s post), Chase Bank on 2^nd Street (another institution Juan Pablo and I we desperately desired), and an Extreme Makeover Dog Run Edition in Tompkins Square—complete with sandy gravel and a fancy wooden sundeck with benches to keep owners and pooches from getting muddy (where was that for foofy white Frida?).

With no more room at the storytelling inn, and no possibility of an al fresco impromptu performance, Shannon and I retreated to Matilda, a restaurant on Ave. C claiming to offer “Tusc-Mex” cuisine.  Italian and Mexican fusion?  As one half of a traditional Tex-Mex couple I was suspicious, but definitely intrigued.

The drink menu immediately caught our attention—definitely living up to the Tusc-Mex mix.

Cocktail list at Matilda is muy inventive

No traditional margaritas—instead the “Prosejito” with lime, sugar, mint and prosecco was inventive and delicious, and several drinks later, we were on our own storytelling roll.   The guacamole is mixed with basil and served with slivers of focaccia, which sounds odd but totally works.  The Tamalito Vegeteriano was polenta mixed with poblanos and mozzarella wrapped traditionally and served with a jicama-basil-oregano salad.  Already I’ve demanded Chef Juan Pablo try this at home.

This type of inventive and sleek restaurant on Ave. C was just one more symbol of neighborhood gentrification.  But then I got the bill, and put down a credit card to pay.  The skinny waiter in skinny jeans with nearly 13 piercings in one ear shook his head.

“Sorry, cash only.”

Oh, East Village.  Some things will never change it seems.  At least I hope not.

Last night I had a meltdown over a run-in with rancid pork.  To give my partner Chef Juan Pablo a break from cooking for me constantly, I’ve been attempting to increase my recipe repertoire by whipping up one “easy” meal per week.  My trusted source is Bon Appétit—and this week’s quick fire challenge was Pork Tenderloin Stir-Fry with Tangerines and Chili Sauce.

And it looked so good

Everything was going so beautifully until the pork that I bought on Sunday smelled kind of funny by Thursday, but I just shrugged and threw it in the pan.  After all, I don’t each a lot of pork, much less cook with it.  What do I know?  The result looked gorgeous!  But at the table I spit it out and threw a mini-temper tantrum, and bless his heart, Chef Juan Pablo summoned up his best Julia Child, “Never apologize!  Never apologize!”

As sweet as Juan Pablo is, it’s hard living with a chef.  When someone discovers my partner cooks professionally, they invariably say, “I’m so jealous—you must eat really well.” Do I tell them that because he works full time he usually doesn’t want to go all out and cook up elaborate five course extravaganzas at home?  Do I tell them that because he develops recipes as part of his job for Whole Foods Market that I am often forced to eat unappetizing “meat alternatives” like Seitan?

The assumption underlying that series of questions is that I couldn’t possibly know what I’m doing in the kitchen, and that I probably steer clear of it.  And they’d be right.  While I enjoy writing about food and doing restaurant reviews, I wouldn’t say that I find cooking relaxing or therapeutic.  Growing up in Texas, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a “foodie”—we ate a lot of chicken fried steak and frozen vegetables in my house.

But I knew things were going to be different from the first moment I electronically met my future boyfriend Juan Pablo, who at the time was still working a day job as an economist.  After chatting on Gay.com, we agreed to go on a date and he sent me a photo of him on vacation in Thailand.  I assumed the jpeg would of him in a Speedo on the beach.  Instead, it was his sweaty face posed next to a plate of glassy Asian noodles with hot chili peppers.  The next day, when we settled in to brunch at Pastis, I quickly realized his love of food was on a higher plane than my own.  Here’s part of that scene from Alphabet City’s Episode 13: Happy Soul:

Within minutes, our table was filled with plates of baby lettuce salads with goat cheese, bowls of frites and dozens of oysters.  I loved that he didn’t even ask if I was a fan of the slimy aphrodisiacs—because I would slurp them any which way to Friday.  Surrounded by food, he looked like he was in heaven.

“Would you call yourself a foodie?” I asked.

“I guess I like food as much as the next guy.  Don’t you?”

“Maybe not as much as you.  You took pictures of you all sweaty with those noodles in Thailand.”

“Everyone takes pictures of food!”

“I’ve never once in my life taken a snapshot of my entrée.”

“Well, you’re missing out.  And we’re missing the aioli!”

He nearly tackled a disinterested waiter and insisted on a side of mayo for dipping.  From my face he could tell I had never imagined anyone plunging fries into white whipped creamy sauce like that—everything else in Texas, yes—fried potatoes, crazy.

“I do it the French way,” he declared.

Years later, I may not do it the French way—I’m no Julie Powell cooking my way through Julia’s masterpiece—but I am trying to get over my kitchen phobia.  One night each week it’s my valiant turn at the stove, and I’ll report back the results.  After last night’s disaster, I’m calling these special episodes “Kitchen Knightmares.”

I am always nervous on trips back to Alphabet City—the ‘hood that was the setting for the first ten years of my sitcom life in New York.  I don’t want to miss the vibe of the dirty streets—a funky mix of artistic aspiration and desperation.  I want to feel that the area has grown into something that doesn’t interest anymore that selfishly I can feel better about moving away.  A trip this past Saturday with Juan Pablo (debut Alpha City episode 13) and Susan (debut episode 9) was going according to plan until we walked into the restaurant DBGB.

This week’s episode began with an invitation from an artist friend Aaron Krach to attend an exhibit at his apartment on Rivington.  Aaron not only created the glittering skulls that were on display at last year’s Economist magazine Halloween party that Susan and I planned (and surely the inspiration for Kylie’s recent concert stage set), but he also gave me a fabulous critique on the first draft of Alphabet City.  Susan volunteered to drive us in her Jeep that I one day nicknamed Mahogany (every car should have a theme song) because frankly the commute from Washington Heights to the LES is brutal and it was pouring down rain.

We added on a trip to the NYC Dumpling Festival that had no plans for rain.  So we all got soggy and I wasn’t sure who thought Mexican tamales fit at a dumpling festival.

Juan Pablo next to the giant unappetizing dumpling

Next we headed to E Village mainstay DBA that supposedly was serving beer made of seasonal fresh hops, something that Juan Pablo had read about in the New York Times.  True to slackerish E Village form, the bar wasn’t open at the advertised 1pm so we headed to Jimmy’s No. 43 mostly because when I called to verify operating hours the guy who answered sported a sexy Aussie accent.  I wouldn’t use “sexy” to describe the underground cave like atmosphere with flies swarming around grotesquely carved pumpkins.  And I don’t think I will run back to try the very bitter tasting fresh hops beer again.  At this point, I didn’t feel like I was missing too much about Alphabet City.

Until we went to lunch.

DBGB Kitchen & Bar should be a place that I hate—the kind of trendy “bistro” headed by a fancy chef like Daniel Boulud that draws uptown outsiders to Alphabet City.  The kind of place that doesn’t respect the East Village, but just trades on the neighborhood’s trendiness.  And it is all those things.  The problem is I love it.

First, the food is consistently delicious.  Nothing stuffy here—the range of sausages are fun and accessible.  The Vermont sausage was oozing with gooey cheese; the Thai had just the right amount of chili sauce and was topped with a delicate quail egg.  In a town known for its burger wars, The Piggie is now my favorite—a manageable 6 oz. topped with pulled pork BBQ and jalapeno mayonnaise.  Don’t forget to pair the food with the special beers and ales available.  Now I’m not really a beer connoisseur, but the helpful staff will walk you through the list that reads like a wine menu with tasting notes like “fruity and spicy.”

DBGB's Piggie Burger, behind the Vermont and Merguez

Granted, the setting is off putting—in one of those nondescript modern buildings that have displaced “charming” EV tenements.  But inside, it’s unlike any other place in the area—sleek, modern and thoroughly comfortable.  Kudos to Daniel’s team for not trying to invent a grungy EV look for the place.   I want to steal one of the small settee couches used as “mini banquettes,” and I’m in love with the two-person sofa-like barstools.  And while both the bar and main dining room are buzzy, neither are too loud for conversation.  One of the best parts?  The crowd that is drawn to DBGB.  The affordable food is attracting a diverse crowd without much attitude.  Hard to find anywhere in NYC these days.

I’ll admit it—I’m jealous.  Back in my day, the only restaurant that was nice enough to take visiting parents was Three of Cups— because it was the only spot that accepted credit cards.  But if I still lived in Alphabet City, DBGB would be my choice to take visiting family.  The restaurant is now my new “go-to” spot for East Village eating, and I’ve added it my “must list” of recommendations for out-of-town visitors.

Who knew that a famously fussy French chef—whose other restaurants in New York City I do not enjoy—could give the East Village such a gift?

And for that, I hate him.  Because he has me missing Alphabet City.