How to use this Page

This past Friday night, Jake and I were sitting around watching Trollhunter—a B-horror movie from Norway—when our pal Brandon showed up at the front door. I had a couple seconds to think, “Huh, why is Brandon showing up at our house when he knows Jake has to work tomorrow?” Then, a girl walked in behind him, and I swore I knew her from somewhere. Then, in the dimness of our living room, I recognized the smiling face of my chica from Charleston, Jenny, who Jake had secretly flown in as a super spectacular birthday present to me. The next minute is kind of a blur, but I’m pretty sure there was a lot of hugging and cheek kissing and crying. So began my thirtieth birthday weekend.

Is the age of thirty any different from twenty-nine? Not particularly.  I guess people make a big deal out of it because it’s a nice round number, and it signifies the entrance into a new decade of life. I remember twenty didn’t mean anything, because at twenty, you were old enough to be in college but still too young to legally drink. At thirty, I gain nothing except a three where a two once was, yet because Jenny was here this weekend, I felt like thirty did mean something—because my weekend meant so much.

I met Jenny at work in Charleston, my very first week of habitation in South Carolina. That same week happened to be my birthday week, but I had no plan to celebrate, because I didn’t know anyone. Jenny, however, brought me a cupcake the day of my birthday. It was shocking to have a perfect stranger come into my office and put a cheerfully decorated pastry on my desk. We’ve been friends ever since.

Once Jenny got settled into our new house here in Phoenix, we went out Friday night to Ground Control, where we met friendly bartenders and patrons who bought us expensive shots of Frida Kahlo tequila, bless them.  We laughed and laughed until my ribs hurt and I was reminded of all the times we used to cackle on the beaches of South Carolina. Going to bed sounded terrible. Like a kid on Christmas Eve, I was too excited to sleep. I wanted to play, play, play, but since I’m thirty, I’m too old to play, play, play all night … or was I? Friday night, we slept; Saturday night, we didn’t, but we didn’t know what was to come as of Saturday morning, when we put on bathing suits and got mani-pedis together at the spa.

Following a highly productive trip to Total Wine, we went and hung out at a friend’s pool all afternoon. Jake met us there at lunch time, and it was all about the Absolut Miami and pineapple juice. I could have taken a nap, sure, but I didn’t want to miss any Jenny time. We reminisced about Belize, where Jake and I spent every day like Jenny and I spent Saturday.

At five, we showered and dressed, me in a highly out of character skin-tight lavender satin dress. The skin-tight was normal; the pastel color was not. We met the rest of our crew at Hula’s Modern Tiki downtown, where I enjoyed fresh fish and my cocktail of choice, the Dark & Stormy. As a collective, we consumed a Volcano Bowl—a thirty-dollar chalice of mixed liquors and fruit. I received copious offerings of expensive whiskey, tequila, and rum as birthday gifts (I love my friends). The rest of the night was composed of dancing at Sage and Sand, drinking cinnamon-flavored liquor, an after-party at my place (where we tasted all my birthday presents), and an eventual bedtime of 4:30 AM. Who says thi

Display Comments Add a Comment

As I sit here, sipping my Green Mountain Pumpkin Spice coffee, I realize that every year about this time, I crave the stuff. I stalk the Green Mountain website and wait … wait … until they announce: “Pumpkin Spice coffee is on sale for a limited time!” They say “limited,” because it’s true: Pumpkin Spice sells out almost immediately. I order several bags of it to make sure I get my fix, but it’s never quite enough. Come October, when the Pumpkin Spice is sold out, my craving is never sated. Maybe that’s their sales tactic: always leave the audience wanting more.

This brings up a question: what else do I crave? More importantly, what do I crave here in Phoenix? I have a background of growing up near good food. As a kid, my entire family cooked Italian food from scratch. Around Christmas time, I would always crave the Angeli family homemade ravioli, filled with garlic and covered in cheese. In Charleston, I would have incredible (I’m talking pregnant woman style) cravings for oysters and Bloody Marys—easy to fix in a city by the sea. So now, in Phoenix, what is it I have to have every couple months? Let me tell you …

The Nuclear Fallout martini at West Valley favorite Ground Control. Not for the faint of heart, you might see the mystical Green Fairy after too many of these cool concoctions of Agwa Coca Leaf Liqueur and Le Tourment Vert Absinthe.

Fresh bread with parmesan cheese and garlic butter at Bella Luna. Another West Valley locale, it’s locally owned, and sometimes, the chef escapes the kitchen long enough to sing some Italian opera.

Fish tacos at Gallo Blanco. Light, messy, and filled with flavor. Not only is the food yum-worthy, but the environment is one of the best in the Valley, featuring the backdrop of the hip, retro Clarendon Hotel. Frida Kahlo would have loved it.

Any and all Mexican food, most notably Jake’s guacamole and my homemade margaritas. Tragically, my favorite Mexican restaurant so far discovered in Arizona is Café Poca Cosa in Tucson. My dream is that someday charming owner Suzana Davila will open a restaurant in Phoenix and wow us with even more of her fresh, decadent Mexican feasts.

Hawaiian Ceviche at Hula’s Modern Tiki. The description says it all: fresh white fish, “cooked” in citrus juice, coconut milk, chili, and cilantro. Like summer by the sea … on a plate.

Bruschetta boards at Postino. If you’ve ever been to Postino, you know about the bruschetta. I can’t go there without ordering a board. The best choices? Fresh Mozzarella with Tomato and Basil; Prosciutto with Figs and Mascarpone; and Burrata, Bacon, Arugula, and Tomato.

Finally, the pizza at C

5 Comments on What Do You Crave?, last added: 9/16/2011

Display Comments Add a Comment

I don’t mean to brag, but I’m marrying the most amazing man on earth. So I guess I do mean to brag.

Last week, while paging through my planner, I noticed a hand-written note that said, “Dinner with your sexy man?” on Wednesday the 25th. It was a note from Jake, and I circled this suggestion and said, “Yes! Dinner with my sexy man it shall be!” He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, but he did tell me he was getting his best suit dry-cleaned—which meant I had to come up with a stunning ensemble to not look like a goat next to my soon-to-be-husband.

Wednesday at 4:30 PM, we got on the road and started driving north. Jake wore his fancy black suit with a brand new green dress shirt. (Verrrrry handsome.) I wore a purple, satin dress that once belonged to my Aunt Susie—a dress Jake had never seen before—and I felt pretty dang good standing beside him. So we drove north. And north. And north, until we finally got off the 17 at the Thunderbird exit. Now, I was completely lost. I’d never been vaguely close to that area before. Where on earth was he taking me?

Jake turned the car into the entrance for the Tapatio Cliffs Resort. Up and up a mountain we drove, until we finally reached the top and the restaurant, Different Point of View. A different point of view it certainly was! The bar was on the third floor of the characteristically red and orange building—very Southwestern—and it overlooked the entirety of the Valley of the Sun. We could see the skyscrapers of downtown Phoenix, the white mansions of Scottsdale, and even the edges of Camelback Mountain. Jake ordered a mojito; I had an “Appletini.” Then, we headed to the fourth-floor dining room.

The staff at Different Point of View treated us like celebrities. They were there whenever we needed anything. They asked questions, making sure we were happy. They offered to take pictures of us. They smiled and chatted and kept the table spotless. The bus boy even had a crumber!! But what about the food?

Well, when we first sat down, a lovely young lady brought us what appeared to be fancy tater tots—compliments of the chef—covered in crème fraise and chive. Who knew tater tots could be so good? We then ordered an appetizer: the Pan Seared Diver Scallops. I can never resist scallops, plus these were covered in a caramelized butternut reduction. For our entrées (not an easy choice with all the amazing menu items), I went with the Ancho Seared Palo Verde Pork Tenderloin, served with Pumpkin Honey Corn Cake, Charred Shallots, Pepita Pesto, and a Dried Bing Cherry and Tarragon Reduction. It was practically too beautiful to eat … but I ate it, and once I ate it, I realized it was practically too rich to finish!

Jake got the Rosemary Port Wine Braised

Display Comments Add a Comment

As far as I know, I ate my first oyster at an oyster roast on Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina. At the time, I was a novice. I showed up, dressed up, ready to party. I didn’t realize we would be surrounded by oyster-scented mist and flying shells. I didn’t know I had to “shuck” anything. I certainly didn’t know I had to eat slimy creatures that closely resembled massive piles of snot. Most surprising, though? I loved the slimy creatures.

I soon discovered, via Pearlz on East Bay in Charleston, that I prefer oysters raw rather than roasted. (I prefer them in Oyster Shooters, too, which entails a single oyster in a shot glass of cocktail sauce and Absolute Peppar). Over the course of my two years in Charleston, I consumed more oysters than the entire land mass of the United Kingdom—where oysters are actually protected by an Act of Parliament during the spawning season.

Rumor has it oysters are aphrodisiacs. I recently read a biography of the so-called “great lover,” Casanova, by journalist Ian Kelly. (An interesting read. Made me want to go back to Venice. Check it out here.) Casanova used to eat piles of raw oysters pre-coitus, plus bottles of champagne. I don’t know much about the aphrodisiac claim. I do know that I had a craving last week that felt like pot munchies, minus the pot … and I did not hanker for Doritos; I hankered for raw oysters.

Where—in the land-locked state of Arizona—was a girl to find raw oysters? Jake took me to the grocery store, where I swore I saw some oysters, but they only had mussels. We asked the guy if we could order oysters. He priced us at over a dollar an oyster. I wasn’t that desperate. Not yet. Luckily, I did an online search, where I discovered Casey Moore’s Oyster House in Tempe.

I love Tempe, not just because it has raw oysters. I like the college town feel. I like the ASU campus. I like all the restaurants and bars spread along the two block radius of Mill Street. It feels like home to me; it feels like Athens, Ohio, in the middle of the desert. Casey Moore’s is an Irish pub—one of the most famous in Arizona, according to the website. It’s a nice little place with a dingy, dark inside bar area and a big outdoor patio covered in palm trees and umbrellas. Not classy but cute.

All I cared about were the oysters … and the Bloody Mary’s, which were excellent. I ordered a dozen oysters; nothing else. In case you’re wondering, even in a beach town like Charleston, the oysters were rarely from Charleston. The best oysters are arguably from New England, so I was okay ordering oysters in Arizona; they travel, no matter where you are.

I made my order, and then I waited. I watched the door to the kitchen, and when the little college dude brought my slimy monsters surrounded by ice chunks to our table, I wiped the drool from my chin and dug in.

How do you properly eat a raw oyster? First, you pick up the oyster on the half shell. Using the tiny fork they give you, wiggle the oyster around to make sure it is dislodged from the shell. I like to add fresh lemon juice to mine and a dash of fresh horse

Display Comments Add a Comment

There are those who love Valentine’s Day and those who shiver with dread the second week of February. I’ve always been lukewarm about it. I like (love) roses, I’m a chocolate addict, and it’s fun to go out to dinner—especially at a romantic place like Cibo Urban Pizzeria. That said Valentine’s Day is not very fun when you’re single, but well, after this Valentine’s Day, I will never be single again … Because I’m engaged to be married.

I’m a big fan of pizza—especially gourmet pizza, which is exactly what you’ll find at downtown Phoenix’s Cibo Urban Pizzeria. Cibo (pronounced “CHEE-boh”) is located in the historic part of downtown. The restaurant is situated inside a restored 1913 bungalow. The front yard dining area is covered in trees, adorned with white lights and illuminated plastic grapes. When sitting beneath the shadow of the old bungalow, you can see the Phoenix skyscrapers and the sunset, all in one glance. It is the most beautiful restaurant in downtown Phoenix.

Jake, who I’ve always recognized as romantic, suggested we celebrate our Valentine’s Day evening at Cibo. We got the perfect table, right beneath a spindly, old tree, with an ideal view of skyscrapers and bright pink clouds above a sinking sun. We went all out—the full three courses, plus a bottle of Italian pinot noir. Once completely saturated with mozzarella, fresh vegetables, spicy sausage pizza, and a Nutella/mascarpone crepe, I felt relaxed and overjoyed with my stupendously hot boyfriend.

Jake was the first to realize the tree behind me was not lit, and as the sun sank beneath the horizon, the front yard of Cibo’s tiny bungalow grew dark. First, Jake asked a waitress to get the tree lit behind me. Second, he asked the water girl. Finally, he inspected the tree himself. Ever the engineer, he miraculously brought the tree to life via an unplugged cord. He sat down, seemingly quite pleased with himself, and asked for the check.

As I admired the glittering lights in the tree above my head, Jake signed the bill. I reached across the table and took his hand. Then, he said, “Now, you’re not going to freak out. Okay?” I couldn’t move—I don’t think I even breathed—as he reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a little black box. He set the black box on the table in front of me, opened it, and said, “Will you grow old with me?”

I totally freaked out. I was blinded by the glittering thing in the black box, and I was equally blinded by how handsome my boyfriend looked in the candlelight. I was overtaken by the realization that this was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I squeezed out a clear “Yes” before evaporating into tears and hand-flapping. Jake caught my hand long enough to stick the ring on my finger before I sprang up and kissed every inch of his face.

I’m pretty sure the other couples at Cibo thought he’d broken up with me, until the bling went all a-twinkle on my left hand. Thankfully, Jake had already paid the bill. He grabbed my hand, and we escaped into the darkness of 5th Avenue, Phoenix, while I kissed him and hugged him him and kissed him and melted teary mascara down my face through the torrents of �

Display Comments Add a Comment

I love Flagstaff. I don’t want you to feel like I’m cramming a bunch of information down your throat, but, well, I am. Last weekend, Jake and me and our buddy Randy headed to Flagstaff. Randy had a softball tournament, but that was really the least of our concerns. We were really there to see the city. And get out of the Phoenix heat. So, similar to my Ignite Phoenix blog post, I’m going to use the item 1, 2, 3, etc, formula and tell you about the heavenly place that is Flagstaff, Arizona.

1) The City. Flagstaff is about three and a half hours north of us, right near the Grand Canyon. It’s a mountain town, famous for its skiing and snowboarding. It’s also a college town. Home to Northern Arizona University, you can smell the college kids and their microbrew hangovers. In fact, Flagstaff felt a helluva lot like Athens, Ohio, where I went to school at Ohio University. It’s hilly. It’s green. The weather is to die for, and the main objective is to eat, drink, and be merry. It’s a lot smaller than I expected. Jake and I drove around the city for about ten minutes, and I had it all figured out. I knew my way around, because like I said, it felt like Athens. And after dealing with the SPRAWL of Phoenix, it felt like home. I didn’t want to leave. I liked the quaintness. I liked the cooler temps and the longed-for greenery. Plus, there’s a train track that runs along the edge of the downtown historic district, and I’ve always found something comforting about the sound of a train whistle.

2)  The Food. I’d like to talk about THREE food/drink destinations in Flag.

Late for the Train Cafe. It’s a coffee shop in the historic district on San Francisco Street. It’s tiny inside. There’s not much space for hanging out with your cup o’ Joe. But hell, the coffee is so good, who cares? I ordered the Fireman’s Mocha. There was actually a warning that said the stuff wasn’t kid-safe. So of course, I had to have it. It’s a Habanero Hot Cocoa (cocoa with New Mexico chili spices, vanilla, and almond) with two shots of espresso added. It’s spicy!!!! Spicy coffee??! Superb.

Diablo Burger. Okay, so I found it in the Frommer’s Guide. Don’t judge me. Frommer’s called it “the quintessential hole in the wall.” It was in a strange location, built behind a mural (more on this later) inside a parking garage support column. The sign is simple and small. And the food? You know how when you’re drunk, everything tastes like a gourmet meal? Well, this is the same way, only you don’t have to be drunk. But by the end of the meal, you kind of feel like you are, because you’re so damn happy about life. I wanted to hug the guy behind the bar, who was super cool, by the way. The food is local, and the servers were more like friends than employees. I had The Blake: homemade hatch chile mayo, roasted green chiles, and sharp cheddar. Jake had the Vitamin B: bacon, beet, and blue cheese. Everything is served medium rare, and they even brand their English muffin buns with a “db.” So freakin’ cool. Best burger I’ve

Display Comments Add a Comment

This past weekend, I got the chance to visit Tucson. There were plenty of trifles to treasure, including meeting Jake’s family for the first time and a black and orange, raging thunderstorm over the desert on the drive home. There was also plenty to eat, and among those places was Café Poca Cosa.

I had already been told about this place by a Phoenix real estate agent. She said I had to eat at Café Poca Cosa. Honestly, I don’t think she was giving me an option; I think she was giving me an order—an order that, in hindsight, I was happy to accept.

Café Poca Cosa is located in downtown Tucson on East Pennington Street. It’s a random restaurant on a somewhat deserted street, vacant of other restaurants. Upon entrance, it felt like we were in the middle of some hip artist’s frontal lobe. I glanced outside. Nope, we hadn’t been teleported to a Frida Kahlo painting. We were still in the desert, still in Tucson. Yet, the inside felt so … warm. Comforting. Stylish. Red. It felt like a place I would love, and I did, as soon as I sat at the bar, waiting for a table.

“You two want to get drunk?” a cheerful, attractive Mexican woman chirped at Jake and me. I laughed, but for a second, I thought, With the overabundance of expensive tequila over your shoulder? Would LOVE to, lady. I would soon learn, this lady was the owner and chef—Suzana Davila. We were escorted to our table. And yeah, I had a margarita at 1 PM.

So the way it works at Café Poca Cosa: the menu changes twice daily. There are no “menus” to look at. (Well, there’s a drink menu, but with all that tequila, there had to be a drink menu). Instead, there is a chalkboard. Your server will bring a chalkboard to the table and tell you about the options of the day. Me being 1) a Midwesterner 2) a previous habitant of the Lowcountry, this Mexican food was foreign to me. I know about enchiladas, tacos, burritos…but outside of the norm, I’m a lost puppy. So, of course, I went with the Plato Poca Cosa—three dishes from the chalkboard, chosen at random by the chef.

I have no idea what I ate.

I know it was straight out of my wildest dreams.

One of the dishes had pineapple. There was steak and tomatoes to the left.  OH! I recognized a Mole sauce on chicken. And as I mentioned, I recognized the tequila in my fancy margarita glass. Other than that, beats me. What I do know? It was amazing. Every bite. Every morsel. Every dish.

Café Poca Cosa is a place you just gotta see to believe. The ambiance is sensual and delightful. The margaritas will put you on the floor. The food made me wanna do a little dance down the streets of downtown Tucson. And Suzana Davila was a chick I hope I meet again someday. In fact, I’d love to buy her a drink.

You have to go. Not a pleasant suggestion; that’s an order.

Website: http://cafepocacosatucson.com/.

2 Comments on Café Poca Cosa: A Must Eat in Tucson, last added: 3/10/2010