To say things have changed would be an understatement, but fortunately for the modern-day lobster-lover, deals are still there if you know where to look—or even if you don’t. It’s not just $29 rolls (or even $14 rolls, for that matter) in this town.

I stumbled on this particular one blindly, during a routine trip to Chinatown for the restorative, hangover-curing powers of roast pork and wonton-and-noodle soup. It was then that I saw it—the sign. $20 for two lobsters. Now, it’s no secret that Chinatown is a bargain-hunter’s paradise, but that’s a price that’ll make you sit up and take notice in any neighborhood.

In a show of remarkable self-control, I didn’t order them on the spot (in my defense, I was getting takeout and traveling back to Brooklyn), but I couldn’t hold out for long; a week later, I returned to Big Wing Wong (yes, that’s the restaurant’s real name) to sample the goods. The meat may not have been the sweetest, most flavorful I’d ever eaten, but the ginger-scallion sauce—simply addictive—and, of course, the low, low cost more than made up for it. My friend and I polished off the entire platter, plus a plate of steamed dumplings and one of pak choy, in record time and to great satisfaction. Our total bill? $36.

As any veteran of the freelance world will tell you, there are times when work is scarce, and there are times when you’ll have more than you can handle.  Though my sad, neglected savings account would beg to differ, I strongly believe that some things—especially during those fallow periods, when morale can be low—are worth the extra expenditure, even if that means subsequently subsisting on beans and rice until the next check comes in. A meal like this one offers the best of both worlds: It allows you to feel like you’re treating yourself without resulting in sticker shock. For twenty bucks apiece, you can’t do much better than that.

Big Wing Wong
102 Mott Street
New York, NY
212.274.0696

This is my own version of that travel guide. London in a day. Several leisurely leave-the-flat-at-eleven days preempted this flurry of activity, spawned by the realization that we were running out of time to see the things that Ben and I both wanted to see. With maps in hand, and joined by Elen we left Shoreditch before breakfast to see how many things we could see in London.

Stop One: Kensington.

We grabbed caffè Americanos to go and headed away from the sunrise, determined to witness Time and Relative Dimension in Space, otherwise known as the TARDIS of Doctor Who fame.

Enticed by the promise of an adventure with a time lord, we’d paid attention to the ads for the Doctor Who Experience at Olympia Two, a sort of convention center.

We couldn’t be on the same island as the Ood and not go see it. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. For only £20, we were able to step inside the TARDIS (it really is bigger on the inside), go to battle with the Daleks and see costumes and characters from throughout Dr. Who history. Even Elen (who’d never seen the show) seemed to enjoy the experience. If you want exposure to true British culture, it’s best to remember a few things have happened since St. Paul’s Cathedral was built, and not just Posh Spice marrying David Beckham or Hugh Grant getting caught with a prostitute.

Stop Two: Harrods.

We cheated and cabbed it from Kensington to Brompton Road to visit Harrods department store and to see how long I could linger in housewares before Ben would get cranky. (Not long enough. Harrods could really use a beer department to distract those averse to giant displays of Le Creusets and endless walkways of chandeliers.) I’d purchased mismatched cloth napkins from their sale department a decade ago and still use them for every dinner party. After searching all five floors of the maze of a department store, I gave up on the idea of scoring a second set.

Happily, the visit wasn’t a total failure, because: Food Hall!

I would have been complete just looking at the vast selection that the Harrods Food Hall offered. Okay. That’s a lie. I wanted to taste everything. But I did not want to stand. So I went to the sit-down eatery closest to the lovely South African Droewors pictured above: the Dim Sum Bar.

The tom yum soup soothed my London-caused sore throat. (It’s an inevitable thing, the London sore throat. No worries: Boots and your nearest fancy department store dim sum counter will cure all.)

Perfectly steamed dumplings, greens and gingered pork also slid directly across the counter and into our willing bellies.

Add a pot of the beautifully flowering tea to the mix and you’ll have a £80 lunch for three. (We’re talking $127.) Not the best value, but it’s an experience, right?

Stop Three: The British Museum.

Here’s the rule about visiting museums in London: they’re going to close roughly 45 minutes after you finally get there, even if you take the time to look up the schedules in guide books. Do not believe anything you read about when the museums are open, and always have a back up plan. No amount of preplanning will allow Americans to understand the concept and schedule of bank holidays. If you’re lucky, you’ll get in in time to see a mummy or seven and use the loo.

You may even get to see a painting you once wrote a paper about in art history class, before the museum staff politely creates a wall to push you through each room until you’re oozing out of the museum like Play-doh pushed through the tiny holes of its Fun Factory. This happened at every museum we visited, yet somehow, the wall of security never seems to push out the folks in the gift shop. Funny how that happens.

Stop Four: Dinner.

This is where it gets tricky. Enticed by the sexy okonomiyaki restaurant several feet from the entrance of the aforementioned British Museum, but unable to find a seat within its reservations-only system, we trekked, by foot, to Leicester Square, to a sister restaurant with hopes of having the Japanese pancakes made at our table. (Or, more precisely, with hopes of getting a table, and then having the folks from Abeno Too work their magic.)

It’s tricky of course, because in your day in London, you might not want to have a last-minute search for cabbage pancakes take up two precious hours. But Ben loves Japanese food and I’d made him spend at least an equal amount of time in a department store. Watch the above video and decide whether the adventure is worth it.

After a starter of buta kimchi itami, and four different pancakes, we were thoroughly impressed. What did we have? Osaka, with pork, kimchi and prawns; Tokyo, with pork, squid and prawns; Shinsu, with chicken, asparagus and cheese; and Yamazato-Yaki, with organic pork, quail egg, autumn mushrooms and shichimi. Heaven.

Stop Five: The Pub.

There’s no need to travel far for the final stop of your day in London. Find a pub and find one quickly. Go for the best cask ale on tap (if you’re Ben), or head straight for the London Pride. It will taste so, so good. And you deserve it. You’ve done a very good job.

The Doctor Who Experience
Olympia Two (2nd floor)
Hammersmith Road
London, W14 8UX

Harrods
87–135 Brompton Road
Knightsbridge
London, SW1X 7XL
+44.20.7730.1234

The British Museum
Great Russel Street
London, WC1B 3DG
+44.20.7323.8299

Abeno Too
17-18 Gt. Newport Street
London, WC2H 7JE
+44.20.7379.1160

I’d say it’s better late than never, but even this first installment in my cookbook chronicles is kind of a cheat—I made this dish in 2011.

As a card-carrying member of the tribe, it’s in my DNA to crave Chinese food at Christmas time. So, for Christmas Eve (do Jews really celebrate Christmas Eve? We do, it turns out, when Christmas Eve falls on the fifth night of Hanukkah) dinner, my mom and I put together a winter-holiday mashup of a feast: Peking chicken (who has time for duck?) and latkes.

The latkes were the only immutable menu selection—it’s not often that I’m home for the holidays, and I dream of my mother’s potato pancakes—but we hadn’t yet chosen an accompaniment. Inspiration struck while flipping through my newly acquired copy of Essential Pepin, a holiday gift, given with the ever-so-slight fear of enabling my cookbook-hoarding tendencies, from my mother. A short list of ingredients and the opportunity to dovetail two Jewish traditions? I was sold.

While I was whisking together the four ingredients (balsamic vinegar, honey, soy, and Tabasco) that would be the basting sauce for the chicken, Mom did the hard work. Using the ingredient list from her mother’s recipe (straight from that classic Jewish cooking bible) and the methodology from a recipe clipped, years ago, from the Washington Post, potatoes were boiled and grated, batter was mixed, oil was heated, and batter was fried.

Per tradition, the first batch wasn’t quite right—or so we told ourselves as we broke off a bite or two, just to make sure.

Even given the oil splatters and ensuing kitchen mess, it’s a wonder that we don’t think to eat latkes year-round. There’s nothing like a fresh-out-of-the-pan fried potato.

They stole the show, in fact—the chicken turned out to be something of an afterthought. A word of warning: Low-sodium soy sauce is not the way to go here. Though the meat was juicy and moist, it practically begged for more salt.

Luckily, the latkes were more than willing to take center stage. Best supporting player, hands down.

Peking-Style Chicken
By Jacques Pepin, from Essential Pepin

1 chicken, about 4 pounds
1½ teaspoons honey
2 tablespoons dark soy sauce
1 teaspoon Tabasco sauce
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
12 ounces small button mushrooms, cleaned
½ cup water

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Bring 10 cups of water to a boil in a large pot.

2. Meanwhile, remove the wishbone from the chicken. Fold the wings of the chicken under its back and truss it with kitchen twine to help maintain the bird’s compact shape.

3. Lower the chicken breast side down into the boiling water. Return the water to a boil over high heat (this will take about 3 minutes). As soon as the water is boiling, reduce the heat to low and simmer the chicken gently for 2 minutes. Drain and place the chicken breast side up on a rack in a roasting pan.

4. Mix the honey, soy sauce, Tabasco, and vinegar together in a small bowl. Brush the chicken on all sides with some of the mixture. Roast breast side up for about 30 minutes.

5. Brush the breast side of the chicken again with the honey mixture, then roast for another 30 minutes.

6. Arrange the mushrooms in one layer under the rack in the pan and add the water. Brush the chicken with the remaining honey mixture and roast for 15 minutes longer.

7. Transfer the chicken to a platter. Pour the accumulated juices and the mushrooms into a saucepan. Let stand for 2-3 minutes, then spoon off as much fat from the surface as possible, and reheat if necessary.

8. Cut the chicken into pieces and serve with the juices and mushrooms.

Mom’s Latkes
Adapted from The Washington Post and The Settlement Cook Book

2 cups potatoes, grated
2 eggs
A pinch of baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 tablespoons flour

1. Place potatoes in a medium saucepan and barely cover with cold water. Turn heat to high and allow to come to boil. As soon as potatoes are boiling, put a kitchen timer on for 10 minutes.

2. When timer rings, remove potatoes from stove and cover with cold water. Drain immediately, then cover again with cold water. Let sit five minutes. Then remove and pat dry.

3. Using a hand shredder or food processor fitted with a medium disc, shred potatoes (with skins on). The potatoes should be slightly softened, but still firm enough to produce shreds. (If the peel separates from the potato, discard it. If the peel gets grated in with the potatoes, incorporate it into the mixture.)

4. In a large bowl, blend shredded potatoes, grated onion, beaten eggs, flour, salt, pepper and baking powder.

5. Place newspaper on work surface (near frying area) and cover with a few paper towels. [We use a layer or two of paper towels on a baking sheet.]

6. In a large deep skillet (you can use a Dutch oven to avoid splatters), pour in enough vegetable oil to about half to two-thirds filled. If using an electric fry pan, set the temperature to 350 or 375 degrees, depending on how fast you want the pancakes to cook.

7. Drop potato batter by teaspoons (for small ones) or soup spoonfuls in dollops, flattening slightly with a metal spatula if desired. Brown one side, turn once, and complete cooking on other side. (These cook remarkably quickly, so take care not to overbrown them.) Try to achieve a puffy center while retaining some crisp shreds of potato on edges. Eat right away or freeze. To reheat, place latkes on a large wire cake rack on a cookie sheet. Warm at 250 degrees until crisp.

This? It’s the opposite of the near panic attack I had on an over-crowded, over-heated Picadilly line where I accidentally stepped on a woman’s foot before hitting her head with my bag. And, happily, it’s only about an hour and a half from my house. In recent experiences, a trip to the destinations within the Hocking Hills of Southeast Ohio can seem like a trip to Disney World, with lines of crying children and gossipy octogenarians. And to be honest, Cedar Falls (which incidentally, has no cedars nearby), was no different.

The rest and relaxation came in form of the Inn. Thanks to a generous gift card from Ben’s grandparents, our two evenings in one of the cottages were completely comped, allowing us to splurge at the restaurant across the street.

Of all of our meals at the restaurant — five in total — our Friday night dinner was my favorite. I’ve known Chef Schulz for several years, through cooking classes with my day job, and was excited to try his seasonal and local selections on his own turf. Roasted chicken is not a flashy dish; in truth, it’s one of the first things I learned to make. But his was memorable, even months later. A mixed rice blend and chopped root veggies enveloped by citrusy and buttery chicken broth gave the dish multiple flavors and textures. I literally sucked the final bits of chicken off the bone and by the end of my devouring the dish, there was just bread to soak up the rosemary-kissed juices.

Ben’s filet was just as good. In fact, it caused fights. (Not very relaxing, but fun, nonetheless.) I wanted another bite and he refused me. I joked with our server about ordering this dish for dessert, and seriously considered doing so. (I think the fact that the chef knew me caused me to refrain from this decadence.) Ben announced that it was the best steak that he can ever remember having.

Both breakfasts featured a special (usually a baked dish that could be easily kept warm and served to many guests), a granola bar and meaty side dishes. Our server was also pushing some of the Inn’s homemade muffins, which had an orange-flavored overtone to them. It may be a controversial topic, but I’m not into orange baked goods. The second morning I skipped them all together. As a whole the breakfast was nice — and a million times better than I’ve had at a hotel.

Our other meals were solid, as well, and it was clear we weren’t being served straight-from-the-distributor foodstuffs. At lunch, the tomato soup actually contained traces of tomato, the potato salad had potato skins.

And although our favorite dishes were primarily meat-centric, a chickpea-based appetizer (served with saffron aioli) showed creativity and a willingness to experiment with flavors outside of generic steakhouse finds.

After a weekend with a Jacuzzi, a massage, homemade granola, decadent dinners, woodsy views and no cell phone coverage, we had a new first world problem: we didn’t want to go home.

Inn at Cedar Falls
21190 State Route 374
Logan ,Ohio 43138
1.800.653.2557

My first cultural food shock came in the form of fish sauce. Cambodian cuisine and I were already on shaky grounds (based on the dubious absence of cheese) when I passed a fish sauce factory. My olfactory senses singed for hours; one simple, clear and well-reasoned thought resonated: There is no possible way that anyone in their right mind would eat the stuff.

It didn’t take long for me to adapt to the cuisine and its beloved fish sauce (which tastes infinitely better than it smells). By the end of the trip, I’d almost forgotten about dairy products. Almost.

While it’s acceptable to (temporarily) question other cuisines, my own American-bred eating habits have never come under fire. Until my recent trip to England, when my choice of ordering bacon, of all things, proved to be somewhat of a cultural snafu.

It’s not like I was in Israel or something. I was in Patisserie Valerie in Leeds. They had bacon on the menu. It turns out that it wasn’t the ordering of a side of bacon that gave my server pause. It was that I ordered it to accompany a scone. Sweet and savory. “Are you sure?” she asked in amazement. In my years of eating (and ordering way too much), I’ve never actually caused the waitstaff to openly question my choices. Both the server and I were equally confused. “Yes, I want the bacon and the scone.” She shrugged and processed my weirdo order.

A few days later, in a pub in London, I brought up the situation to my friend Sam, who spent a year living in Ohio. He sided with the server in finding my savory-meets-sweet breakfast choice incredulous and started ranting against the combination with more passion than my short-lived distaste of fish sauce could ever engender. Realizing that I’d struck true food journalism gold, I recorded our conversation.

Jill: What’s so wrong about a scone and a side of bacon? It’s just savory and sweet. Like chicken and waffles.

In what was to become a tradition in our London dining experience, our initial goal (in this case, pizza) was just out of reach. (This happened several times during the trip; we’d get to a bistro that a friend recommended and find that the kitchen had closed seconds prior to our arrival, or we’d arrive at our destination restaurant to learn that they could only seat us at their second location, thirty minutes away.) Camden Bar and Kitchen had changed menus and its beloved stone-baked pizzas weren’t available for brunch on Sundays. Our server—who did not approve of this very recent change in operations—tried to talk the kitchen into serving us pizzas, to no avail. Brunch it would be.

And it was good. Had Sarah not talked up the pizza, there would have been no disappointment. First up: Elen’s savory goat cheese souffle. Topped with pesto and arugula (or, as the Brits call it, rocket), it was light and tangy with a fluffy texture. A perfectly-balanced dish.

Ben and I both ordered variations of eggs benedict: mine, with ham; his, with salmon. I have an aversion to smoked salmon paired with eggs, and declined an opportunity to taste his dish. Mine, however, was spot-on version of the classic brunch selection. It was the first time that I noticed the English egg yolk. It seems to be smaller and perkier than those I see stateside, which are wider and more shallow. I tried to bring this up various times throughout the trip, but my companions did not notice a difference. As it stands, I’m alone on this observation.

Sarah’s falafel burger rivals any non-vegetarian burger I’ve encountered. If given an opportunity to brunch again at Camden Bar and Kitchen, this would be my choice.

Not satiated with the goat cheese souffle (perhaps because I ate half of it), Elen chose a second course of spinach sauteed with garlic and chili. A simple side that allows the ingredients to stand alone without any embellishments, the trio demonstrates the chef’s willingness to let produce take the spotlight.

The busy restaurant cleared out as we enjoyed our leisurely brunch, providing the antithesis of Camden Market: elbowroom and pause.

We followed brunch with a walk in the quiet and spacious Regent’s Park, which provided the best dessert of all: the opportunity to see our friends become friends. Sometimes these things just need a little room to grow.

Camden Bar and Kitchen
102 Camden High Street,
London, NW1 0LU
020.7485.2744

I knew that in the eleven years since I’d worked at the Soho restaurant, things had changed. For one, Mezzo had become Meza, and the place had changed ownership. Despite this knowledge, I couldn’t not visit it in my recent trip to London. On the first night in the city, I showed up on the doorstep of the restaurant, sans reservations and sans club attire. My super-duper fancy dining establishment had turned from the place that introduced me to mis en place and fruits de mer to what was essentially a club, a place that as a civilian, I would never enter. Instead, I was a woman on a mission: to touch base, at least emotionally, with twenty-one year-old me.

Once we walked in and looked at the menu, I had to have a stern conversation with myself: absolutely nothing would be the same and I could either enjoy my dining experience or lament the changes. The former would be way more interesting for my dining companions, so I tried to keep my commentary to a minimum. (This, of course, did not stop me from informing my first-day-on-the-job server that I once was in her shoes, but that on my first day, the building was on fire.) (True story.) (I’m sure that she didn’t care.) (I’ve turned into one of those people, the ones who show you pictures of their pets or grandchildren or announce that in this very building, eleven years ago, I ate a bowl of crème bruûlée in a stall in the server’s restroom so that the security guards wouldn’t see me stealing from the company.)

I seem to be doing it again. Right here.

Anyway, pictured above is fried calamari strips (the real thing; no frozen rings here) served with what could have very well have been a pepper jelly from Ohio’s Robert Rothschild Farm. Not life changing. And not anywhere close to something we would have served… Yeah.

Next up, a pizza-like flatbread that does not seem to currently be on the restaurant’s menu. Pizza? Mezzo would have frowned at pizza.

I do not recall serving burgers, either. But you’ve got to give these guys points for a dramatic presentation.

Crispy chicken and curry-seasoned prawns came together to become my (very messy) main course. I’m not very well practiced at head removal, but managed to salvage whatever meat I could from both options.

The cuisine and atmosphere have changed dramatically, but there was one consistency: detailed service. While I could have done without the restroom attendent giving handing me a towel (and expecting a tip for doing so), I appreciated the discard bowl for bones and the small bowls of lemon water placed on the table so that while I disassembled sea and land creatures for dinner, I could have remain (sort of) clean.

All in all, the meal wasn’t very memorable. With this in mind, I wonder — were the meals that I served eleven years ago also not that memorable? We were just as flashy (in a flaming drink and cigarette girl way), and back then, I was operating with a juvenile palate. It’s something that I don’t want to think about too much. While my present day experiences with the place aren’t life-changing, I still have my memories. And I’m not ready to alter those.

1. Bronx pork-a-palooza.

In October, I capped off a wholesome trip to the Bronx Zoo with the amazing — and decidedly unwholesome — lechón at El Nuevo Bohío. The crackling skin alone made the train ride uptown worthwhile.

2. Brooklyn pork-a-palooza. 

One of the hardest parts of saying goodbye to Bed-Stuy was moving away from that neighborhood’s burgeoning dining scene; I’ve only been gone a few months, and I already miss SCRATCHbread‘s walk-up window. Where else can you get brunch in a cup, with crunchy-sweet-salty bacon candy on the side? And while I’m asking the big questions, what wouldn’t I give for a Crown Heights outpost?

3. Manhattan pork-a-palooza.

Heartache, frigid temperatures, and a head cold to boot? Ippudo‘s Hakata classic ramen—hold the pickled ginger, add kakuni—may not cure all, but it sure tries. Temporary relief in bowl form.

4. Queens pork-a-palooza.

Kidding! Lest I give the impression that I eat nothing but swine, rest assured I do occasionally consume other sources of protein. I particularly loved Legend‘s mapo tofu, meltingly silky and searingly hot, with Sichuan peppercorns, leeks, and—fine, I admit it—a little bit of ground pork. New rule: It doesn’t count if you can’t taste it.

5. Tofu, again. 

A perfect high-low combination, this innocuously named “tofu with ginger-scallion sauce” at Danji takes the health benefits of bean curd and tosses them right into the deep-fryer. A crispy crust masks a creamy interior; shards of more fried goodness are sprinkled on top for added crunch. Ask for extra sauce on the side, and get to dipping.

Bonus round: 6. High-falutin’ fare. 

A free meal at Gramercy Tavern offered a respite in the midst of personal turmoil, and gave Jill an excuse to come visit. The second course, this lobster salad, was fairly amazing; you’ll be hearing all about it soon enough.

But a new year, a new start, and all that nonsense.

When I moved into my new apartment, one of the first things I did was organize my books. I love my books; alphabetizing and arranging my shelves is one of those little things that brings me an inordinate amount of nerdy pleasure, but this time around, I felt a little twinge of guilt. I’m a compulsive cookbook collector—thanks to two new holiday-gift additions, my  tally is now an even fifty, and I have my eye on a good thirty more—but I’ve cooked from just fifteen of the titles in my possession.

As a result, I’ve amended my list of perennial resolutions (to put in more time at the gym, spend less money on eating and drinking, and lose twenty pounds or so—and yes, I’m well aware that all of those just maaaay be intertwined) to include one more. Once a week, for the rest of the year, I’ll attempt one recipe from one virgin book, and, of course, document the results on these pages. Other blogolutions: more content for my much-neglected Freelance Diet ”series,” a New York–based entry or two for Behind the Scenes, and a revamped outlook—more fun, less frustration—on the whole endeavor.

I have a good feeling about 2012.

Cambridge had their Christmas decorations up in October. (In comparison, the Newark airport was just putting up their pink and green Christmas balloons sixteen days ago.) It seems that the British are serious about the holiday.

I’m not sure a tourist is allowed to visit Cambridge without punting on the River Cam. (Nor is she allowed to ride in one of these boats without singing, “I’m on a boat.”) More punting pics in a few…

No surface in the city is free of bikes.

I thought about starting a tumblr account called “British People Eating Sandwiches.” Sandwiches are the fast food of Britain. I’m sort of jealous, actually. Pret A Manger needs to start branching out in the United States.

Harry Potter’s dining hall! Sorry. Had to get that out of the way. One of the colleges allowed folks like us to wander around for free. While normal people headed to the gardens and the courtyard, I hovered near the dining room door.

So, we went punting. With about ten strangers and a guide who reminded me of Captain Jack Sparrow. Best in shallow water, punting is the act of moving a flat-bottomed boat along by pushing a pole to the river bed. (I apologize if that sounds too wikipedia-ey for you; I’m not a great technical writer and I haven’t had my coffee yet today.)

Our punting adventure turned into a game of bumper boats at one point, and I found the most British-looking kid ever. (He’s probably from Norway.)

And now, what you’ve all been waiting for: Gift Ideas for Itinerant Foodies.

- All the Le Creusets
- Frequent Flier Miles
- Prosecco

Cheers!