Give Caesar What Is Due Him

If you are looking for all-around amazing Mediterranean food, then Wild Fig in Glen Cove and Garden City is... not the place you're looking for, despite what Newsday and The New York Times articles (which are framed in their front hallway) said a few years ago. Wild Fig has a lot of misses with major Mediterranean staples, such as their dry, tasteless falafels, and the chicken gyro on which you have to apply the cucumber sauce yourself. Even the pita bread was hard, slightly burnt, and lacking butter at the Glen Cove location. Can one dish salvage an entire restaurant? Probably not, but if one ever could, Wild Fig's lentil soup would be it. The pureed, gourmet masterpiece seems quite overlooked on the menu, often only serving a supporting role as a side dish that comes with something else. Last time I bought the mediocre chicken gyro with some fries in desperate need of some salt, and was given the soup as another side that came in the gyro lunch. I found myself abandoning the leader and running off with the humble servant. Tonight, I went there seeking just the soup, but ordered an appetizer sampler to have more of a meal. The "Hot Appetizer Sampler" was such an under-achiever, I wondered how it could come from the same kitchen as the lentil soup, which is really one of the best soups I have ever had in my life. That is a big accomplishment for the Garden City location, being neighbors with the Soup Exchange, and beating them at their one and only game. Too bad what Wild Fig is supposed to be good at is so bad. Maybe they should stick to soup and the Soup Exchange should start making falafels.

Redemption for Stone Temple Pilots at Jones Beach

My boyfriend Jonathan has a habit that I used to find bizarrely endearing: Say we get pizza (a very serious matter in his Italian family), and it's not very good. The very next day (or maybe even later in the same day), he has to get good pizza to right that wrong and bring balance to the universe once again. It becomes his mission, maybe even his obsession, until corrected. At first, I didn't understand. Who would want to eat the same thing two days in a row? But when I saw Stone Temple Pilots, May 31st, PNC Bank Arts Center in New Jersey, it left a bad taste in my mouth.

And I needed it to be sweet again- not just because Scott Weiland was so loaded that he forgot a good portion of the words; not because I drove all that way and spent money; not because, due to his tardiness (and the state's late-night construction-work) we got home 4 hours later than we should have; but because STP is one of the very few constants in my life. I have loved them ever since I was young. Friends of my past, places I once dwelt, images of my past self: they have all come and gone. But Stone Temple Pilots are still one of my favorite bands.

I'll never forget how badly I wanted to see them when I heard they were coming to Ithaca, just in time for my 16th birthday. It was just after Shangri-La Dee Da had been released. I asked my dad if we could go, and he said "maybe" (the kind of maybe that meant 'probably not'). He looked for tickets for me, and said they were sold out. I was devastated for days. That is, until I came down for dinner one day, and noticed paper stuffed in one of the chocolate easter bunny boxes on the table. I further investigated, saw the words "Stone Temple Pilots," and let out a sonic yelp. My dad chuckled and mumbled something about hoping I wouldn't notice so soon. For my birthday, I saw what I still consider the best concert of my life- my first concert. We stood in a university gymnasium, and I was definitely one of the youngest there. Certainly the shortest. Though tall, bobbing figures blocked my sight and felt like pulsing walls all around me, we found a niche next to the mosh pit where I could kind-of see. Now I know why older girls wear high heels, I thought. I spent those hours in what felt like Shangri-La for an angst-ridden 16-year-old.

Fast forward to 2008. I am 22, fresh out of college, and still hoping to find Shangri-La. A little over a week after my graduation, I got to see STP again. I was excited to show them off to the man I love, who likes them too but had never seen them live. I was ready to be 16 again. Some say Scott Weiland showed up almost 2 hours late. I say he didn't show up at all. In that 2-hour wait, the crowd around us began booing him, chanting obscenities, throwing water bottles, brawling and lighting things on fire to pass the time. Jon and I were noting our exits and strategizing in case things got ugly.

The man who had the commanded the crowd so magnetically all those years ago was replaced by a man who stumbled on his words just as badly as he did on his feet. One of his most noticeable missteps was when he sang the lyrics of "Down" as "What's the message will you show me? What's the message will you show me?" His demons clearly were not behind him. Due to drugs, he was a mere shell of himself- both physically and mentally. It pained part of me to watch.

Leaving that night, I felt great loss: the loss of a memory, a hero. I found out they were coming to Jones Beach on August 6th shortly after I had purchased the tickets for PNC. I wasn't sure if I would want to see them again. I wasn't sure if he would even show up.

But Monday, as the day was approaching, I knew I needed to right the wrong, or at least try. After all, I couldn't control him. Despite my better judgment, I got us tickets.

If you listened to K-Rock 92.3 (who presented the show, as they did the Jersey one, but didn't promote it nearly as much, perhaps because of the last one) at all today, you may have heard the response to last night's show: "amazing," "it f***in' rocked," "He wasn't late this time," "it wasn't the same band." But it was the same band and same Scott Weiland that I remembered, though a little more drug-ravaged. His voice isn't quite the same, but not terrible by any means. So his drug-induced philosophical ramblings last a little longer these days. It still certainly was not life he was high on, but at least it was at a functional degree. He didn't forget the words. He showed up on time. I forgave him for Jersey.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club opened, and I overdosed on the 45 minutes of fuzzy guitar feedback. Then the roadies cleared the stage and set up the STP gear. In the back of my mind I thought, why are they teasing us? They probably already know he's not coming back from Shangri La anytime soon. But then the lights went down, the crowd roared, and he came back to take us with him.




Last night's set-list: Big Empty; Wicked Garden; Big Bang Baby; Silvergun Superman; Vasoline; Lounge Fly; Lady Picture Show; Sour Girl; Creep; Crackerman; Plush; Interstate Love Song; Too Cool Queenie; Coma; Down; Sex Type Thing; Dead And Bloated; Trippin' On A Hole In A Paper Heart.

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22K76UMoH8M

Maroon 5 and Counting Crows at Jones Beach

Sometimes it's easy to forget that Adam Levine, with his unmistakable ego and sexual prowess (whether feigned or real), has such a high speaking voice- that is, until he squeaks "Hello, NEW YORK" to thousands of screaming Long Islanders. Sure, he churns out hits with high notes that Mickey Mouse might have trouble hitting, but isn't this the same testosterone-pumped Narcissus that told Maria Sharipova "game, set, match" because in bed she laid there "like a dead frog"? As he so delicately croons in "The Sun," you cannot help but "hate to love and love to hate" him.

Levine is a study in contrasts, not unlike his band. Maroon 5 recently released what is essentially a pop/dance album (It Won't Be Soon Before Long), and yet in concert, like a gravitational force, their fingers found the strings of their guitars in each song, ending with a blissful crescendo of shredding. At Jones Beach on Friday, they confused and delighted me at every turn. Delight because they were better than I had even dreamed. Confusion because I wondered why these versions weren't the ones on the album. I would have bought it.

The variations they made to their songs were generally welcome upgrades or refreshing ways to present the classics. The same cannot be said for the Counting Crows, who had taken the stage before them. I was sometimes more excited about seeing CC than M5 in the days leading up to the concert. CC were unfortunately one of the worst performances I have ever paid that kind of money for. That is not to say that they were bad, but if Adam Duritz wants to speak all the lyrics like prose at a cafe's open mic night, then I should be sipping a latte with a heftier wallet, and giving him snaps rather than falling asleep.

Or perhaps HE was the sleepy one. Duritz was constantly at risk of losing his balance, teetering on one foot atop a monitor, he himself seeming like a crow on a telephone wire. I couldn't tell if the Drunken Master routine was an act or an actuality.

While Maroon 5 showed love to the fans by playing all of their most-beloved numbers, (except, sadly, my favorite: "Secret"), Counting Crows snubbed them by playing self-gratifying songs that people talked over, and neglecting to play 2 of their biggest hits ("Round Here" and "Mr. Jones"). We could have used less of them and more of Sara Bareilles, whose voice sounded spectacular, but whose set was far too short for us to really get to know her. She started very early too, so many people, including us, only got to catch a couple of her songs.She was the only one without the mouth of a sailor that night. "S**t" streamed out of Duritz's dreded head, despite the throngs of teeny-boppers looking on (wasn't their song in "Shrek"??). And the F-Bomb was the curse of choice for Levine, even though his mother was somewhere in the crowd, which he announced, followed by the half-apology/half-mockery: "Hi mom, sorry about saying 'F**k'."

A word about Jones Beach: no matter what concert, about a third of the parking lot is taken up by tailgate parties. I'm not sure how Maroon 5 and tailgating go together, but I'm sure some people think that everything goes with tailgating. Hey, why not? Just don't take up an extra parking spot just for your kegs and fold-up lawn chairs and yell at me when I try to park there.

Oh, and as a side note, don't buy the VIP parking passes. As far as I can tell, they are a waste of money. We haven't bought them, or needed them, once.

By the end of their respective sets, both bands had become predictable again in my mind, but I had put them in a new box. Maroon 5 played two encore songs, the first being a beautiful rendition of Chris Isaak's "Wicked Games" (one of my all-time favorite songs) that flowed perfectly into "She Will Be Loved," which uses a similar chord progression. Then, like clockwork, they brought down the house with yet another rock 'n' roll ending on "Harder to Breathe." The band was tighter than my boyfriend (who had seen them 7 times and loved them long before they were big), had ever seen them before. They had become professional showmen. And Counting Crows predictably ended with the Drunken Master finally collapsing on the floor... and swearing.

Matteo's Italian Restaurant in Roslyn

Forget veal that you can cut with a butter knife- you can cut this one with your pinky. If you are looking for a great sit-down Italian restaurant, Matteo's is right up there with Arturo's (Floral Park) and Piccolo Bussola (Mineola). As you walk in, you see a wall lined with pictures of celebrities that have graced the eatery. Well, actually it's more like the other way around. You're welcome for that amazing meal, Lindsay Lohan and Howard Stern. We tried it for the first time a little over a week ago, and we have already gone back for take-out. Jon had ordered the veal and I had the spaghetti bolognese, which was also phenomenal. We shared and were both able to take home an entire meal's-worth of left-overs. Then just a few days ago we shared a meal of chicken parmigiana for take-out. The first time we went, it was a Sunday afternoon and it was deserted. About 10 workers (I'm guessing mostly bus-boys and waiters) sat around talking with nothing to do. Our waiter was very attentive, and instinctually brought out more bread or drink refills as if on cue. He even cut our veal for us. The food is not cheap (average meal was $20), but it is family style so if you share an entree, it is more than enough food, and it works out to being little more than another restaurant whose veal parmigiana doesn't make your heart sing quite like this.

Matteo's Restaurant

516-484-0555

88 Mineola Ave

Roslyn, NY

Things That Get Better With Age: Wine, and Sheryl Crow

It seems to be a law of nature that many artists tend to lose their voices as they get older. Their pipes rust, the honey of their lilt becomes bitter. As we filed into the Nikon Theater at Jones Beach on Monday night, we were afraid that our beloved Sheryl would be no exception. How wrong we were to worry. Sheryl (who, after all, is only 46... and, may I mention... hotter than most women half her age) sang as I have never heard her sing before. After opening with a hauntingly sad rendition of "God Bless this Mess"(which I found a strange choice for an opener) with a peace sign floating on a banner behind her, she faithfully followed with a string of hard-hitting numbers including "Shine Over Babylon"- a song I was not in love with the recording of. At least, it did not resonate in the core of me quite like the anthems of Tuesday Night Music Club (1993) or the following, self-titled album (1996). But let me make this clear: Sheryl Crow does not write bad songs. It is simply not in her nature. She came on stage in skin tight pants and her new, sky-high heels (which, she proclaimed, she wore just for us), proceeding to change my mind about "Babylon"- and about her. As Jon said, she "sang the hell out of that chorus," with a country-infused tone, a rockstar's stance, and a pop professional's power. If I shut my eyes, could I forget that this was the Sheryl Crow I knew and imagine I was listening to Christina Aguilera's older, wiser, battle-hardened sister? She didn't give me the opportunity to try; I couldn't look away. Unfortunately, the folks at Nikon Jones Beach Theater didn't seem to care about where my gaze was directed: the screens on each side were down for the entire concert, preventing us from truly seeing the little spec with the big voice.

James Blunt's voice, on the other hand, seemed to be shrinking with every refrain as if remonstrating the number of smoke plumes that had probably assaulted it that day. He faked it by having the audience sing his signature high note which was, ironically, the one note that gave him trouble Monday. Going to the concert, Jonathan and I, admittedly, were in no rush to catch the opening act, but, despite our best efforts, we did anyway. We are not James Blunt fans, and had already presumed an hour of his fluttery voice and bleeding heart. Yes, he did fulfill the promise of his sensitive image, but also introduced us to another James Blunt: the one possessing some cajones while still being, well, James Blunt. I realized the songs other than his hits are actually much more interesting, more concert-worthy, and- dare I say?- rock 'n' roll.

Skipping around stage, standing precariously and pretending to surf on his piano, he riled a tough crowd of moms and young professionals who I'm guessing, for the most part, knew one or maybe two of his songs but not him in particular. Drawing from a seemingly endless well of energy and looking ecstatic just to be there, he put on a great show, with more than just the help of his incredibly tight band.

For the encore, Sheryl brought down the house with a cover of Stevie Wonder's "Higher Ground" and showcased her backup singers in their own mini sing-off: a benevolent act that, consequentially, showcased her unbroken tie with her beginnings as a backup singer. It was a big band, but everyone had their place.

Sheryl's political soapbox moment, on the other hand, could have done with some paring down. Though I'm told it was tame for her usual, and though I agreed with a lot of her sentiments, it probably alienated a good portion of her audience. Her political grumblings were followed by the one song in the entire concert that I actually did not care for, titled "Gasoline Will Be Free" which laments the less-than-poetic topic of the price of black gold which, while unfortunate, is not more pressing or more powerful than, say, the violence in Darfur. Jonathan later made the argument that "people go to concerts to forget that stuff," and I can see that. But I can also see the purpose of bringing to light the things that you are passionate about in the breaths between the songs they inspired. Just don't forget how mainstream your appeal is, Sheryl, and how much it feels like a betrayal when Rhonda hears her idol bash her political affiliation. However, as previously mentioned, it is simply a law of nature that Sheryl does not write bad songs. So even this song with less-than-inspirational lyrics was still endowed with a catchy melody, and fell within the realm of mediocrity. That is, unless you want to argue that E does not equal MC-squared. And that's just ridiculous.

My Credo, If You Will

Hello dear Long Island cyber-reader,

My name is Steph and I have created this blog because Long Island is in the dark... and no, this time, it is not LIPA's fault. I mean many Long Islanders are in the dark about what is happening (and who is happening) on Long Island. It's not your fault. There is simply too much to do, see, taste, and touch. Where do you begin? Well, I offer up this friendly proposition: Begin here. I will bring you with me to Long Island events, restaurants, concerts, and all sorts of fun things that you need to be doing...right now. But be warned: this ain't your granny's bingo night. This a real life guide to Long Island's sweet-spots. Picture yourself being picked up and tucked in my pocket as I tote you along to the things worth doing on Long Island. Enjoy the ride. Oh, and sorry about the lint.