Turkish Cuisine Westchester in White Plains

Inspired by the sun and mild temperatures, Hubby and I gathered our fleeces, and headed over to Sunset Cove in Tarrytown to watch the sun set lazily behind the mountains. Life seemed to stop and take a back seat...

But our stomachs didn't.

Another one of Hubby's clippings- this time from the Westchester Magazine-, we visited the Turkish Cuisine Westchester in White Plains. Not knowing what to expect- I find that most Turkish food, just like any ethnic food, is altered to the local tastes- I was pleasantly surprised.

It reminded me of the earlier version of Ali Baba on 33rd Street- only on a much smaller scale. There are about six tables (seating 2-4 at each) in the back, and a take-out counter space with 4-5 stools for solo eaters. This is not a place for elaborate dining- for that, you may head over to Mamaroneck to Turkish Meze, the same owners as this joint.

The menu is diverse- no side dishes- and the kitchen is flexible if you crave for anything that may not be on the menu. For me, it was the "ayran"- a savory yogurt drink that goes fancily with traditional Turkish meat dishes. I loved my Skewered Ground Meat (complemented by a side of green chili sauce- also on request) that was served with a heaping salad and rice (made in bay leaf broth). Hubby opted for the Grilled Lamb Chops- unfortunately, they were out- and then chose to have Meatballs. Turkish Cuisine does not have a liquor license, but they welcome if you decide to bring any with you. Both dishes were delicious, and the serving sizes were just-right.

There is so much on the menu that I'd like to sample, so I'll be going back for some more.

Turkish Cuisine Westchester
116 Mamaroneck Ave
White Plains, NY 10601
(914) 683 6111
Mon to Wed 11 am–9 pm
Thurs to Sat 11:30 am–3 am
Sun 11:30 am–9 pm

Emma's Ale House

Last Sunday, on our way back from house-hunting, we made a turn onto Gedney Way to stop by Emma's Ale House, a new bar/restaurant in White Plains. Hubby had read about in the NYTimes, clipped the review and strategically placed it by the Tassimo for my reading pleasure.

Familiar with the watering holes in White Plains, I had mixed feelings going into the place- one time, when we had stopped by the Black Bear for a quick wings & beer during the football season, I had felt terribly "old" in my long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Looking around at the females who were in their "Sunday best"- faces fully made-up in revealing slinky (flimsy?) shirts-, I felt like I was as pristine as a nun. Thank goodness, Hubby never said a word, or he was perhaps enjoying the 'company' around us that he did not even notice my discomfort!!

From the moment you walk into Emma's, you're surrounded in dark & rich mahogany colors of old-school bars. To the left of the entrance, there's a large dining room- and on that Sunday, there were plenty of families dining with their little ones. We chose to stay to the right- a rather spacious area- where a long bar welcomed us. Hubby instantly commented on the beers on tap- happy to see the Captain's Reserve Imperial IPA from the local brewery, Captain Lawrence. We recognized the bartender- he was transferred from the Black Bear who share the same owners.

As we were watching the NCAA game on the flat-screen, I surveyed the clientele- a group of what seemed to be golf/sailing buddies with their wives, several young(er) couples enjoying the homemade chips on the bar, a few singletons, and groups of men and women cheering for their favorite college team...

Food was quite decent and prices reasonable- especially loved the soft pretzel sticks that preceded our dinner. Later, when I looked up their website, I noticed that Emma's is a Certified Green Restaurant by the Green Restaurant Association. Good news.

Making our way out of Emma's, I made a mental-note to come back.

Emma's Ale House
68 Gedney Way
White Plains, New York 10605
Phone: 914-683-EMMA
Fax: 914-683-6627
View Map & Directions

Musing in the 'burbs...

Looking out at the tarmac, I feel the tears welling in my eyes. No matter how many times I promise myself, it’s always the same.

One moment I am settling in my seat, checking to see I am buckled up, making sure to have enough reading materials in the mesh bag they always have- regardless of airline- in front of you, and then the next moment, the tears are forcing out of my eyes. Some uncontrollable force inside those tear sockets, as I call them since I’ve never been good at biology to name exact body parts, they have a thing about exerting their energy to push those tears out. I sense the energy behind my eyelids trying to push them back in, but they’re forceful. I know that. I just release the tears; let them slalom through my rounded cheeks. I feel the full heat from the release; I invisibly track the trace of the salty lines on my cheeks. As hot as they come out, the colder they get from the air pressure valves that are above my head in the overhead cabin. I reach slowly over to the rounded knob of the air vent, and turn it counter clockwise to shut it off. I always wonder why anyone would like forced air hit their face violently like that. It’s so uncool.

I push my head in the soft pillow of the seat. The coolness of the gray leather seatback touches the skin on the back of my neck, and I shift to cover my neck with enough of my hair to shield it from getting goose bumps. Although I usually love the contact of fresh, cool leather with my bare skin, this is not one of those times. I cringe at the thought of numerous human skins that made contact with the same seatback as I have. Pushing back these thoughts in a small, irrelevant compartment in my brain, I carve out a small indent, small enough to fit my head into the crook; I bury my head right into it. I notice that this particular seatback is not as worn, perhaps we’re on a newer plane, and I feel annoyed. This means a long flight of uneasy rest, constant shifting of my head to find the right spot to get some resemblance of sleep or rest.

I shift my body a little in my seat to accommodate my now twisted position, I think to myself if I’m going to have to leave this place with a major backache. I almost yearn for my bed, for my pillows. I think of those little kids who bring their pillow with them onboard, and for a second I envy them. That had never been my thing. And those neck pillows keep your head up so artificially that when you take them off, your head always bobbles like a newborn’s, the muscles forget their jobs, leaving you in a discombobulated state. And I don’t like that.

I settle in a spot that makes me semi-comfortable and I close my eyes. With the closing of my lids, the tears get an expected push down my cheeks. Not again. I try to make a picture of happy times, although this is one of them, and I cringe at the thought that I cannot visualize any. My eyes search through the images in my head, almost like going through an entire playlist to locate your favorite song. It’s frustrating. Almost involuntarily, I shake my head left and right, as if that’s going to be any help, to find that one comfortable moment of time that will help me dry up- or at least calm- my tears. I know it’s going to get worse. Just wait until the plane starts moving.

I focus on my breathing. One, two, three, exhale. One, two, three, exhale. I try to echo the words of the yoga instructor in my head- find you chi. I inhale once more, absorbing all the fake air into my lungs. The fakeness is unbearable, so unnatural. My nose twists, all crinkly and uncomfortable. There’s almost a metallic taste lining my mouth, I roll my tongue around my teeth, feeling the discomfort. This air is also surrounding my lungs, something that cannot be good for me or for anyone for that matter. I exhale quickly, now taking short breaths. I come back to the chi. I twist my stomach on the inside to feel the very tip of my ribs. I think they’re my ribs, I cannot tell. What I find there is not surprising. A sudden twinge of pain returns when I think of years of unforgotten unfairness, a deep desire to belong, and an even deeper yearning to be an unconditional part of something. Someplace. Someone.