DISH
Honorably Surprising
with Maribeth Maloney
Since the day she was born, my daughter, Honor, has been nothing less than surprising. Correction: since conception. My obstetrician first thought she was triplets. The one area of predictability has been food.

Things started out promising. As a mini Manhattanite, she loved matzoh ball soup, sesame noodles and was known to munch Madeleine cookies and sip frozen Tazo-Berry tea in her stroller. Then we moved to Nantucket. Maybe it's a function of wanting what you can't have, but junk food has become the stuff of fantasy to her.

We hadn't been to New York for a few months so when she wanted to go for her eighth birthday, I had an inkling of what I was in for. Then again, she is surprising. ...

Day 1

Aboard JetBlue, I begin wondering if it's true that you get what you pay for. If so, why are we flying with an airline that only charges 50 bucks? Honor plays "pick the grey hairs out of Mommy's head" as I stare straight ahead, praying, ignoring her pronouncement that she's "thirsting to death." Remarkably, the fare includes snacks and her thirst-ation is quenched with water and a cookie.

We arrive at the hotel and Honor christens the room in the usual way: jumping up and down on the beds. I scan the room service menu for tonight; it's chicken finger free, which means it won't work.

We hit the street. There must be something wrong with her because we walk right past a McDonald's. "I want that later, Mommy. Right now, I need to get to 'American Girl!'" Ugh.

$147 later, she's hungry. Shopping does that. But she's not that hungry; a pretzel from a street vendor will do. ... "'Build-A-Bear,' Mommy!"

We head back to the hotel and I put an iksnay on the shopping-ay for the day-ay. We dump our bags and pop into "Cosi Sandwich Shop" to get her a chocolate chip muffin.

Next up: manicures. Honor's thrilled with her "Pepperoni" colored nails. I decide it's a good time to coerce her into stopping next door at "Les Halles." A sheepish, "Can I get a coke?" In my house, coke of any kind is contraband. I order a glass of wine and cave in. She charms the waiter into giving her a sidecar of maraschino cherries and then shocks me by requesting one of the hard-boiled eggs she spies up at the bar. She eats three, whites only, leaving yolk balls behind.

We order in for dinner, McDonald's for her. I'm happy they deliver because I hate entering the premises, but the $10 minimum necessitates 20 McNuggets, a hamburger and a chocolate shake. Fortunately, she only makes it through half of everything. I order from some local joints: a cheese-less thin crust pizza from "Vezzo," a tuna roll and spicy shrimp handroll from "Sariku." At only $4 a roll, I get more than what I paid for. I remember how much I miss the city.

Day 2

We order scrambled eggs and bacon for Honor and iced coffee for me from "Bagels & Schmear," then fly out the door to my hair appointment. An assistant brings her a Sprite as she manipulates two stylists (grown men) into performing ballet moves with her for entertainment.

We head uptown to "Cozy's Cuts" for her hair appointment; the place is basically a toy store with scissors. She notices me glaring at her as she eyeballs a giant teddy bear. We make it out the door with just the haircut.

We try to satisfy her cupcake craving at "Le Quotidien," but come up empty. She gets a blueberry muffin but it looks suspiciously healthy to her. "The blueberries are too big." "That's because they're real." She takes one bite and we toss the rest.

I suggest an old favorite, "EJ's Luncheonette," knowing she's still hungry. She's got other plans: a meltdown. "I really, really want a 'Baby Alive,' she pees! You can only buy her at Toys R' Us!" To me, there are two hells on earth: Disneyworld and Toys "R" Us in Times Square. But I succumb; I need insurance that she'll behave tonight at "Caviar Russe" with my best friend. "What's caviar?" "Fish eggs." "...Mommy!" "Don't worry. At $40 a spoonful, you can wait till you're 30 to discover you hate it."

I suffer not only the "Baby Alive" acquisition, but I'm talked into riding the giant indoor ferris wheel. I question my sanity as we climb into the Scooby Doo & Shaggy car.

Next is my eye doctor's appointment. Things don't go well. After 55 minutes of waiting, I begin feeling badly; she's on the floor staring longingly at the boxed up peeing machine and eating pretzels. I call to cancel the dinner reservation, opting for a place she'll also enjoy. "We're going to 'Giorgione.' They've got a raw bar and great pizza." No comment.

As she tears into "Baby Alive" at the hotel, I learn I've shaken her trust - apparently "raw" equates to "fish eggs" in fear factor. En route to the restaurant, we make a pit-stop at McDonald's. She's driven to distraction by a homeless man yelling for cheeseburgers yet manages to choke down her McNuggets nonetheless.

It's only 7 p.m., when we're seated at the restaurant, but she's showing signs she's not going to last: she's horizontal on the banquette. By the time her Pizza Margherita arrives, she's snoring. Just as well; my friend and I enjoy the raw bar in peace. At 11 p.m. I carry her into a taxi.

Day 3

Honor's birthday! We repeat yesterday's breakfast and head to FAO Schwarz. My wallet's trembling. But to my shock she doesn't even want anything. She acknowledges we don't have room in our suitcases for anything else (who knew reason arrives simultaneous with age 8?); all she wants is to cartwheel on the "Big" piano, hug all the stuffed animals and get a sundae.

We stop at the candy bar where she loads a bag with gummi bears and then we head to the ice cream counter. The staff catches wind that it's her birthday: the cost of her triple-scoop, cookie dough hot fudge sundae - $16; the fact that it arrives accompanied by candles and five singing waiters - priceless.

On to the "Big Apple Circus" at Lincoln Center. We're both thrilled; even the inevitable huge-headed bald guy devouring hotdogs in front of us can't ruin our fun.

After painting pottery at "Our Name is Mud," it's time for our 6 p.m. reservation at

Honor's favorite restaurant, "Osteria del

Circo," owned by the wife and sons of Sirio Maccione of "Le Cirque" fame. Egi Maccione, Italian grandma extraordinaire, cheers as Honor takes several spins through the revolving doors. This place always brings out the adventurous palate in her. She tucks into Egi's foccacia - even dipping it into the rosemary-peppercorn olive oil - and her Shirley Temple arrives, loaded with tiny plastic monkeys and giraffes. To my delight she samples a caper berry. It's not a success, but a step in the right direction. She devours her pasta, Trofie al Pomodoro e Basilico, and her Zuccotto al Cioccolato is served with a birthday serenade. It's the perfect end to a perfect day.

Day 4

After sitting on our suitcases to render them zip-able, we climb into a taxi to the airport. It's pouring rain so I'm already in pre-flight prayer mode. "I love you, Mommy. Can we do this every year for my birthday?" I'm compelled to break my empty stare. "Yes, Honor, of course."

Somehow I know that age nine will be even more surprising.

I SCHIACCIATA
    Adapted   from   "The   Maccioni   Family
Cookbook" (Stewart, Tabori & Chang; 2003)
• 1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
• 1/2 cup lukewarm water
• Half of a 1 1/4 ounce envelope
    active dry yeast
• 1/2 cup plus 1/2 teaspoon olive oil
• Kosher salt
    Combine flour, water, yeast and 1/2 teaspoon
oil in a food processor. Place in an oiled bowl,
cover   and   place   in   a   warm   spot   for   1   hour.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Punch down dough
and press out onto an oiled baking sheet; cover
and let sit for 30 minutes. Using knuckles, make
random indentations in dough, sprinkle liberally
with salt and drizzle with 1/4 cup olive oil. Bake
for 15 minutes, then transfer pan to bottom rack
for 5 minutes. Cut into rectangles and serve.