I already knew Miley Cyrus and I had a lot in common: a love of hot pants, pole dancing. But not until her recent oh-no-she-didn’t interview with Ohio radio station Q92 did I realize we were sisters from another mister. Smiley hates Twilight, too! Our reasoning is a tad divergent. Cyrus says she doesn’t “believe in [Twilight]. I don’t like vampires ... I don’t want anything to do with it. I don’t like the shirts, any of it.” Perhaps church-girl Miley is aware God hates fangs, but, really, jealous, much? I, on the other hand, am fine with vampires. Bill Compton can suck my blood any time. If True Blood’s Bon Temps, Louisiana, actually existed, I would be at Fangtasia like every night. Yet even the hair gel-loving vamps on the CW’s Vampire Diaries are about forty shades darker and more complex than Twi’s limp fish Edward Cullen. Who we know is a ruthless bloodsucker because his skin glitters in the sun. Come on. Inside me is still an awesome 13-year-old girl, and she is insulted.

Do you remember the first drink you ever ordered? Mine was an Amaretto sour -- not very adventurous, and though I like them to this day, I’ve been fine-tuning my drink list ever since. I’m now partial to sidecars, although more often than not, a bartender turns me down. So I’ll ask for something easier -- a lemon drop, a mojito, or, facing a very limited bar, that girly drink every mixologist knows how to mix: a cosmo. But I’m always embarrassed to utter that word. I am not a cosmo girl. They’ll do in a pinch, but how much lovelier to saunter up to a long bar and order something refined, raising one’s eyebrow and rolling each syllable off the tongue -- Bran-dy Al-ex-an-der, or Sing-a-pore Sling? The elegant romance of these classics is evoked by Assouline’s glossy new picture book, Vintage Cocktail. Gorgeously photographed by Laziz Hamani, the drinks in this coffee-table treasure were mixed at an equally urbane watering hole, Bemelmans Bar at The Carlyle Hotel.

Like any slightly (or not-so-slightly) compulsive Top Chef aficionado, I have scoured the show’s site for contestant bios. I’ve found that, like most Americans, the majority of chefs on the program boast multicultural backgrounds and cite various culinary traditions in their cooking. And of course the sweaty, knife-tossing, and slightly panicked contestants often whip up fusion dishes, combining elements from disparate traditions (along with the pizzazz from their own imaginations). Recently, I decided to take their some of this, some of that philosophy to heart -- and to the kitchen. Perhaps it was the irresistible scent of baking dough and melty cheese that wafted into my apartment from nearby Cheeseboard Pizza Collective, but I knew I had to include pizza, that quintessential Italian dish, and principal sustenance of college kids everywhere. Feeling adventurous, I left my tomato sauce and oregano in the fridge. This would be an international pizza.

It’s finale week on Project Runway. I’ve watched all six seasons, and the theme that jumps out at me this year is copycatting. Logan copied Althea’s zipper collar. Althea copied Irina’s slouchy sweater sleeves. Irina copied some Coney Island artwork. (Carol Hannah hasn’t copied, but she just makes boring dress-dresses anyway.) I understand when you spend all day every day in the same room with people they’re going to rub off on you, but you have to do a little self-editing. If you repeat what the person next to you did last week, you have to expect to be called on it. Personally, I was rooting hard for Gordana. She may not have had that “wow” edge, but her clothes were all so beautifully constructed. She never sent anyone down the runway not looking their best. I thought her final piece looked like a Georgia O’Keeffe.

Secret supper clubs are nothing new in NYC (Whisk and Ladle; Jack; A Razor, A Shiny Knife), but they’ve yet to cross the Atlantic and make it over here in Paris. Perhaps it’s because the French care more about keeping traditions than being in-the-know, or because culinary speakeasies make no sense to people who never lived through Prohibition, or maybe it’s that the French just don’t need the help of hidden spots to create a mysterious romance (what with sites like the Opera House right outside the Metro, and that je ne sais quoi running through their veins, they can’t get away from it). But there is one secret supper club in Paris -- run by a young American couple -- and it’s a dining experience that tops all the others.

It’s hard out here for a MILF. Case in point, hot mama Elizabeth Hurley, 44, who in a effort to defy gravity, often goes to bed hungry -- subsisting only on vodka and one meal a day. Happily, I’ve been on this very diet since high school and am already anticipating a pantless Madonna middle age, complete with boy toy named Jesus and scary obliviousness to the fact I am o-l-d. According to Hurley, wine and coffee cause bloating, which leaves only one liquid standing: vodka. (Water? please.) So how does Liz take her white lightning? “If I’m at a party I have a small [vodka] with a lot of fizzy water and a huge squeeze of lime,” Hurley tells the Daily Mail. “Initially it’s like medicine but I’ve got used to it now.”

The first unsettling realization, back when I made my initial stab at DIY bitters, was that I didn’t have the mixology skills to do my tinctures justice. The second was my total cluelessness as to whether they were even worth a damn. So I took matters to the top and sought out PDT’s Jim Meehan, a man who I’ve got a sneaking suspicion was the inspiration for the phrase “a gentleman and a scholar.” He graciously agreed to check them out, and after a month of daily shaking, smoking, and praying, my precious babies were strained, bottled, and shipped off to St. Marks. They also went with a hopeful request: if any of them were deemed decent enough, would Meehan or his staff be willing to create a drink based around my bitters? Why yes, they would.
What followed was a three-month-long game of cat and mouse, as Mr. Meehan traveled the globe on business, doing what he is wont to do (blow minds), while I corresponded with him from the confines of my light-starved studio apartment.

For half a decade now, EN Japanese Brasserie has been broadening New York’s knowledge of Japanese cuisine. The kitchen puts out simple and hearty dishes, along the lines of home cooking. Of course, this being a Japanese import, home cooking is a little more refined than the chicken fried steak or tuna casserole you may have grown up with. The results are modern, with a Japanese attention to detail. The tofu is fresh, miso is handmade, and the soy is the house’s own recipe. EN Shochu Bar has been performing a similar horizon-broadening on the liquid side, introducing New Yorkers to a drink less familiar than sake. Shochu is Japan’s aquavit, more or less, a distilled spirit that’s steadily gaining in popularity. You can sample some 20 iterations at EN, or try one in cocktail form.

Even a humble sandwich shop is, in Manhattan, prone to the haute treatment. Since 2003, ’wichcraft has been laying out gourmet takes on what goes between two slices of bread. Of course, that’s only the beginning. This year, founders Tom Colicchio and Sisha Ortuzar published a book on the subject, 'wichcraft: Craft a Sandwich into a Meal -- And a Meal into a Sandwich. And Ortuzar has turned the upstairs of the Flatiron ‘wichcraft into a destination dining spot. The menu is market-driven and the combinations are creative, like short rib with romesco and grilled scallions, or a trippy fluke ceviche with green mango and watermelon. In that spirit, Ortuzar passes along a side dish that’ll class up any Thanksgiving spread.

As someone whose favorite dish is Trainwreck Fries (pickled jalapeño, buttermilk ranch, smoked bacon, and scallions, from Virgil’s Real Barbecue), I try to make up for bad fuel with good, choosing organic and local produce whenever I can. In the green versus conventional debate, for me it comes down to fresh food that doesn’t rack up frequent flier miles or need to wear a hazmat suit. (Supporting local and small agribusiness, the health of growers, and a happier planet notwithstanding.) What started off as a health thing is now just as much about taste. I find that many organic and conventional foods can be as different from each other as a symphony from a one-man band. New nuances of flavor appear in the most ordinary of ingredients. What gastronome wouldn’t want that?