Success. Axel, the BF and I made it. Best. Pizza. Ever. Food heaven. The deets:
Ordered: Regular pie with mushrooms
Wait time: 45-50 minutes
Beverage: Bottled coke
Added: Red pepper flakes
Slices count: Catherine, 3; Axel, 4; Anjum 4
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Di Fara, revisited
Success. Axel, the BF and I made it. Best. Pizza. Ever. Food heaven. The deets:
Ordered: Regular pie with mushrooms
Wait time: 45-50 minutes
Beverage: Bottled coke
Added: Red pepper flakes
Slices count: Catherine, 3; Axel, 4; Anjum 4
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Di Fara
Can you smell the despair? Note to Belly Uppers: Before embarking on a food expedition to the outer boroughs - that would be Avenue J in Brooklyn - make sure the destination is indeed open. The legend preceeded Di Fara and our stomachs were growling on Monday as we made our way on the Q train to Midwood. But, like most normal things outside Manhattan, a case of the Mondays prevailed. Closed. Locked up. Pizza pies just beyond reach. After we licked our wounds and pressed sandies back in Park Slope at Press 195, we regrouped. Next Friday. Noon. The best pizza in America. We will not be stopped.
Where: 1424 Avenue J, Brooklyn, NY 11230, 718-258-1367
Friday, November 30, 2007
Crispo
On Axel's recommendation I went to try Crispo, a cavernous basement level Italian place on 14th Street (next to, I should mention El Rey, which has the best margarita-drinking patio ever). Crispo has nothing to jinx or wow you in terms of space or decor. It's your basic restaurant and the menu has many many choices.
The place to stay on the menu is the small plates - I made the mistake of ordering the orchiette with rabe and sausage ($20). It was mediocre, too oily and was an enormous, hip-widening, mid-America portion that seemed unecessary. We had pickled beets and crostini to start, which were just fine, and then "Artichoke alla romana" which was serveed with almonds, mint and fontina. This was quite tasty. The Boyfriend went for the Veal with lemon and artichokes, served with potato croquettes - which was tasty, though lacked anything special. Overall, it was fine. A B+ you might even say. (Boyfriend says this is generous rating; or rather my rating scale changes from place to place.) The kind of place that serves its central location very well or would be a good in a group situation. We ordered the hazelnut praline for dessert and it was terrible - there's no need. Stick to the antipasti and small plates and you'll have a very nice meal.
Where: 240 W. 14th Street
The place to stay on the menu is the small plates - I made the mistake of ordering the orchiette with rabe and sausage ($20). It was mediocre, too oily and was an enormous, hip-widening, mid-America portion that seemed unecessary. We had pickled beets and crostini to start, which were just fine, and then "Artichoke alla romana" which was serveed with almonds, mint and fontina. This was quite tasty. The Boyfriend went for the Veal with lemon and artichokes, served with potato croquettes - which was tasty, though lacked anything special. Overall, it was fine. A B+ you might even say. (Boyfriend says this is generous rating; or rather my rating scale changes from place to place.) The kind of place that serves its central location very well or would be a good in a group situation. We ordered the hazelnut praline for dessert and it was terrible - there's no need. Stick to the antipasti and small plates and you'll have a very nice meal.
Where: 240 W. 14th Street
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Bettola
It's the plight of the local; the place you go over and over again but you kind of forget about until the moment you know you need something reliable and good and simple. It's only taken me six years to figure it out: Bettola is that place for me.
Went with the Ex last night for our monthly chew and chat (yes, we are still friends). And we always go here or across the street to Swagat Indian. The menu, laquered on a board, never ever changes - six pasta dishes, a selection of wood-stove pizzas and some meat plates. They do always have daily specials and I always order that. Last night it was flat pasta with wild mushrooms and goat cheese ($15). You can just never go wrong here - the environment is warm and inviting, with the heat from the pizza oven keeping it cozy. In the summer they open to a full people-watching gallery with sidewalk seating. The waitresses are always from some Eastern block country, barely understandable and gorgeous. Anyway. It's my local. Go find yours now and write me back and tell me about it.
Where: 412 Amsterdam Ave., 212-787-1660
Went with the Ex last night for our monthly chew and chat (yes, we are still friends). And we always go here or across the street to Swagat Indian. The menu, laquered on a board, never ever changes - six pasta dishes, a selection of wood-stove pizzas and some meat plates. They do always have daily specials and I always order that. Last night it was flat pasta with wild mushrooms and goat cheese ($15). You can just never go wrong here - the environment is warm and inviting, with the heat from the pizza oven keeping it cozy. In the summer they open to a full people-watching gallery with sidewalk seating. The waitresses are always from some Eastern block country, barely understandable and gorgeous. Anyway. It's my local. Go find yours now and write me back and tell me about it.
Where: 412 Amsterdam Ave., 212-787-1660
Bun
Given my mediocre experience with Bao 111, I was eager to see if I could have a better Vietnamese experience with Bao 111 founders Michael Bao Huynh and his wife Thao Nguyen at their newest venture, Bun, in Soho. We trotted over for lunch on Tuesday around 1 p.m. and it was quite empty. The space is pretty and modern and displayed the open kitchen to lovely effect.
We ordered the shrimp and Berkshire pork summer roll ($6), which is really too small for sharing (I was desirous of BOTH diminutive rolls). Then I ordered Pho Ga ($11), in a ginger and anise broth and Axel F. went for the Bun Fish ($11). The Pho was the winner - the broth flavorful, but light, and with a squirt from the lime wedge and a dollop of chili sauce it was one tasty meal. It's a success - simple and to the point, as good food should be!
Where: 143 Grand St., nr. Lafayette St.; 212-431-7999
We ordered the shrimp and Berkshire pork summer roll ($6), which is really too small for sharing (I was desirous of BOTH diminutive rolls). Then I ordered Pho Ga ($11), in a ginger and anise broth and Axel F. went for the Bun Fish ($11). The Pho was the winner - the broth flavorful, but light, and with a squirt from the lime wedge and a dollop of chili sauce it was one tasty meal. It's a success - simple and to the point, as good food should be!
Where: 143 Grand St., nr. Lafayette St.; 212-431-7999
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Momofuku Noodle Bar
First of all, I'll Momo your Fuku. You got that, asshole?
Alright, onto the food. I had been to Momofuku Ssam bar twice, opting for the place's signature "Asian burrito" both times. With the white hot hype surrounding it, I had expected something transcendent, and had come away mildly disappointed. The concept was unique, but the actual good only good--nothing special. I pronounced the Momofuku mini-empire a casualty of the New York hype machine (as in, it couldn't possibly be as good as you expect). Still, if you read websites like Eater, it's hard to avoid a lot of talk about "genius" David Chang--and with the original Momofuku Noodle Bar moving down the block to more spacious digs on First Avenue, and dinner with a friend who lives in the area, I decided to give Chang another shot.
This time was different. My coeditor of this blog, Catherine Niu (don't you know it's the new hotness to misspell things intentionally?), had warned me to stay away from the ramen noodles, which are the centerpiece of Momofuku's menu. "Try the small plates," she counseled. "The Shins will change your life." Oh wait, that was Natalie Portman in Garden State. But anyway, it turned out to be sage advice. My friend and I split three dishes: octopus salad, roast pork buns, and veal sweetbreads. The roast pork buns were probably the best of the lot, though the portion was a bit small for what they charged. The octopus in the salad was succulent and the dressing (or whatever it was) even succulenter. When I ordered the sweetbreads, I knew I was getting something exotic, though I didn't realize it was pancreas until I looked it up when I got home. (Isn't "sweetbreads" an odd name for something like pancreas? When i hear "sweetbreads," I think of down-home Southern cooking, not veal viscera.) The sweetbreads came out looking like something you might get at a Cape Cod seafood shack--deep fried golden nuggets in a basket. They were pretty damn good, though after eating most of the portion myself, I got a little sick of them and couldn't finish all the breads.
I also enjoyed the atmosphere of the place--bustling tables and an open kitchen where you can watch Chang's minions cook your victuals. Long story short: I've finally come around to Momofuku, and will now Momo your Fuku on demand!
Momofuku--163 First Avenue (212) 475-7899
Alright, onto the food. I had been to Momofuku Ssam bar twice, opting for the place's signature "Asian burrito" both times. With the white hot hype surrounding it, I had expected something transcendent, and had come away mildly disappointed. The concept was unique, but the actual good only good--nothing special. I pronounced the Momofuku mini-empire a casualty of the New York hype machine (as in, it couldn't possibly be as good as you expect). Still, if you read websites like Eater, it's hard to avoid a lot of talk about "genius" David Chang--and with the original Momofuku Noodle Bar moving down the block to more spacious digs on First Avenue, and dinner with a friend who lives in the area, I decided to give Chang another shot.
This time was different. My coeditor of this blog, Catherine Niu (don't you know it's the new hotness to misspell things intentionally?), had warned me to stay away from the ramen noodles, which are the centerpiece of Momofuku's menu. "Try the small plates," she counseled. "The Shins will change your life." Oh wait, that was Natalie Portman in Garden State. But anyway, it turned out to be sage advice. My friend and I split three dishes: octopus salad, roast pork buns, and veal sweetbreads. The roast pork buns were probably the best of the lot, though the portion was a bit small for what they charged. The octopus in the salad was succulent and the dressing (or whatever it was) even succulenter. When I ordered the sweetbreads, I knew I was getting something exotic, though I didn't realize it was pancreas until I looked it up when I got home. (Isn't "sweetbreads" an odd name for something like pancreas? When i hear "sweetbreads," I think of down-home Southern cooking, not veal viscera.) The sweetbreads came out looking like something you might get at a Cape Cod seafood shack--deep fried golden nuggets in a basket. They were pretty damn good, though after eating most of the portion myself, I got a little sick of them and couldn't finish all the breads.
I also enjoyed the atmosphere of the place--bustling tables and an open kitchen where you can watch Chang's minions cook your victuals. Long story short: I've finally come around to Momofuku, and will now Momo your Fuku on demand!
Momofuku--163 First Avenue (212) 475-7899
Friday, November 16, 2007
Hecho in Dumbo
Boo. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. All things pointed to greatness here – amazing, tranquilly lit loft space in the hip heart of Dumbo and perfectly located for post-gallery noshing. But then they were just kind of stupid: to wit, the Pellegrino arrived pre-poured over a large amount of ice in a high-ball. Sparkling on ice is yuck. Point 2: I was told I could mix and match the tacos and burritas for the $8 trio plate. I ordered three different ones for my plate, and instead received three whole different orders, which the waiter insisted I had asked for. I looked at him as if to say “Do I look like an obese pig who would order three entrees all for myself?” His waifesh self seemed to "Yes, maybe you might." Aghhh! We had to argue to get him to take two of the orders off the bill. The food was fine, delicious even, despite the over-salt of annoyance. I can say this: check it out at your own peril.
Where: DUMBO General Store, 111 Front St., Brooklyn, NY 11201, 718-855-5288
Where: DUMBO General Store, 111 Front St., Brooklyn, NY 11201, 718-855-5288
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
9 ways to eat
I have been lazy. So so lazy. You might even say "getting fat and lazy" when you find out that my lack of reviews has nothing at all to do with a lack of eating at restaurants. I have been eating plenty and will turn this exercise of laziness into an exercise in tight writing. The 50-word reviews (next week, I will write haikus).
Indochine
Their man-candy waitstaff serves beautifully plated and sumptious Vietnamese fusion that does not feel trite. The Seafood Bouillbase and Grilled Prawns were excellent, if pricey; and their extensive and creative list of mocktails was appreciated. Overall, a pleasant surprise despite an overwhelming amount of Euro-trash and Upper East Side frat-folk.
Sapphire
I thought I liked this UWS Indian staple until I looked around the dining room – it is packed with middle-class white people, nary a desi to be found. And Boyfriend, who grew up on curry and daal, declared it "Spiceless!" And though the waiter sprinted us through the meal, my mid-western tastebuds secretly thought it was ok.
Balthazar
It's best for breakfast, unless you go late for the seafood tower and champagne. Like I even need to put in a review. If you have not had the pleasure of breaking fast there: arrive around 8:30- 9 a.m., get your bowl of cappuccino and a croissant and preen. Just do that, and you'll be happy.
Da Silvano
http://www.dasilvano.com/
Speaking of preening, I was feeling especially buoyant on a recent Sunday. "Da Silvano?" I queried to Boyfriend as we tromped the brunch trail. Soon after, nestled on the heated terrace, we feasted on crostini, steamed artichoke ($24!), pumpkin ravioli and ossobuco while watching euro-trash navigate cocaine hangovers and display themselves. Love it.
Cafe Gray
http://www.cafegray.com/
Gorgeous Columbus Circle views, open kitchen, cougars galore. The steak tartar with katjup tasted fancy-pants McDonald's; the poussin was nice but unremarkable and the key lime tart could have come from Miro, the ubiquitous downtown coffee shop. Service failed to clear our finished dinner plates for 23 minutes after the last fork had been settled, and failed to ask for our coffee order. Verdict: tourist trap.
Bao 111
http://bao111.com
I wanted to like this place, I really did. But the Crabmeat Noodle Soup was a muddy mess with so much salt it burned my mouth. It makes me sad when food is completely inedible and I want to cry with disappointment. Other savory nibbles, such as the Truffled Tuna Spring Roll and Lollipop Chicken did sort of make up for that. Maybe I'll try again.
Degustation
http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/degustation/
Despite Eater's deathwatch, or because of it, this was one of the most engaging and rewarding dining experiences in recent weeks. The dark and intimate setting – sexytime! – and amazing menu was a true restaurant experience in every way. To wit: you select 3-4 small plates, exquisitely rendered, with brilliant Spanish reds playing back-up, to get wonderfully soused.
Momofuku Noodle Bar
http://www.momofuku.com/
I love me some pork products, and finally got my own oink on at this place I keep hearing so damn much about. The noodles were eh but really why noodles, when you can have hot, braised pork rind dripping in hoisin squeezed into a steamed bun? Or roasted brussel sprouts with kimchee puree and bacon? Enough said.
Ronnybrook Milk Bar
http://www.ronnybrookmilkbar.com/
It would be easy to get Shanghai-d by all the choices at Chelsea Market, but keep your head on and beeline to Ronnybrook. I exalted my inner farmgirl and lapped up the eggs, milk and cheese like a crack head from Wisconsin: egg salad, egg-in-a-whole, cream in my coffee, a couple cookies. And everything is under $8.
Indochine
Their man-candy waitstaff serves beautifully plated and sumptious Vietnamese fusion that does not feel trite. The Seafood Bouillbase and Grilled Prawns were excellent, if pricey; and their extensive and creative list of mocktails was appreciated. Overall, a pleasant surprise despite an overwhelming amount of Euro-trash and Upper East Side frat-folk.
Sapphire
I thought I liked this UWS Indian staple until I looked around the dining room – it is packed with middle-class white people, nary a desi to be found. And Boyfriend, who grew up on curry and daal, declared it "Spiceless!" And though the waiter sprinted us through the meal, my mid-western tastebuds secretly thought it was ok.
Balthazar
It's best for breakfast, unless you go late for the seafood tower and champagne. Like I even need to put in a review. If you have not had the pleasure of breaking fast there: arrive around 8:30- 9 a.m., get your bowl of cappuccino and a croissant and preen. Just do that, and you'll be happy.
Da Silvano
http://www.dasilvano.com/
Speaking of preening, I was feeling especially buoyant on a recent Sunday. "Da Silvano?" I queried to Boyfriend as we tromped the brunch trail. Soon after, nestled on the heated terrace, we feasted on crostini, steamed artichoke ($24!), pumpkin ravioli and ossobuco while watching euro-trash navigate cocaine hangovers and display themselves. Love it.
Cafe Gray
http://www.cafegray.com/
Gorgeous Columbus Circle views, open kitchen, cougars galore. The steak tartar with katjup tasted fancy-pants McDonald's; the poussin was nice but unremarkable and the key lime tart could have come from Miro, the ubiquitous downtown coffee shop. Service failed to clear our finished dinner plates for 23 minutes after the last fork had been settled, and failed to ask for our coffee order. Verdict: tourist trap.
Bao 111
http://bao111.com
I wanted to like this place, I really did. But the Crabmeat Noodle Soup was a muddy mess with so much salt it burned my mouth. It makes me sad when food is completely inedible and I want to cry with disappointment. Other savory nibbles, such as the Truffled Tuna Spring Roll and Lollipop Chicken did sort of make up for that. Maybe I'll try again.
Degustation
http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/degustation/
Despite Eater's deathwatch, or because of it, this was one of the most engaging and rewarding dining experiences in recent weeks. The dark and intimate setting – sexytime! – and amazing menu was a true restaurant experience in every way. To wit: you select 3-4 small plates, exquisitely rendered, with brilliant Spanish reds playing back-up, to get wonderfully soused.
Momofuku Noodle Bar
http://www.momofuku.com/
I love me some pork products, and finally got my own oink on at this place I keep hearing so damn much about. The noodles were eh but really why noodles, when you can have hot, braised pork rind dripping in hoisin squeezed into a steamed bun? Or roasted brussel sprouts with kimchee puree and bacon? Enough said.
Ronnybrook Milk Bar
http://www.ronnybrookmilkbar.com/
It would be easy to get Shanghai-d by all the choices at Chelsea Market, but keep your head on and beeline to Ronnybrook. I exalted my inner farmgirl and lapped up the eggs, milk and cheese like a crack head from Wisconsin: egg salad, egg-in-a-whole, cream in my coffee, a couple cookies. And everything is under $8.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Fette Sau
I'm not a huge barbecue guy. Partly, this is due to my hailing from the Northeast U.S., and my attendant lack of experience with the genre. But that's not the whole story. First of all, there's at least one pretty good BBQ place in the Boston area (Blue Ribbon BBQ), which I never visit when I go home (a sign that I'm not craving it, you see). Second of all, on my sole trip to the Deep South (aka "Scaryville), I visited a locally famous barbecue joint outside Atlanta with my ex-girlfriend and her parents. And--maybe it was the high expectations going on, or maybe it was the framed pictures on the wall of the restaurant's owners at the White House proudly serving up ribs to G.W. Bush--but I didn't come away very impressed.
Fast forward to 2007. Barbecue is suddenly all the rage in New York, though most southerners think it still sucks here. (As an aside, is there anywhere where more people complain about the lack of "authentic" this or that cusine than this city? I think it's because New York is supposed to be the best at everything, and when it isn't, people from some dumbshit small town say "I can't believe you can't find a decent (insert regional cuisine) here. New Yorkers are such a bunch of fucking whiners sometimes. And yes, I've been reading a lot of Chowhound lately.) Also, the Big Apple BBQ at Madison Square Park was quite disappointing in terms of taste, offensively long lines, and level of rip-offery.
ANYWAY, as a guy that enjoys food that tastes good, I decided I should at least one of the better establishments, The place I'd heard the most consistently good buzz about was Fette Sau in Williamsburg. My friend Dave had nothing but great things to say. So, after wanting to go for a long time, I finally made it last week after watching the Yankees get pounded in Game 1 of the ALDS (yee-haw).
At around 10:40, twenty minutes before closing time, we ventured into Fette Sau, which is in a large, garage-y space befitting its post-industrial neighborhood. You eat at communal benches (I usually don't like this, but for this type of grub it does seem appropriate). There's a large TV screen with a fireplace displayed, and after a few minutes of not looking directly at it, you sort of forget the difference between it and the real thing. Finally, there's an impressive selection of whiskey and beer behind the long bar next to the troughs of food.
Oh, yes, the food. The point of this post. With Dave's guidance, we ordered the pulled pork, ribs, pastrami, and bread. I ate that shit like I was a death row prisoner about to walk down the Green Mile. I inhaled it. It was flavorful and delicious. I especially enjoyed soaking the bread up with the pulled pork and ribs. That's all I can really describe--just go.
The next morning I felt as though someone had hit repeatedly hit me in the stomach with a hammer the night before. But you know what? It was worth it.
Fast forward to 2007. Barbecue is suddenly all the rage in New York, though most southerners think it still sucks here. (As an aside, is there anywhere where more people complain about the lack of "authentic" this or that cusine than this city? I think it's because New York is supposed to be the best at everything, and when it isn't, people from some dumbshit small town say "I can't believe you can't find a decent (insert regional cuisine) here. New Yorkers are such a bunch of fucking whiners sometimes. And yes, I've been reading a lot of Chowhound lately.) Also, the Big Apple BBQ at Madison Square Park was quite disappointing in terms of taste, offensively long lines, and level of rip-offery.
ANYWAY, as a guy that enjoys food that tastes good, I decided I should at least one of the better establishments, The place I'd heard the most consistently good buzz about was Fette Sau in Williamsburg. My friend Dave had nothing but great things to say. So, after wanting to go for a long time, I finally made it last week after watching the Yankees get pounded in Game 1 of the ALDS (yee-haw).
At around 10:40, twenty minutes before closing time, we ventured into Fette Sau, which is in a large, garage-y space befitting its post-industrial neighborhood. You eat at communal benches (I usually don't like this, but for this type of grub it does seem appropriate). There's a large TV screen with a fireplace displayed, and after a few minutes of not looking directly at it, you sort of forget the difference between it and the real thing. Finally, there's an impressive selection of whiskey and beer behind the long bar next to the troughs of food.
Oh, yes, the food. The point of this post. With Dave's guidance, we ordered the pulled pork, ribs, pastrami, and bread. I ate that shit like I was a death row prisoner about to walk down the Green Mile. I inhaled it. It was flavorful and delicious. I especially enjoyed soaking the bread up with the pulled pork and ribs. That's all I can really describe--just go.
The next morning I felt as though someone had hit repeatedly hit me in the stomach with a hammer the night before. But you know what? It was worth it.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Jewel Bako out; Momoya In
Several days ago The BF and I strolled over to the East Village for more late-night Japanese. We landed at Jewel Bako for no particular reason other than he seemed to remember it – though it turned out he remembered something else, but no matter. The place at 10:10 p.m. was completely and totally empty (a Monday night), however they were still serving. So we sat down and watched the surly waiter clunk around soullessly, hitting my wineglass with silverware at least twice, I commented that it would probably close soon. It was too pretty, too pricey, too trendy and waaaaay too empty. The rage when it opened was all those things, but like a kewpie-doll showgirl, it ages, and you don’t want it anymore. My suspicions were confirmed on Eater today.
As a post-script: I thought the food was pretty good. We had braised (in parchment) salmon and mushrooms; and then we ate two of their $16 large sushi specialty rolls. We finished with a green tea profiterole. I don’t think the restaurant deserves a wretched flameout, but it does desperately need some adrenaline and joy.
In sharp contrast, the Upper West Side is trying really, really hard to be cool. Frankly, it will never be cool. But, did you know that UWS Jewish intellectuals love one thing more than public radio? It’s sushi! There are a stunning number of amazing sushi joints here (Gari, Haru, Sushi Planet – yum yum) and now we have Momoya. Straight from Chelsea. I had to cry a little tear at first as the restaurant moved into carriage-house space previously occupied by a great Korean green market where I bought my blackout six-pack way back when. After a 9-month renovation it’s now opened as the super bougie resto with gorgeous décor created out of blunt, sawed-off ends of 2x4s in differing heights. I loved it the minute I walked in.
They also have creative large rolls not dissimilar to Jewel Bako's in taste and presentation. I loved the Nakamura roll with yellowtail, jalapeno, salmon, tuna cucumber, scallop tartar with a beet sauce and almond sliver ($10). I also ordered my usual sashimi set: salmon, tuna and tomago – all were beautifully sliced. The service – a young Eastern European guy – was extremely good. The round booths at the back of the restaurant are very private for talking, or what have you, and hypnotically lit. Or is that the delicious Shirakawago Sasanigori? Mmmm. That is some cloudy cloudy sake. A++ for dates.
Where: 427 Amsterdam Ave., 212-580-0007
As a post-script: I thought the food was pretty good. We had braised (in parchment) salmon and mushrooms; and then we ate two of their $16 large sushi specialty rolls. We finished with a green tea profiterole. I don’t think the restaurant deserves a wretched flameout, but it does desperately need some adrenaline and joy.
In sharp contrast, the Upper West Side is trying really, really hard to be cool. Frankly, it will never be cool. But, did you know that UWS Jewish intellectuals love one thing more than public radio? It’s sushi! There are a stunning number of amazing sushi joints here (Gari, Haru, Sushi Planet – yum yum) and now we have Momoya. Straight from Chelsea. I had to cry a little tear at first as the restaurant moved into carriage-house space previously occupied by a great Korean green market where I bought my blackout six-pack way back when. After a 9-month renovation it’s now opened as the super bougie resto with gorgeous décor created out of blunt, sawed-off ends of 2x4s in differing heights. I loved it the minute I walked in.
They also have creative large rolls not dissimilar to Jewel Bako's in taste and presentation. I loved the Nakamura roll with yellowtail, jalapeno, salmon, tuna cucumber, scallop tartar with a beet sauce and almond sliver ($10). I also ordered my usual sashimi set: salmon, tuna and tomago – all were beautifully sliced. The service – a young Eastern European guy – was extremely good. The round booths at the back of the restaurant are very private for talking, or what have you, and hypnotically lit. Or is that the delicious Shirakawago Sasanigori? Mmmm. That is some cloudy cloudy sake. A++ for dates.
Where: 427 Amsterdam Ave., 212-580-0007
Monday, October 1, 2007
Rickshaw Dumpling Bar
I am not going to say we were unexcited. Whenever a dumpling shop opens up feet from your front door, it’s cause for celebration. Ok, it’s not my front door, it’s my boyfriend’s. But that’s good enough for me to jump up and down and raise my hands over my head and declare once again that dumplings are, like, the greatest food on the earth.
So we walked down 8th Street last night, half past seven and just about an hour before heading to the Iron & Wine concert, to get some at the newly opened Ricksahw Dumpling Bar.
Overall, I like Rickshaw better than Dumpling Man. The wrappers here are more glutunous and less doughy; the fillings more varied. We had the Szechuan Chicken (with chili and soy beans), Peking Duck (with shredded cabbage and scallion), and Shrimp (with jicama and scallion). Six dumps costs you $5.55 (they have a kitschy pricing system where everything is in multiples of the same figure, except the Waterlemonade, which is exorbitant at $3.95).
The dumplings were good (but not transcendental; that requires a lot more pork and duck fat). The best were the Peking Duck with a side of hoisin sauce (aka Chinese ketchup). There is a photo booth in the back where you can get six black and white photos for $3.
I have one major beef with this dumpling shop – and it had nothing to do with the food. It’s the massive amount of trash each meal produces.
We ate at the restaurant. “Stay in!” we told the cute-as-a-button cashier, who was bizarrely a dead ringer for my college friend Sonja.
But that does not mean you get real silverware and real plates and little dipping pots for your sauces. Everything is wrapped the same as if for take-out: for our meal, we had three paper boxes, each with a plastic dipping container; the noodles came in a plastic bowl and each drink came in a plastic cup. We went through a pair of wooden chopsticks each and two plastic spoons and a pile a napkins. It was a gooddam Glad packaging convention by the time we were done.
Anyway, in case Rickshaw hasn’t noticed – earth space is precious. Why can’t they use re-usable supplies for sit down dining? Would the cost of a Hobart and dishwasher cost them so much more than the cost of providing huge amounts of plastic and paper ? Even though I liked the dumplings a lot, I felt like a middle-class shithead with all the refuse a few bites produced. Ekeing it out on the margins, like some of the places in Chinatown, not only produces damn tasty dumplings, but also produces vastly less serving crap. My verdict: I would rather go to Joe’s Ginger for some pork fat dumplings served in a bamboo basket that’s as old as time.
Where: 53 E. 8th Street; 212-461-1750
So we walked down 8th Street last night, half past seven and just about an hour before heading to the Iron & Wine concert, to get some at the newly opened Ricksahw Dumpling Bar.
Overall, I like Rickshaw better than Dumpling Man. The wrappers here are more glutunous and less doughy; the fillings more varied. We had the Szechuan Chicken (with chili and soy beans), Peking Duck (with shredded cabbage and scallion), and Shrimp (with jicama and scallion). Six dumps costs you $5.55 (they have a kitschy pricing system where everything is in multiples of the same figure, except the Waterlemonade, which is exorbitant at $3.95).
The dumplings were good (but not transcendental; that requires a lot more pork and duck fat). The best were the Peking Duck with a side of hoisin sauce (aka Chinese ketchup). There is a photo booth in the back where you can get six black and white photos for $3.
I have one major beef with this dumpling shop – and it had nothing to do with the food. It’s the massive amount of trash each meal produces.
We ate at the restaurant. “Stay in!” we told the cute-as-a-button cashier, who was bizarrely a dead ringer for my college friend Sonja.
But that does not mean you get real silverware and real plates and little dipping pots for your sauces. Everything is wrapped the same as if for take-out: for our meal, we had three paper boxes, each with a plastic dipping container; the noodles came in a plastic bowl and each drink came in a plastic cup. We went through a pair of wooden chopsticks each and two plastic spoons and a pile a napkins. It was a gooddam Glad packaging convention by the time we were done.
Anyway, in case Rickshaw hasn’t noticed – earth space is precious. Why can’t they use re-usable supplies for sit down dining? Would the cost of a Hobart and dishwasher cost them so much more than the cost of providing huge amounts of plastic and paper ? Even though I liked the dumplings a lot, I felt like a middle-class shithead with all the refuse a few bites produced. Ekeing it out on the margins, like some of the places in Chinatown, not only produces damn tasty dumplings, but also produces vastly less serving crap. My verdict: I would rather go to Joe’s Ginger for some pork fat dumplings served in a bamboo basket that’s as old as time.
Where: 53 E. 8th Street; 212-461-1750
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Cha-An
A real authentic Japanese tea house has such a pleasant and reassuring atmosphere you feel like you're in the pages of a Murakami novel. Minus the man with the mid-life crisis ruminating about all the crazy suicidal beauties in his life.
We strode into Cha-An tea house for some late night light fare in the East Village tonight. Tea is obviously the thing to come here for. They have dozens of varieties, from woozy oolongs to stinky pu-ehrs to jasmines, which once I declared "tasted like girls". That sounds weird and perfect at the same time. I am especially a fan of the gorgeous Jasmine Pearls that bloom in your cup. (You can get six pearls for $8.)
But the bites were fantastic too: the six appetizer plate (small bites of six flavors) included bean skin with seaweed, roasted and salted burdock root, tea-smoked sashimi salmon with radish and mustard sauce, roasted shrimp, basil marinated cap mushrooms and a fish cake for $11. Take a peek into the meticulous kitchen and you'll notice something different for a Japanese restaurant: the chefs are all women. And there is - without getting stereotypical - something very feminine and lovely about the food choices and preparation. For dessert I had a green tea macaroon and a sake mojito ($7).
I can't imagine a more charming place to steal away with a book alone or to go on a mellow date. Or for the three of us tonight, a place for a nibble. Noriko, our waitress, was ebulliently sweet. Go Japan, go! Take me to your leader!
Where: 230 E. 9th Street, East Village, 212-228-8030
We strode into Cha-An tea house for some late night light fare in the East Village tonight. Tea is obviously the thing to come here for. They have dozens of varieties, from woozy oolongs to stinky pu-ehrs to jasmines, which once I declared "tasted like girls". That sounds weird and perfect at the same time. I am especially a fan of the gorgeous Jasmine Pearls that bloom in your cup. (You can get six pearls for $8.)
But the bites were fantastic too: the six appetizer plate (small bites of six flavors) included bean skin with seaweed, roasted and salted burdock root, tea-smoked sashimi salmon with radish and mustard sauce, roasted shrimp, basil marinated cap mushrooms and a fish cake for $11. Take a peek into the meticulous kitchen and you'll notice something different for a Japanese restaurant: the chefs are all women. And there is - without getting stereotypical - something very feminine and lovely about the food choices and preparation. For dessert I had a green tea macaroon and a sake mojito ($7).
I can't imagine a more charming place to steal away with a book alone or to go on a mellow date. Or for the three of us tonight, a place for a nibble. Noriko, our waitress, was ebulliently sweet. Go Japan, go! Take me to your leader!
Where: 230 E. 9th Street, East Village, 212-228-8030
Monday, September 24, 2007
Eating on the UWS
I have been remiss in the past 10 days and have provided you nothing to feast on, but don't worry, I have still been eating. For some imprecise reason I have been eating a lot in my neighborhood, hence the good, the bad and the ugly below.
Kefi
I loved Onera, I love Anthos, I love Kefi. Chef Michael Psilakis as I wrote once in a Metro review is the George Harrison of cooking. It's a charming, delicious, and affordable family-style Greek cafe. Crisp Greek white wines are around $6/glass; meze are under $10 and entrees around $15. Recommended: Cuttlefish Stuffed With Spinach & Manouri ($8.95) and Flat pasta, Pulled Braised rabbit, Graviera Cheese ($10.95)
Where: 222 W. 79th St., 212-873-0200
Hudson River Cafe
It's Buppie central on this sleek and charming patio cafe and restaurant under the bridge with amazing views of early 20th century riveting. While the food is ok, the place is definitely more about the ambience and cocktails ($10). The food advertised as "local" didn't seem all that local to me (horseradish crusted salmon and tostones?) - the portions were ginormous, and all suffered from a little too much of everything (sauce, salt, fat, etc...) But the package - and live jazz on Sundays and Wednesdays - all together makes this a great destination place.
Where: 697 W. 133rd St., 212-491-9111
Wine & Roses
I'm just going to say it: the Upper West Side is filled with annoying d-bags and the women who chase after them. And so when a wine bar opens up (this is one of several new ones), they all come running in their effort to be "classy" for their $18 glasses of Barolo while listening to "Crazy" at a too-loud -to-talk volume and zoning out to a flatscreen tv. This is "Time Out" sports bar in a different disguise. In sum: too many cougars; cheesy people; overpriced wine. Can someone please get it right up here?
Where: 286 Columbus Ave., 212-579-9463
Kefi
I loved Onera, I love Anthos, I love Kefi. Chef Michael Psilakis as I wrote once in a Metro review is the George Harrison of cooking. It's a charming, delicious, and affordable family-style Greek cafe. Crisp Greek white wines are around $6/glass; meze are under $10 and entrees around $15. Recommended: Cuttlefish Stuffed With Spinach & Manouri ($8.95) and Flat pasta, Pulled Braised rabbit, Graviera Cheese ($10.95)
Where: 222 W. 79th St., 212-873-0200
Hudson River Cafe
It's Buppie central on this sleek and charming patio cafe and restaurant under the bridge with amazing views of early 20th century riveting. While the food is ok, the place is definitely more about the ambience and cocktails ($10). The food advertised as "local" didn't seem all that local to me (horseradish crusted salmon and tostones?) - the portions were ginormous, and all suffered from a little too much of everything (sauce, salt, fat, etc...) But the package - and live jazz on Sundays and Wednesdays - all together makes this a great destination place.
Where: 697 W. 133rd St., 212-491-9111
Wine & Roses
I'm just going to say it: the Upper West Side is filled with annoying d-bags and the women who chase after them. And so when a wine bar opens up (this is one of several new ones), they all come running in their effort to be "classy" for their $18 glasses of Barolo while listening to "Crazy" at a too-loud -to-talk volume and zoning out to a flatscreen tv. This is "Time Out" sports bar in a different disguise. In sum: too many cougars; cheesy people; overpriced wine. Can someone please get it right up here?
Where: 286 Columbus Ave., 212-579-9463
Monday, September 17, 2007
Sidecar
An oasis has opened up in the culinary desert (ok, maybe that's an overstatement) of South Park Slope (the actual South Slope, not Catherine's warped definition). On 5th Ave between 15th and 16th St. just down the street from Buttermilk, one of my favorite bars in New York, is Sidecar, a classy joint specializing in classy cocktails, and with a very solid menu heavy on comfort food. Under the irrestible heading "elixirs" on the menu is a list of specialty mixed drinks that I had never heard of, except for the titular sidecar, which I ordered and was delicious. My friend opted for the Old Cuban Bruggal, which consists of rum, mint & bitters, topped with champagne. There's a cocktail called "Dr. Tucker's 59", and the description on the menu simply reads "for all pain." The bartender told me that a poster with these words was found during the renovation of the building, and they decided to use the phrase for a cocktail. Cool. Hey, if you're gonna have a hook to your restaurant, this is a pretty good one. And it was fun to watch our heavily tattooed bartender expertly mix the drinks.
As for the food, apparently the chef used to work at Blue Ribbon, and he makes almost everything himself, including the mayo. Impressive, no? My friend got a solid cheeseburger and fries, and I opted for the fried chicken with root mash and bacon succotash, which was delicious. I had not eaten non-Popeye's fried chicken in ages, and this hit the spot. The only negative, which was not really a negative, was that a photographer was snapping pictures of my friend and me eating. Finding this a bit odd, I approached her and found out she worked for the Park Slope Reader, and that she was using us as her "foreground" for photos of the establishment. So if Sidecar gets more publicity, I won't mind that readers of that venerable newspaper (aka the "Paper of Record") will get an eyeful of my messy chicken bone-eating style.
Where: Read the second sentence of the post.
As for the food, apparently the chef used to work at Blue Ribbon, and he makes almost everything himself, including the mayo. Impressive, no? My friend got a solid cheeseburger and fries, and I opted for the fried chicken with root mash and bacon succotash, which was delicious. I had not eaten non-Popeye's fried chicken in ages, and this hit the spot. The only negative, which was not really a negative, was that a photographer was snapping pictures of my friend and me eating. Finding this a bit odd, I approached her and found out she worked for the Park Slope Reader, and that she was using us as her "foreground" for photos of the establishment. So if Sidecar gets more publicity, I won't mind that readers of that venerable newspaper (aka the "Paper of Record") will get an eyeful of my messy chicken bone-eating style.
Where: Read the second sentence of the post.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Pacific Standard
A love letter to the west coast
Once upon a time the living was good. Deep into the autumn season we still enoyed seeing our tans arms, casually hanging outside the car window, as we drove down the 280. Maybe Sublime was in the car stereo. If the evening got chilly, we threw on a cardigan sweater and went over to a friend's house to smoke bong hits. On the weekends, there was a show at Bottom of the Hill or some flick at the Roxy, followed by beers, cebollitas and carne asada burritos at El Farolito. Oh yeah, the boys were nice to look at too.
Now, it's fucking hot as hell and the subway feels like feverish cess pool. The streets smell of urine and more than 50 percent of the boys are just plain out ugly. I have doled out The Finger at least twice today. A wannabe Black Elvis is singing me a love song. Except he's singing a Stevie Wonder tune; and behind him there is a small Latin man salsa dancing with a blow up doll. Man, I love me some New York City.
But sometimes, I just want a small hit of that west coast pipe again. Just a wee bump to tide me over. So I am happy to say that I was introduced to Pacfic Standard last night. They are Cal people. It's west coast microbrews, some of which are good and some taste like a leftover skunk. And it's located in the dirty heart of New York's own version of Oakland, South Park Slope.
It's campy and rec roomy. I especially enjoyed the owner's very own early 80s era baseball collection in the "Atlantic" loo; they also have a pretty awesome book collection for browsing. But the piece de resistance? On an altar-like table under the big screen (playing the Oakland A's game last night, who were slaying Texas) is the complete OED, small magnifying glass and all. MIMP: noun, a pursing of the lips. I did not know that.
Where: Pacific Standard, 82 Fourth Ave.
Once upon a time the living was good. Deep into the autumn season we still enoyed seeing our tans arms, casually hanging outside the car window, as we drove down the 280. Maybe Sublime was in the car stereo. If the evening got chilly, we threw on a cardigan sweater and went over to a friend's house to smoke bong hits. On the weekends, there was a show at Bottom of the Hill or some flick at the Roxy, followed by beers, cebollitas and carne asada burritos at El Farolito. Oh yeah, the boys were nice to look at too.
Now, it's fucking hot as hell and the subway feels like feverish cess pool. The streets smell of urine and more than 50 percent of the boys are just plain out ugly. I have doled out The Finger at least twice today. A wannabe Black Elvis is singing me a love song. Except he's singing a Stevie Wonder tune; and behind him there is a small Latin man salsa dancing with a blow up doll. Man, I love me some New York City.
But sometimes, I just want a small hit of that west coast pipe again. Just a wee bump to tide me over. So I am happy to say that I was introduced to Pacfic Standard last night. They are Cal people. It's west coast microbrews, some of which are good and some taste like a leftover skunk. And it's located in the dirty heart of New York's own version of Oakland, South Park Slope.
It's campy and rec roomy. I especially enjoyed the owner's very own early 80s era baseball collection in the "Atlantic" loo; they also have a pretty awesome book collection for browsing. But the piece de resistance? On an altar-like table under the big screen (playing the Oakland A's game last night, who were slaying Texas) is the complete OED, small magnifying glass and all. MIMP: noun, a pursing of the lips. I did not know that.
Where: Pacific Standard, 82 Fourth Ave.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Prince St. Cafe
UPDATE: Today on our fourth or fifth visit now, the chef was like "I see you guys in here a lot." It's true. It's become our lunch spot of choice. Today: the Tahitian coucous salad with roasted vegetables over greens ($10) and Axel had the sandwich/soup combo ($8) with wild mushroom soup and ham sandwich. I stole bites, it was delicious.
The great thing about catching a restaurant in its opening throes is that you can watch it either get better or watch it simply face plant. Yes, I am that sadistic. Prince St. Cafe opened two weeks ago and it appears to be accelerating in the former category.
Axel, nee Ben, and I found this cafe the day after it opened. Located in a long slot-like space on Prince and Elizabeth, it was opened by Gary Volkov, formerly of One if by Land...(which is overrated I think). The place is comfortable, benefits from two high-def TVs quietly playing baseball on one and NY1 on the other, and the service is awkward and European and refreshingly sweet.
And the food is good! And the prices very good (for Nolita)! We like it! Axel likes sauteed shrimp quesadilla wrap ($8) and I've made a running start on the sandwich board (all $7.50): grilled chicken with avo and cilantro aioli one week, and a grilled cheese on baguette with fig confit and pancetta the next.
They have other tempting things: Homemade gnocchi with wild mushrooms; Ukranian borscht and red velvet cupcakes. In addition to being comfortable it's un-prententious unlike the other neighborhood haunts Cafes Gitanes and Havana.
Prince St. is your basic upscale cafe and feels gourmand without feeling bourgeois. It's perfect for eating alone or with others. There is a great backroom where you can escape from the street and is illuminated with massive skylights. I like it. Go there if you are in the neighborhood.
Where: Prince/Elizabeth Streets
The great thing about catching a restaurant in its opening throes is that you can watch it either get better or watch it simply face plant. Yes, I am that sadistic. Prince St. Cafe opened two weeks ago and it appears to be accelerating in the former category.
Axel, nee Ben, and I found this cafe the day after it opened. Located in a long slot-like space on Prince and Elizabeth, it was opened by Gary Volkov, formerly of One if by Land...(which is overrated I think). The place is comfortable, benefits from two high-def TVs quietly playing baseball on one and NY1 on the other, and the service is awkward and European and refreshingly sweet.
And the food is good! And the prices very good (for Nolita)! We like it! Axel likes sauteed shrimp quesadilla wrap ($8) and I've made a running start on the sandwich board (all $7.50): grilled chicken with avo and cilantro aioli one week, and a grilled cheese on baguette with fig confit and pancetta the next.
They have other tempting things: Homemade gnocchi with wild mushrooms; Ukranian borscht and red velvet cupcakes. In addition to being comfortable it's un-prententious unlike the other neighborhood haunts Cafes Gitanes and Havana.
Prince St. is your basic upscale cafe and feels gourmand without feeling bourgeois. It's perfect for eating alone or with others. There is a great backroom where you can escape from the street and is illuminated with massive skylights. I like it. Go there if you are in the neighborhood.
Where: Prince/Elizabeth Streets
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Mullane's
You know what I like more than the average guy? A juicy, delicious burger. And lemme tell you, a good burger in Brooklyn is hard to find. Great, sophisticated New American cuisine? Sure. A workingman's cheeseburger? Not quite so easy. Despite its considerable charm, Bonnie's on 5th Ave. in Park Slope doesn't quite deliver for me--its burger is simply too large and charred, and usually falls apart before the consumption halfway point. DuMont Burger in Williamsburg, despite ludicrous lists like this one, I found to be overrated, delivering a slightly better than average burger in a fun. outdoor setting.
It was with great surprise and pleasure, then, that the folks over at Chowhound guided me to Mullane's on Lafayette Ave. in Fort Greene (near where my Ipod was recently stolen) for a pre-theater dinner on Saturday night. Mullane's is an Irish bar and restaurant where some of the waitstaff actually appear to be Irish. It's more suburban in its setup and execution than many Brooklyn eateries, and you know what? I like that. Sometimes I miss big, free-refillable cokes, space between tables, and TV's on in the background. Because I yearn for Chili's weekly, does that make me a bad person? I don't think so. I think it means that I want to have my burger and eat it too (I want an occasional taste of the suburbs in the city, in other words), and at Mullane's I can do that--before catching me some Chekhov (aka culture) over at BAM.
Like at Chili's, the burger at Mullane's seemed almost perfectly calibrated to my eating potential (meaning that when I was done I felt very pleasantly full). I chose the "Bamburger," which came with cheese, bacon, and mushrooms, and a pleasantly soft (but not soggy) bun. What else can I tell you other than that it was tasty and just what the doctor ordered? People on contentious message boards would probably want to shoot me for saying this, but I'd probably put this in the top niche of burgers I've eaten in New York.
Mullanes--71 Lafayette Ave., Brooklyn
It was with great surprise and pleasure, then, that the folks over at Chowhound guided me to Mullane's on Lafayette Ave. in Fort Greene (near where my Ipod was recently stolen) for a pre-theater dinner on Saturday night. Mullane's is an Irish bar and restaurant where some of the waitstaff actually appear to be Irish. It's more suburban in its setup and execution than many Brooklyn eateries, and you know what? I like that. Sometimes I miss big, free-refillable cokes, space between tables, and TV's on in the background. Because I yearn for Chili's weekly, does that make me a bad person? I don't think so. I think it means that I want to have my burger and eat it too (I want an occasional taste of the suburbs in the city, in other words), and at Mullane's I can do that--before catching me some Chekhov (aka culture) over at BAM.
Like at Chili's, the burger at Mullane's seemed almost perfectly calibrated to my eating potential (meaning that when I was done I felt very pleasantly full). I chose the "Bamburger," which came with cheese, bacon, and mushrooms, and a pleasantly soft (but not soggy) bun. What else can I tell you other than that it was tasty and just what the doctor ordered? People on contentious message boards would probably want to shoot me for saying this, but I'd probably put this in the top niche of burgers I've eaten in New York.
Mullanes--71 Lafayette Ave., Brooklyn
Monday, September 10, 2007
Duryea Lobsters
Lobsters are one of the most misunderstood sea creatures. They are, to be frank, giant sea bugs that comb the sea’s surfaces for tasty eats. They eat dead stuff. They were once upon a time, quite literally, junk food – victuals for the workingman, according to my favorite lobster meditation by David Foster Wallace.
Then someone got the bright idea to make them fancy and they are ubiquitously served at every fine restaurant in New York City. I believe Le Bernandin serves them at least six different ways, always under some light foamy sea urchin sauce or whatever. At some point in culinary history, the lobster became the food that signaled that you had arrived. For some communities, it’s shrimp. For the upper middle class, it’s lobster. The luxury lifestyle explosion and climate change in the past 10 years have nearly drained the east coast dry of them. Prices are soaring; catches are pathetic, according to the New Haven Register.
However, it’s a fine food, don’t get me wrong. But I also don’t think it’s all that. Chances are it’s overcooked and tough and lacks all the delicate buttery-ness that crab has. Anyway, the only real dishes I think lobsters are suited for are bisque (served with a nice shot of sherry) and lobster rolls.
And that brought me to Duryea Lobsters, at the tip on Long Island in Montauk this weekend. It has a legendary reputation; locals, including the Barefoot Contessa herself, were shoulder to shoulder on the deck with their BYOB of pink zin and yellow chards getting busy with the sea beast. Our group, six in all, also tucked into lobster rolls ($17.95). They were served on a toasted sesame roll, cole slaw and potato chips and we washed them down with lemonade. Duryea makes a damn good lobster roll: the lobster filling is a plentiful; meaty chunks well-covered in mayonnaise, seasoned amply with dill and black pepper. The roll buttered and each bite was a delicious bite of sweet meat, salty butter and mayonnaise and the tickle of spices.
We ate silently, wiped our lips and trekked home. A lobster roll like that has only one kind of dessert: a long-nap in a shaded hammock. Done and done.
Where: 65 Tuthill Road, Montauk, NY, (631) 668-2410
Then someone got the bright idea to make them fancy and they are ubiquitously served at every fine restaurant in New York City. I believe Le Bernandin serves them at least six different ways, always under some light foamy sea urchin sauce or whatever. At some point in culinary history, the lobster became the food that signaled that you had arrived. For some communities, it’s shrimp. For the upper middle class, it’s lobster. The luxury lifestyle explosion and climate change in the past 10 years have nearly drained the east coast dry of them. Prices are soaring; catches are pathetic, according to the New Haven Register.
However, it’s a fine food, don’t get me wrong. But I also don’t think it’s all that. Chances are it’s overcooked and tough and lacks all the delicate buttery-ness that crab has. Anyway, the only real dishes I think lobsters are suited for are bisque (served with a nice shot of sherry) and lobster rolls.
And that brought me to Duryea Lobsters, at the tip on Long Island in Montauk this weekend. It has a legendary reputation; locals, including the Barefoot Contessa herself, were shoulder to shoulder on the deck with their BYOB of pink zin and yellow chards getting busy with the sea beast. Our group, six in all, also tucked into lobster rolls ($17.95). They were served on a toasted sesame roll, cole slaw and potato chips and we washed them down with lemonade. Duryea makes a damn good lobster roll: the lobster filling is a plentiful; meaty chunks well-covered in mayonnaise, seasoned amply with dill and black pepper. The roll buttered and each bite was a delicious bite of sweet meat, salty butter and mayonnaise and the tickle of spices.
We ate silently, wiped our lips and trekked home. A lobster roll like that has only one kind of dessert: a long-nap in a shaded hammock. Done and done.
Where: 65 Tuthill Road, Montauk, NY, (631) 668-2410
Thursday, September 6, 2007
West Taghkanic Diner
Road tripping – for New Yorkers – is a past-time that comes far too infrequently. The challenges are many; the rewards far away. But if you have the wanderlust, as I do, you find a way to hit the open road every now and then and make, ideally, an escape upstate. In which case you need to know about the best kept driving secret in all of New York: you take the Taconic, not I-87. It’s scenic, winding and was purposefully made for picnicking drivers headed to Bear Mountain.
Parkways also do not have a lot of roadside crap. There are no Sbarros or fossilized Roy Rogers for your cartripping pleasure. They have diners instead. The old-school kind, made with aluminum siding and barstools. Take the Exit at Route 82 and you will find the West Taghkanic Diner, with a neon lit Indian chief sign offering respite in the otherwise dark wilds of the New York City frontier.
I could offer you a treatise on diners. But today, I’ll offer you pie instead. When you sit on a barstool in a diner, or in a pleather banquette, you must drink coffee and eat pie. The Taghkanic offers seven flavors, four of which are the fruity variety. It is $3 a slice and a buck for endless refills of coffee. They also offer rice, tapioca pudding and delicious caramel flan.
Frankly, the pie – blueberry – sucked. It was cold; the crust too dense and not flaky and it was factory-made with generic canned filling. But I kind of didn’t care. The open road; the diner and it’s $4.99 meatloaf special s and 99-cent coffee; the pregnant teenage waitress: this is what I really love. That’s what I came to the diner for. A big serving of red, white and blue. They know that; they sell tee-shirts displaying as much. Diners weren’t ever really meant to serve good food; their selling point is location and convenience and streamlined good looks. On that front the West Taghkanic wins. Maybe next time I’ll try the chocolate cake and a glass of milk.
Where: Exit Route 82; West Taghkanic, NY, 518-851-7117
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Rice to Riches
I was on a Kozyshack bender this weekend. A four-pack down the hatch, foil seals licked clean; evidence recycled. A real puddin' head.
We all know and accept that Kozy's rice pudding is great stuff. So great, that it can become a problem. First you're buying a two-pack, then four packs and soon you're eating whole tubs. Just like an alcoholic before a work week, I went in for one final binge at 10:54 p.m. Sunday night. Someone mentioned the geeked-out Nolita spot, Rice to Riches. I waddled my rice-pudding engorged thighs over there to see if it could stand up to the Shack.
The rice pudding emporium has been open on Spring Street for a couple years now (joined, like yesterday, by a PinkBery next door.) Similar to an ice cream counter they offer dozens of flavors. Some ok, some gross and some pretty good. They have toppings – fruits, nuts and crouton-like poundcake squares. The "solo", at $5, is their single-serving option. The molded-plastic dish can hold a lot of rice pudding, but the real question is how much of their pudding do you really want?
Here's my pud with Rice to Riches: the fruity flavors (e.g. mango and banana) tasted fake, and if you're thinking this going to be like a yummy sticky-rice and mango thing, then you're going to be disappointed. Rice is too soupy. Kozy's rice-to-pudding ratio is much better, and that gives Kozy more structure and texture in your mouth. Lastly, even for glutonous me, I just couldn't finish a single serving at Rice to Riches. I felt like I was eating a bowl of banana-flavored snot by the end. (Ok, I ate the rest later at home. Because I like leftover snot.)
Here's the verdict: Kozy 1-Rice 0. It's not that Rice is that bad, but it's just Kozy is that good. Rice to Riches has the disease that many New York places have. It takes some perfectly good comfort food and tries to spruce it up into hipster gourmet. I like my rice puddin' just fine. It didn't need no sprucin'. Next you come around, I'll be on my make-believe porch, too fat to get off it, and spoonin' puddin' in my mouth. Delicious, grocery-store bought, pre-packaged rice pudding from The Kooz.
Where: 37 Spring Street, 212-274-0008
We all know and accept that Kozy's rice pudding is great stuff. So great, that it can become a problem. First you're buying a two-pack, then four packs and soon you're eating whole tubs. Just like an alcoholic before a work week, I went in for one final binge at 10:54 p.m. Sunday night. Someone mentioned the geeked-out Nolita spot, Rice to Riches. I waddled my rice-pudding engorged thighs over there to see if it could stand up to the Shack.
The rice pudding emporium has been open on Spring Street for a couple years now (joined, like yesterday, by a PinkBery next door.) Similar to an ice cream counter they offer dozens of flavors. Some ok, some gross and some pretty good. They have toppings – fruits, nuts and crouton-like poundcake squares. The "solo", at $5, is their single-serving option. The molded-plastic dish can hold a lot of rice pudding, but the real question is how much of their pudding do you really want?
Here's my pud with Rice to Riches: the fruity flavors (e.g. mango and banana) tasted fake, and if you're thinking this going to be like a yummy sticky-rice and mango thing, then you're going to be disappointed. Rice is too soupy. Kozy's rice-to-pudding ratio is much better, and that gives Kozy more structure and texture in your mouth. Lastly, even for glutonous me, I just couldn't finish a single serving at Rice to Riches. I felt like I was eating a bowl of banana-flavored snot by the end. (Ok, I ate the rest later at home. Because I like leftover snot.)
Here's the verdict: Kozy 1-Rice 0. It's not that Rice is that bad, but it's just Kozy is that good. Rice to Riches has the disease that many New York places have. It takes some perfectly good comfort food and tries to spruce it up into hipster gourmet. I like my rice puddin' just fine. It didn't need no sprucin'. Next you come around, I'll be on my make-believe porch, too fat to get off it, and spoonin' puddin' in my mouth. Delicious, grocery-store bought, pre-packaged rice pudding from The Kooz.
Where: 37 Spring Street, 212-274-0008
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Special Massachusetts edition--CK Shanghai
As i write this, I'm lying on my bed in my hometown of Lexington, Massachusetts, where the lawns are well-manicured, the voters are reliably Democratic, and even the Dunkin Donuts' have a "colonial" look about them. Yesterday I returned from a week in utopian Martha's Vineyard, where the most exciting dining out experience I had (my family ate in most nights) was seeing Spike Lee at the local pizza joint. I was reminded of "Do The Right Thing", minus Radio Raheem and a trash can through the window. (Actually, I ate at a pretty good diner in MV, which I may deign to write about later this week.)
Anyway, dear reader, let me put this question to you: why can the best Chinese food I've ever eaten outside of London be found not in New York City, but in the small (even whiter and richer than Lexington) town of Wellesley, MA? WHY? Why can't CK Shanghai move next door to my house, dammit??
Sorry, I went a bit off the rails there. But good food should have the power to make you angry, I think. And CK Shanghai is damn good. It's not that the menu at this pleasantly laid out Cantonese (sorry, I wanted to sound like Zagat for a second) is that inventive, just that the quality of the ingredients must be light years beyond your standard Chinese restaurant. Everything I've eaten there, and I've been there four or five times now, has been excellent. My favorite is probably the classic crispy spicy shrimp, which is plesantly soft and succulent (mmm, food porn!). The tangerine crispy beef, double fried pan noodles, and vegetable dishers have all been winners, too. The appetizers, as always are just as good if not better than the main courses, from your standard spring rolls to pork dumplings. And for what feels like gourmet eating, the prices are extremely reasonable.
Anyway, dear reader, let me put this question to you: why can the best Chinese food I've ever eaten outside of London be found not in New York City, but in the small (even whiter and richer than Lexington) town of Wellesley, MA? WHY? Why can't CK Shanghai move next door to my house, dammit??
Sorry, I went a bit off the rails there. But good food should have the power to make you angry, I think. And CK Shanghai is damn good. It's not that the menu at this pleasantly laid out Cantonese (sorry, I wanted to sound like Zagat for a second) is that inventive, just that the quality of the ingredients must be light years beyond your standard Chinese restaurant. Everything I've eaten there, and I've been there four or five times now, has been excellent. My favorite is probably the classic crispy spicy shrimp, which is plesantly soft and succulent (mmm, food porn!). The tangerine crispy beef, double fried pan noodles, and vegetable dishers have all been winners, too. The appetizers, as always are just as good if not better than the main courses, from your standard spring rolls to pork dumplings. And for what feels like gourmet eating, the prices are extremely reasonable.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Roasting Plant
The other day another editor at Flavorpill commented on the awful-ness of New York coffee. He just arrived from Australia and was stating what every immigrant soon learns. Coffee sucks in New York. I have ultimately grown to secretly love deli coffee 'regular' full of sugar and cream and horsepiss-colored liquid. But that took me seven years to do - even then, it's really a hot beverage rather than a cup of coffee. Iced coffee from delis, is, a whole other topic. Today I am talking hot, delicious coffee.
My NorCal roots are strong and I usually french press a cup at home every morning before heading out. It's cheaper and way better than Starbucks, which I loathe though have been know to visit. I generally feel their coffee is crap - it's too thick and burnt to taste coffee and requires a gallon of cream to make it palatable.
And everyone from the Bay Area, at least, remininsces about Peet's and Mission Street burrittos. In a stroke of genius, my dad gave me 'Peet's Coffee of the Month' club for Christmas in 2005, which I managed to nurse out into late 2006. But a few weeks ago, I ground my final beans and let out a long sigh. Where was I going to my beans now? There are a few places that pass - Porto Rico in the East Village for one. But I needed the juice, the good stuff. Primo beans. God wanted me to find the Roasting Plant, so he set it in my path as I made my way up Orchard the other day. The man who started it, is quite frankly a little insane. Figures, he's an engineer from Boston and was one the 'Director of Profit Improvement' for Starbucks. Which makes me shudder. But he made a good thing.
The whole place is like a Rube Goldberg mahcine, with pipes and whistles and bean shoots to roast the beans on site. It borders on being too precious, but eh, who cares. I got a half-pound of the house roast for about $7, not the cheapest coffee ever, but I am willing to pay for my drugs. I took it home and waited the suggested 24-hour 'settling' period before brewing my first cup.
Here's what is tastes like: It's roasted, but not burnt. Enough Arabica to be full and round in your mouth but some Central American in there for a little more kick. It tastes - like coffee! Not the roasting machine! It's spicy and peppery and chocolatey in all the right ways. Three cups of this and you'll have wings.
Where: 81 Orchard Street, at Broome, 212-775-7755
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Grom
There is a vicious frozen yogurt craze happening on the streets on Manhattan. No fewer than three new, equally tempting fro-yo chains have opened up in the past year (Yogurberry, Pinkberry and Yolato). So where does that leave the real stuff - cream and eggs and all the rest? For starters, well over the $6/scoop mark.
Safely nestled among the ruling classes with glasses on the Upper West Side is the one-off Grom gelateria. They serve gelato, sorbet and granitas. They are from Italy. It is the Gucci of ice cream. Call in the rollers of big cigars! On Sunday, after a particularly harrowing screening of The Bourne Ultimatum (with Demi and Ashton seated just feet away), we spotted the line up. Twenty deep at 10:27 p.m. We waited, we scooped and we licked. Eh.
I have a lot of issues with Grom
1)It's on a dorky stretch of Broadway, bolstered only by the fact that if you are eating at Big Nick's or drinking at Yogi's, your kind is not welcome at Grom.
2)I don't like paying this much above 14th Street.
3)They are a wee-bit self-congratulating in their literature about how they are Slow Food medal winners, only use cage-free organic eggs, sugar milled by young virgins, etc. …
4)It's a creamy mess. If I wanted a milkshake I would go to a diner, if I wanted sugar I would eat a pixie-stick. It is, I say, too much of a good thing. I like to struggle a little to find the beauty of my frozen treats.
5)Save your money. Buy a Sponge Bob ice cream pop.
Where: 2165 Broadway, 646-290-7233
Safely nestled among the ruling classes with glasses on the Upper West Side is the one-off Grom gelateria. They serve gelato, sorbet and granitas. They are from Italy. It is the Gucci of ice cream. Call in the rollers of big cigars! On Sunday, after a particularly harrowing screening of The Bourne Ultimatum (with Demi and Ashton seated just feet away), we spotted the line up. Twenty deep at 10:27 p.m. We waited, we scooped and we licked. Eh.
I have a lot of issues with Grom
1)It's on a dorky stretch of Broadway, bolstered only by the fact that if you are eating at Big Nick's or drinking at Yogi's, your kind is not welcome at Grom.
2)I don't like paying this much above 14th Street.
3)They are a wee-bit self-congratulating in their literature about how they are Slow Food medal winners, only use cage-free organic eggs, sugar milled by young virgins, etc. …
4)It's a creamy mess. If I wanted a milkshake I would go to a diner, if I wanted sugar I would eat a pixie-stick. It is, I say, too much of a good thing. I like to struggle a little to find the beauty of my frozen treats.
5)Save your money. Buy a Sponge Bob ice cream pop.
Where: 2165 Broadway, 646-290-7233
Vasconcellos
This is from my friend Jesse .... he's got A+ tastebuds, so I think we're safe.
Where: 313 West 37th Street
Also, there is teensy-weensy dominican place in midtown that is worth visiting. The sign looks like they sell second hand heavy metal cassettes but this turns out not to be true. For 5 bucks you get a choice of beans (red, white, black or lentils) plus a choice of white rice or yellow rice and your choice of the meat or fish dishes that have been cooked up that day. Typically they include: pernil, goat, bacalao, king fish, beef stew and stewed chicken. Plus some good juices. The place is just a kitchen with about 8 bar stools on it. Yes, on it. I used to eat here 3 days a week when I worked in the area and now I miss it 3 days a week. Perfect place for a hearty weekday lunch. And character abundant.
Where: 313 West 37th Street
Friday, August 10, 2007
Resto
After New York Magazine wrote that Resto had the "burger of the year," and posted an appetizing picture, I had to try it out. So, the other day, after a rather stressful day partly caused by the New York transit system being brought to its knees by a fucking rainstorm, I decided to treat myself by heading up to 29th St. and eating alone (something I've been known to do).
The place was crowded for a Tuesday night, and I had to wait a while for a seat to open up at the bar. The flamboyant maitre'd told me to stand in a specific place where he thought one would open up, so I perched awkwardly next to two towering bankers (or part of that species, at least) who were discussing domestic matters and, later, the new Bourne movie (one of them had tried reading the Robert Ludlum books and complained that they were "too wordy.") When a third pal appeared, the giant at the bar graciously offered me his seat at the bar so I could sit down and eat, and my opinion of the trio improved immediately.
Anyway, the place was loud but convivial, and there was a pleasing selection of (expensive) Belgian beers on tap, this being a Belgian restaurant. As for the star attraction, the burger, it was...well, good. Nothing out of this world. You can blame the NYC hype machine for that, I guess. My main complaint was that the bun was Mcdonalds-y...a high class burger like this should have a toasted bun made of high quality bread. This one seemed average at best. Also, when I ordered the burger, the waiter (who admittedly, was the bartender for me) didn't even ask how I wanted it cooked. The rest of the ingredients--gruyere, pickles, the mayo they provided--were good, though lacking in onions or the option of mushrooms (a burger standby for me). Strangely, the pickles proved to be the highlight, which I can't say for any burger I've had before.
The place was crowded for a Tuesday night, and I had to wait a while for a seat to open up at the bar. The flamboyant maitre'd told me to stand in a specific place where he thought one would open up, so I perched awkwardly next to two towering bankers (or part of that species, at least) who were discussing domestic matters and, later, the new Bourne movie (one of them had tried reading the Robert Ludlum books and complained that they were "too wordy.") When a third pal appeared, the giant at the bar graciously offered me his seat at the bar so I could sit down and eat, and my opinion of the trio improved immediately.
Anyway, the place was loud but convivial, and there was a pleasing selection of (expensive) Belgian beers on tap, this being a Belgian restaurant. As for the star attraction, the burger, it was...well, good. Nothing out of this world. You can blame the NYC hype machine for that, I guess. My main complaint was that the bun was Mcdonalds-y...a high class burger like this should have a toasted bun made of high quality bread. This one seemed average at best. Also, when I ordered the burger, the waiter (who admittedly, was the bartender for me) didn't even ask how I wanted it cooked. The rest of the ingredients--gruyere, pickles, the mayo they provided--were good, though lacking in onions or the option of mushrooms (a burger standby for me). Strangely, the pickles proved to be the highlight, which I can't say for any burger I've had before.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Suba or An Open Letter to Frank Bruni
Frank Bruni gave Suba - a Spanish-y type place on Ludlow, deep in the heart of hipster Disneyland - two stars this week. He prefaced his review with a very sad story of culinary triumph over tragedy, namely chef Seamus Mullen's battle with rheumatoid arthritis while still managing to run a downtown hot spot. So that slightly dampens about what I am about to say next: Suba is one of the worst restaurants I have ever been too. Mr. Bruni! They KNOW WHO YOU ARE and of course made you something wonderful and worthy of your overwritten prose. For the rest of us, here's what you can really expect. I have been to Suba on two recent occasions, in early May and again in late July. Both times I sat in the beautiful but under-ventilated subterranean room, not in the splish splash room, where the menu warns you they are not responsible for your shit falling into the open pools of water. The bathrooms - also a telltale of a restaurant's general quality - were smelly and messy.
On our first visit the service was intermittently rude and haughty from the maitre'd and just erratic and bad from the server, who forgot dishes and drinks, got orders wrong, had a badditude, etc...we had much better service on our second visit, when we went as a group and the server deftly dealt with our group of 10.
However, for the price points - $10 to $15 for a small tapas - you need to expect greatness from Suba. And the food quite simply was not good. On our Saturday night group dinner the server informed us they were out of a number of items, including the crispy calamari and lamb meatballs, which were two of the most appealing tapas selections. We ordered a poached farm egg, the crudo - which the server forgot - the cod fish jowls and an entree of arroz negro ($26) to share between two people. Nothing was served at an appropriate temperature or really had any taste. It looked ok - but everything tasted bland. The one stand out was the deliciously fatty cod jowls. The arroz negro was especially disappointing - too sticky and dense and was flavorless, even with a squirt of sea urchin on top (one bite of flavor a full entree does not make.) As our party finished there was a call to jaunt over to the creperie, "To finally get something to eat."
Sorry, Mr. Bruni, you've been had. In comparison to my lovely recent dinner at The Modern Cafe, which is similar in tone, structure and ambiance, Suba is a disaster. Dinner dollars aren't cheap and Suba is hugely disappointing - the clientele also, I should point out, seem to be a hodge podge of cocky young bankers and the anorexics who love them.
Where: 109 Ludlow Street, 212-982-5714
On our first visit the service was intermittently rude and haughty from the maitre'd and just erratic and bad from the server, who forgot dishes and drinks, got orders wrong, had a badditude, etc...we had much better service on our second visit, when we went as a group and the server deftly dealt with our group of 10.
However, for the price points - $10 to $15 for a small tapas - you need to expect greatness from Suba. And the food quite simply was not good. On our Saturday night group dinner the server informed us they were out of a number of items, including the crispy calamari and lamb meatballs, which were two of the most appealing tapas selections. We ordered a poached farm egg, the crudo - which the server forgot - the cod fish jowls and an entree of arroz negro ($26) to share between two people. Nothing was served at an appropriate temperature or really had any taste. It looked ok - but everything tasted bland. The one stand out was the deliciously fatty cod jowls. The arroz negro was especially disappointing - too sticky and dense and was flavorless, even with a squirt of sea urchin on top (one bite of flavor a full entree does not make.) As our party finished there was a call to jaunt over to the creperie, "To finally get something to eat."
Sorry, Mr. Bruni, you've been had. In comparison to my lovely recent dinner at The Modern Cafe, which is similar in tone, structure and ambiance, Suba is a disaster. Dinner dollars aren't cheap and Suba is hugely disappointing - the clientele also, I should point out, seem to be a hodge podge of cocky young bankers and the anorexics who love them.
Where: 109 Ludlow Street, 212-982-5714
Friday, August 3, 2007
Pinkberry
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold your horses. I didn't actually get to eat at the dingle-berry. Just take a look at that picture. See how long that line is? Waiting in that kind of line is reserved only for special occasions, like peeing and Justin Timberlake tickets. It's freaking frozen yogurt! Ok, it is clearly a notch about Tasti-D-Lite (bleck. who eats that?) and I did have a moment of fro-yo zen when I tried pinkberry in Los Angeles last Spring in Japantown. But, this line freaks me out. I let those Pilobus-loving spoonfuls line up on their own. I heard a rumor there's one in Koreatown. Will investigate promptly.
Where:170 8th Ave, (212) 488-2510
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Go! Go! Curry
The other day I found myself in one of my least favorite areas of New York--The Garment District, including Herald Square and environs. Though I enjoy Lazzara's Pizza Cafe on 38th St., the area is seriously lacking in non-chain food options compared to most of the rest of NYC. Not to mention the oppressive crowds around Penn Station and the whole 34th St. corridor.
If I ever find myself working in this hellscape, I will definitely frequent the diamond in the rough I visited the other day--Go! Go! Curry. This is a small outlet of a popular Japanese chain that, bizarrely enough, is centered around Yankees left fielder Hideki Matsui. Go means "five" in Japanese, and 55 is Matsui's number. The last four digits of the place's phone number are 5, and it opens at 10:55 and closes at 9:55. It was written up in both New York Magazine and Time Out New York's "Cheap Eats" issues in the last couple weeks--I discovered it in the former's pages, where I learned the aforementioned information about the obsession with "5." The specialty at Go! Go! Curry is a black gloppish substance upon which rice and toppings of your choice are mixed. The glop ounds kind of gross, but it's actually pretty zesty. The menu, which incorporates pork, chicken, shrimp, and possibly something else, includes "single, "double," "triple," and "grand slam"--did I mention there's a baseball theme? I chose the fried pork cutlets to go over the curry, and those succulent cutlets haunted my daydreams for days after I ate them. Always a sign of a good meal.
The decor, other than Matsui articles all over the walls, is bright and inviting, and the woman at the counter was charmingly overfriendly and even cautioned me against ordering too plain a dish when I initially went with the most spare option on the menu (if she hadn't spoken up, I wouldn't have feasted on the pork).
In the end, for just over 10 dollars--or clams, or bones, or whatever you call them--I enjoyed a memorable lunch in the midst of a culinary wasteland. Huzzah!
Where: 273 W. 38th St., (212) 730-5555
Requsite seizure-inducing website: http://www.gogocurryusa.com
If I ever find myself working in this hellscape, I will definitely frequent the diamond in the rough I visited the other day--Go! Go! Curry. This is a small outlet of a popular Japanese chain that, bizarrely enough, is centered around Yankees left fielder Hideki Matsui. Go means "five" in Japanese, and 55 is Matsui's number. The last four digits of the place's phone number are 5, and it opens at 10:55 and closes at 9:55. It was written up in both New York Magazine and Time Out New York's "Cheap Eats" issues in the last couple weeks--I discovered it in the former's pages, where I learned the aforementioned information about the obsession with "5." The specialty at Go! Go! Curry is a black gloppish substance upon which rice and toppings of your choice are mixed. The glop ounds kind of gross, but it's actually pretty zesty. The menu, which incorporates pork, chicken, shrimp, and possibly something else, includes "single, "double," "triple," and "grand slam"--did I mention there's a baseball theme? I chose the fried pork cutlets to go over the curry, and those succulent cutlets haunted my daydreams for days after I ate them. Always a sign of a good meal.
The decor, other than Matsui articles all over the walls, is bright and inviting, and the woman at the counter was charmingly overfriendly and even cautioned me against ordering too plain a dish when I initially went with the most spare option on the menu (if she hadn't spoken up, I wouldn't have feasted on the pork).
In the end, for just over 10 dollars--or clams, or bones, or whatever you call them--I enjoyed a memorable lunch in the midst of a culinary wasteland. Huzzah!
Where: 273 W. 38th St., (212) 730-5555
Requsite seizure-inducing website: http://www.gogocurryusa.com
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Elephant & Castle
This post has less to with this restaurant – which is a slightly-above average locals type place found in every neighborhood – but with restaurants of like this one. And it has to do with salad. Like many people, I eat a lot of salad. Sometimes because I like it, and often because I am supposed to be watching my weight. Dressing on the side, never the Caesar, yada yada yada.
So tonight I ordered the smoked chicken salad ($13.75, which is a little spendy in my book, for this kind of a place). It came in a salad bowl the size of a mixing bowl, with whole leaves of lettuce and then quarters of avocado, a few big chunks of tomato and some roasted hazel nuts. And a big lump of the smoked chicken placed on top. All the mixings were there, but here’s my gripe: how to eat a salad like this? Bowls are are not meant for cutting. And if you’re like me, you like a little bit of each ingredient on every forkful. So I sent the salad back and asked them to chop it. I really really hate salads served in mixing bowls. It makes me feel like I am eating out of a trough. I am not a farm animal. I am human. With a human sized mouth that needs small little pieces so I can fit them gracefully into that mouth.
Anyway, they brought the salad back with only the chicken chopped, so I hacked away at it and made it into something manageable. And it tasted good. But in any event, the place only gets one belly up.
Where: 68 Greenwich Ave., (212) 243-1400
So tonight I ordered the smoked chicken salad ($13.75, which is a little spendy in my book, for this kind of a place). It came in a salad bowl the size of a mixing bowl, with whole leaves of lettuce and then quarters of avocado, a few big chunks of tomato and some roasted hazel nuts. And a big lump of the smoked chicken placed on top. All the mixings were there, but here’s my gripe: how to eat a salad like this? Bowls are are not meant for cutting. And if you’re like me, you like a little bit of each ingredient on every forkful. So I sent the salad back and asked them to chop it. I really really hate salads served in mixing bowls. It makes me feel like I am eating out of a trough. I am not a farm animal. I am human. With a human sized mouth that needs small little pieces so I can fit them gracefully into that mouth.
Anyway, they brought the salad back with only the chicken chopped, so I hacked away at it and made it into something manageable. And it tasted good. But in any event, the place only gets one belly up.
Where: 68 Greenwich Ave., (212) 243-1400
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Totonno's
On Friday, as part of a long-delayed trip to Coney Island, I ate at Totonno's, a classic New York pizzeria with a long history--the original founder once worked at Lombardi's, acknowledged as the first pizza joint in American history. Totonno's is on Neptune Avenue, a few blocks away from Astroland and the rest of the Coney Island boardwalk hullaballo. And, like much of the area, Neptune Avenue is fairly dilapidated, with Totonno's surrounded by auto parts shops, check cashing places and the like. (Ok, maybe not the check cashing places, but I needed another cliched sign of a low-rent area to fill in the blanks.) One wonders what Neptune Ave. looked like when Totonno's opened, and how depressing it must have been to watch the transformation of the neighborhood.
The decor in the restaurant is quite spare, with a few tables and the main attraction, the pizza oven, at the end of the room. An extremely loud employee of the restaurant was jammering on her cell phone during much of our stay. Classic New York pictures and restaurant reviews dot the walls, with a disconcerting picture of both Bushes (Presidents 41 and 43) perched above our table.
I'm not as good at describing victuals as Catherine, so I'll just say that the ultra thin-crust pizza (with mushrooms) was excellent but not quite transcendent. The ingredients tasted fresh, and the place prides itself on using only bread baked that day. I ate five slices, so it obviously did satisfy the hunger beast inside me. Also, they serve you soda in dixie cups. Charming! Though not so charming when you finish the soda in 15 seconds and have to ask for a refill.
I find that a lot of the "best" NYC pizza tastes quite similar--Totonno's reminded me of Grimaldi's, Lucali (the upstart place on Henry St. in Carroll Gardens that you must try if you're a self-respecting pizza eater), and of course, Lombardi's (which is very hit or miss). After eating some deep dish pizza in Chicago a couple of weeks ago, it's striking to see just how thin New Yorkers like their pizza. I fall squarely in the thin crust camp myself, though variety is the spice of life and I wouldn't mind one viable deep dish option in the area.
Where: 1524 Neptune Avenue, Brooklyn, New York (718) 372-8606
The decor in the restaurant is quite spare, with a few tables and the main attraction, the pizza oven, at the end of the room. An extremely loud employee of the restaurant was jammering on her cell phone during much of our stay. Classic New York pictures and restaurant reviews dot the walls, with a disconcerting picture of both Bushes (Presidents 41 and 43) perched above our table.
I'm not as good at describing victuals as Catherine, so I'll just say that the ultra thin-crust pizza (with mushrooms) was excellent but not quite transcendent. The ingredients tasted fresh, and the place prides itself on using only bread baked that day. I ate five slices, so it obviously did satisfy the hunger beast inside me. Also, they serve you soda in dixie cups. Charming! Though not so charming when you finish the soda in 15 seconds and have to ask for a refill.
I find that a lot of the "best" NYC pizza tastes quite similar--Totonno's reminded me of Grimaldi's, Lucali (the upstart place on Henry St. in Carroll Gardens that you must try if you're a self-respecting pizza eater), and of course, Lombardi's (which is very hit or miss). After eating some deep dish pizza in Chicago a couple of weeks ago, it's striking to see just how thin New Yorkers like their pizza. I fall squarely in the thin crust camp myself, though variety is the spice of life and I wouldn't mind one viable deep dish option in the area.
Where: 1524 Neptune Avenue, Brooklyn, New York (718) 372-8606
Friday, July 27, 2007
p*ong
Pichet Ong wants to know if it's too much dessert. We are sated and tipsy, having nibbled our way through the 13 course suite ($79). Nah, we tell him, it was just right. We are the last diners in the restaurant on a Thursday night and he has come out from the kitchen to chat.
Ong's new restaurant p*ong is 9 weeks old and after the glowing review in the Times, we went for a test drive. The menu is divided into three parts: savory, sweet and savory and sweet. Plates are priced between $10 and $15. He is famed for his desserts, as his roots are as a pastry chef. But it was the dessert-like preparations of savory dishes that I personally liked the best. Foie gras brulee is a 1" round of foie on a toast and torched to crunchy perfection and served with cherries and a biscotti jelly, which is deliciously light and translucent. The burrata with the frozen roasted tomato was also a wonderful combinations of temperature, taste and texture. Our least favorite was the stilton souffle, which was a little too heavy for a summer evening, although the basil-arugla ice cream was delicious and worth having a scoop on its own. The fresh dates seemed a little too simple - served with shards of aged Spanish mahon - after the artistry of the other plates. As we finished our sparkling black muscat we chatted with Ong. He told us he is planning to open an ice cream shop next door in the near future and signed a cookbook for us. The service was wonderful - both the host and our server were very friendly and warm, creating a great and comfortable experience. I give p*ong four belly ups.
Where: 150 West 10 Street, 212-929-0898
Ong's new restaurant p*ong is 9 weeks old and after the glowing review in the Times, we went for a test drive. The menu is divided into three parts: savory, sweet and savory and sweet. Plates are priced between $10 and $15. He is famed for his desserts, as his roots are as a pastry chef. But it was the dessert-like preparations of savory dishes that I personally liked the best. Foie gras brulee is a 1" round of foie on a toast and torched to crunchy perfection and served with cherries and a biscotti jelly, which is deliciously light and translucent. The burrata with the frozen roasted tomato was also a wonderful combinations of temperature, taste and texture. Our least favorite was the stilton souffle, which was a little too heavy for a summer evening, although the basil-arugla ice cream was delicious and worth having a scoop on its own. The fresh dates seemed a little too simple - served with shards of aged Spanish mahon - after the artistry of the other plates. As we finished our sparkling black muscat we chatted with Ong. He told us he is planning to open an ice cream shop next door in the near future and signed a cookbook for us. The service was wonderful - both the host and our server were very friendly and warm, creating a great and comfortable experience. I give p*ong four belly ups.
Where: 150 West 10 Street, 212-929-0898
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