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.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)