Goodies First

River Styx

Wednesday, day two for River Styx, the new project from Roebling Tea House people,  it was no problem getting seats for three on the early side of dinner time. Other newcomers in the area were under siege (more later). We only tried small plates on this first visit.

The buttered tortilla concept seemed sort of weird in the abstract, but really it was not much different than a less flaky roti. Plus, they were blue. Served as the starch with a balsamic and olive oil dressed mound of chicken liver, it was a lot of richness, and reminded me of something I would make if drunk and/or too lazy to go to the grocery store, which is often.

Squid suave is buffalo squid, super crispy with a light batter. One is not enough. Any leftover tortilla is particularly good dragged through the hot sauce.

Scallop "ceviche" was a more composed plate  (not sure why ceviche gets quotes--it seemed raw?) with frizzled leeks and caviar. Oddly, I'd eaten homemade scallop ceviche, no quotes, for lunch. Something I'd make if sober and had planned a supermarket visit.

There were also nachos with "pump cheese," a.k.a. artisanal queso. These were minus the stewed chicken.

A sip of another’s tequila-based serrano cocktail, Discipline, was crazy hot. When I ordered my own later, the heat had been toned down, what I swear was vanilla upped and an attempt (forgotten and apologized for with the initial round) to light the strip of hot pepper, apparently soaked in oil of some sort, failed to ignite. A+ for effort, though. I also had a whiskey sour-ish drink made with Rye and Applejack. Both were iced, warmer weather cocktails. I would not describe them as tiki, however, despite reading that elsewhere.

This is not my neighborhood, but if it were I might be excited for the sudden growth spurt along the western fringes. Or maybe annoyed if I just wanted something to eat or drink on a week night. A Sunset Park friend who joined for the second round, was thrown by the 45-minute wait at nearby Alameda and the clumps of kids on the sidewalks spilling out of Achilles Heel and taking up the sidewalk. For mellowness, $5 prosecco on tap and sandwiches, the backyard at non-hotspot Troost (not to be confused with Torst also in Greenpoint) was more than sufficient.

River Styx * 21 Greenpoint Ave., Brooklyn, NY

 

Best Pizza

I shouldn't be too harsh on my friends' eating quirks because it's not as if they have no good ideas. I would've walked by Best Pizza, never giving it a second thought, if I hadn't been introduced to it and the vegetable (god, never say veggie or veg) slice earlier this year. Not the green pepper, olive, mushroom blech that passes for a non-meat slice, but kale, beets, cauliflower and blobs of ricotta that are more of a treat.

The white slice, which only occurred to me yesterday after being called out in the latest installment of Real Cheap Eats devoted to food off the L line, is the better meatless option, if you ask me, though. Less crusty, so the toppings (not that there are a lot of them) have more presence. Lemony ricotta, sweet caramelized onions and an unexpected sprinkling of sesame seeds are all you need. Oh, and maybe a shake or two of chile flakes.

Best Pizza * 33 Havemeyer St., Brooklyn, NY

Xixa

 

A most serious issue has emerged where I’m just not going to be able to try all of the restaurants I would like if it requires convincing a dining companion. I do not surround myself with the foodish, through financial circumstance (not that I’m sitting on a pile of gold) or dietary predilection--bones, spice, meat, offal, all fish, raw fish have been deal-breakers--the pickings for company can be slim.

I’ve toyed with starting a column just for the subject, but there’s no surer way to get ridiculed, particularly if you’re female. Solo dining is divisive. On the one extreme are the solo shamers who find an aversion to eating alone ludicrous, and then there are the anxiety-ridden who would rather just go hungry (or go on Seamless) than suffer the perceived indignity. I don’t mean grabbing a slice of pizza for lunch. How many would dine at Noma alone? (I would say El Celler de Can Roca to be more timely, but apparently one of those Roads & Kingdoms dudes has written an essay on exactly that already. And I’m not surprised it’s a guy—there is something more pitiable than a lone lady.)

Thankfully, I was able to coax a friend into wandering over to Xixa (revamped Fatty ‘Cue was a no go--there's brisket in the mustard greens and pork dressing on the eggplant) where even on a Saturday night there was an open spot for two at the end of the communal table (which wasn't horrible--I'm not a good space-sharer--but it does require a suck-in or a stand-up for others to get in and out if you're against the wall). And really, the bar would’ve been perfectly fine for a single diner.

First off, Xixa, despite what’s been said about it, isn’t particularly Mexican. I mean, more so than Traif, and there are avocados and chiles, but this is "tacos," "tamales" and "guacamole" territory.

The grilled carrots, sweetened with honey and smoothed with a lime crema and feta, were amazing. The coriander was expected; the dill was not.

The hunks of avocados with raw vegetables and puffed rice cakes, a.k.a. nam prik num, was surprisingly weak. This was the one dish I was gung ho on trying because my new favorite breakfast (above) consists of mashed avocado, crunchy sea salt and a few dabs of sharply hot and shrimpy nam prik ta-dang (I alternate with a catfish version—both from Sripraphai) on toasted German pumpernickel health bread. I wanted that extreme burst of salinity, fishiness and heat.

The chile rellenos stuffed with burrata and a zucchini-mushroom-fennel escabeche, and the corn flan with crab and a poblano cream were not mine. I made personal entrées of a butterfish tartare with an avocado mousse and chips and the standout duck lettuce wraps, which came with dark slices of meat mixed with raisins and peanuts,  and a banana puree and cubed cucumbers and halved grape tomatoes as garnish. It's a lot of sweet, and the banana had potential to be creepy, despite plantains making total sense with these flavors, but it all worked.  Even the non-meat-eater who is slowly and selectively acclimating to poultry, as long it's chewy and well-done, gave these a try.

The meal begins a tiny amuse (a snap pea turned  into a taco filled with crema and a frico) and ends with a one-bite sweet (a brownie-like thing), both extra touches that make the meal more special. Even if every small plate wasn't perfect, the overall effect was pleasing.

P.S. I know these photos look like hell. I'm kind of over SLRs at the table, but iPhones don't cut it. A new in-between camera arrived just hours ago; we'll see how it pans out.

Xixa * 241 S. Fourth St., Brooklyn, NY

 

 

Selamat Pagi

You could take issue with white people better known for their artisanal ice cream cooking Balinese food (I withhold judgment) or that what they're calling Balinese is more generally Indonesian (ok, that’s sort of an issue) but where else are you going to find rendang in North (or South, for that matter) Brooklyn?

And the beef rendang was good, rich and stewed tender in coconut milk, lightly spicy with cinnamon and star anise undertones. The only weirdness were the pickles, which were, uh, pickles. I was expecting crisper shallots and matchstick-cut carrots and cucumbers (yes, pickles are cucumbers). You just never know in Brooklyn because at Three Letters it was the complete opposite: fried pickles turned out to be fried pickled vegetables. For further confusion there was a $4 seasonal pickle plate (as well as that old Balinese specialty, deviled eggs) listed in the snack section—who knows what it contained?

The last of the three snacks was shrimp chips with three sambals—two very lemongrassy, one more tomatoey, all hot. It’s a nice shared starter. Sambals, nam priks and their ilk are fussy to make, so I’m always happy to eat someone else’s selection.

The non-small plates are served as entrées, not family style, so my bite of mahi mahi coconut curry was inconclusive. I did not try the tamarind tempeh that was also present.

Everything is organic; the beef is grass-fed. Descriptors like wild, biodynamic and heritage make appearances. Items are priced accordingly, which isn’t to say outrageous (the rendang was $17) especially when you consider that there is now a food truck selling beef rendang to go for $13.

If you come from Tørst like I did, you can continue drinking Evil Twin beer. Hipster Ale, of course.

Selamat Pagi * 152 Driggs Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Spicy, Meatless, Horseless

Brooklyn Taco The Saturday afternoon pop-up housed inside Williamsburg's Donna was a pleasant surprise. Happy hour drinks practically call for a little stomach padding. Guacamole (for god’s sake, never say "guac"--do I even have to tell you not say "marg?") always bores me to death and is overpriced to boot (I’m fine enjoying the two-dollar's worth of raw materials in my own home) but for reasons I don’t understand everyone always wants to order a shitload for the table, so I was a mildly amused that the usual crowd-pleaser was fiery enough to elicit dismay. I'm not even sure where they heat was lurking in the green mash. Same with the tacos; those who went for the vegetarian version got dosed with a blast of chile heat. Maybe the meat-avoiders were being punked? The cabeza was spicy, not brutally so, and I was happy to have a chewy, substantial choice instead of some stewed San Loco/Calexico blahness.

Blossom I probably wouldn’t have chosen a vegan restaurant out of my own volition (though animal-free dishes are a step above raw foods) but others’ birthdays are like that. And the pistachio-and-pepper-dusted tofu was better than the sum of its parts. Probably because of the foundational crepe stuffed with a root vegetable puree and the thick lemon truffle sauce. It was more rich than austere. My camera photo was hideous enough that it decided to leave it out--I hate to give vegan cooking an even worse image.

Qi Bangkok Eatery I’m really not obsessed with Qi even though I do get a kick out of the Williamsburg location (I'm pretty sure I've mentioned it at least twice). It turns out that I now work a block from the one on Eighth Avenue so I had to take a peek. I was surprised that they also have a menu by Pichet Ong a.k.a. the “Bangkok Selection” (and that there are still peep shows in Times Square) but it’s not the same as in Williamsburg, no Ovaltine ribs, etc. and only available after 5pm. I just had the lunch combo, steamed chicken dumplings that were kind of boring but not bad and chicken basil chile stirfry that was spicier than expected for not having to ask for extra heat. $7.95 isn’t a horrible price (you could pay $13 for a takeout salad over here) for two dishes in a non-frenzied setting. I'll probably go back and just get a larb and a glass of Riesling (drunk lunch is my new midtown M.O.--don't tell anyone) You don't like chandeliers in lucite boxes and Louis Ghost chairs during your lunch break?

Bonefish Grill Ok, well, I am obsessed with Bonefish Grill. Twice in one quarter is a lot even for me. This is a weirdo location in Paramus that instead of sharing space with a fellow OSI brand like Carrabba’s is attached to a Crowne Plaza next to a mall. So it felt like I was on a vacation. There was no trout for my grilled fish with pan Asian sauce (pretty much soy, ketchup and oyster sauce) so it was scallops and shrimp instead. They did, however, have a new appetizer, white tuna, a.k.a. escolar, a.k.a. shit fish sashimi (that's seared) which I ordered because I’m wild that way. The seasonal sides have progressively gotten more creative. I don’t mean that chickpeas, spinach and turkey sausage is Michelin-worthy, just that it’s trying a little harder than the usual mashed potatoes, rice or steamed vegetables.

Ikea Horse-free, I think, not that I would be bothered by a little horse meat (apparently, the Swedes aren't either). I haven’t eaten in an Ikea cafeteria in years—when did they replace the boiled new potatoes with mashed?

 

 

 

 

 

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Bready

Saltie I'm extremely late to this tightly edited collection of mostly focaccia-based sandwiches (I'm still not clear how the little shop managed to fill an entire cookbook) because I never used to be anywhere near Metropolitan Avenue before 6pm and I am a sad person who tries to avoid bread and eschewing sandwiches is the easiest way to do that. You hear about the Scuttlebutt and the one that's mostly lettuce (don't think it's currently served) but the Balmy may be a sleeper hit. Like an American banh mi with the pate in the starring role, this hearty sandwich combines a thick layer of liver and shaved ham with pickled onions, carrots (and assorted other unidentifiable things) green olives, parsley instead of cilantro, a little jalapeño and swipe of mayonnaise. It's the soft bread (and lack of fishy component) that sets it apart.

Bien Cuit Once the bread floodgates have opened, there is no stopping. Even though I never once visited the full-service Smith Street location, I was excited to hear about the weekend bread-only pop-up, oddly situated on the ground floor of that odd narrow bright blue apartment building on Metropolitan near the BQE turnoff that looks like something you'd see in Amsterdam. I needed something grainy for an Easter butternut squash and kale strata, but ended up going with the sturdy baguette instead of the many-grain, which seemed too intense for what was essentially a breakfast casserole. What I really wanted in addition to eat with two pounds of Acme smoked salmon was a dark, chewy smorrebrod rye like they serve at Aamanns. Instead, I returned Sunday and picked up that seriously dense many-grain (buckwheat, wheat, millet, rye, amaranth and black sesame), which is described as being complementary to cheese, but works with gravlax and dilled sour cream too. Unfortunately, I underestimated its edibility and had to send a guest out for another loaf (plus a rye & sunflower, for good measure and to help make sandwiches of leftover ham).

The NoMad What do you eat when you've already tried the chicken for two? (Funny, this question came up this week because though I know it's a whole chicken, it really doesn't seem so.) You could order it again. Or you could jump all over the menu while slicing and picking at the freshly baked foccacia. The sweetbreads croustillant, a.k.a. eggroll-style are a little odd because they seem too naked, just soft innards in a shell and no sauce. Fun in theory, but they needed something more. The gratineed bone marrow with anchovy worked better (and though I'm contradicting what I just said,  I kind of like my marrow plain and unadorned with nothing more than crunchy grains of salt). The lobster wasn't a disappointing chicken alternative, and light despite being bathed in rich buttery foam that had that nice subtle licorice quality from the fennel. The smooth white globe of ice cream in the coconut-centric dessert resembled a hard-boiled egg so much it was nearly distracting.

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Celebs, Curry, Classics

Sweet Chick I would not say that Williamsburg, or NYC in general, needs another southern joint. How much fried chicken can a city stand (and I love fried chicken)? Battered, craggy and sticky with sweetened soy like the finest Chinese takeout, General Tso fried chicken, is a different story. Add a light rice waffle with what appeared by be chopped Chinese broccoli baked in and you have a fun blackboard special. Lest you think all this retooled Americana is a young person’s game (jerky fries? purple drank?)  it was good enough for Canadian Pat Kiernan and family, who'd apparently made the block-and-a-half trek on a Sunday night.

Laut And then I (or rather my table-mate) spotted Ric Ocasek and Paulina Porizkova the following night strolling past our window. I only saw the backs of two tall, skinny people all in black. If an ‘80s celebrity marriage can last this long, it gives hope for the rest of us. Laut does the dreaded pan-Asian thing, mostly focusing on Thailand and Malaysia. Stick with the latter. The laksa and curry mee wouldn’t compete with anything you’d find in Queens or Chinatown, but where else are you going to get these spicy soups anywhere above 14^th Street? Ok, I take that back—according to Menupages 12 other restaurants that fit that criteria.

Qi Thai Grill is on Seamless, which tickles me, if only because it means beef tendon salad and pork belly (not so crisp, admittedly, after the journey) arriving at my door. Read more here.

Pok Pok And sometimes Brooklyn Thai needs to be experienced in person. Reports of smaller post-hype crowds may be true, but there is still likely to be a wait. In my case 45 minutes at 9:30pm on a Wednesday. Kaeng kradang, a chalkboard special described a cold weather curry, turned out to be a highly jellied pork terrine, feeling a little more French-Vietnamese than Thai (though I know it's not). I would eat this on a baguette rather than with finger-fulls of sticky rice. A duck salad and ribs with a pair of dipping sauces rounded out the meal, just right for two, despite the server’s warning that we had under-ordered. Keep your eye out for Columbia Street on a future episode of The Americans (you’re watching it, right?). Film crews had taken over a number of blocks near the waterfront. I did not see Keri Russell (who apparently owns a Brooklyn brownstone, as all celebrities big and small, minus Pat Kiernan, seem to).

Diner and Dumont While distinct restaurants, obviously, these two that I hadn't patronized since the early '00s may end up being Williamsburg old-timers as places like La Villita Bakery and La Borinquena get pushed out. In the days before 20-somethings regularly dined on entrees costing roughly their ages, $12 mussels and fries felt fancy (it was the mayonnaise in lieu of ketchup that clinched it). That was the only thing I ever ordered at Diner. Dumont still makes a nice burger. Supposedly, so does Diner but I’ve never tried it (nor the steaks). Because I may be a decade older but still not free-spending, I didn’t bother ordering any of the specials with no prices mentioned. I will admit that a squid salad with lentils and fennel and duck breast with farro and kumquats were definitely a step up from the bowl of bivalves.

Walter Foods Pretty much the newer but not that new version of the mid-20s people and prices place. Chicken, steak, pork chops--the standards--are all ok, but nothing that would explain why the restaurant is always so packed. While eating steak frites and deviled eggs, I realized that a Shazam for faces would be a valuable invention. Right before closing, a dude being filmed showed up and everyone seemed to know who he was. Then again, the room also appeared to be morphing into a private after-hours space, so perhaps the room was just filled with his friends celebrating his Kickstarter campaign.

Lodge I would lump Lodge right in with the above or not even mention it at all. It's always been a non-entity to me, a place with no appeal. But it was open relatively late on St. Patrick's Day (a blessedly low-key, non barfy holiday in these parts) and so I stopped in and had my frequent semi-boring office lunch, steak salad, but jazzed up with pears, walnuts and goat cheese for dinner. It was certainly better than Flavors and I give Lodge a leg up for playing My Bloody Valentine’s Ecstasy and Wine and Up For a Bit With the Pastels (neither on Spotify, annoyingly) both my driving to school in the morning music, taped from record to cassette, of course.

 

Zizi Limona

It didn't seem right to lump Zizi Limona in with the recent Williamsburg batch. Partially because even though the newish Mediterranean-plus restaurant got the Hungry City treatment and a Brooklyn Heatmap nod, whenever I pass by--maybe at the wrong times--I see a candlelit expanse of diner-less tables. And that's just not right.

 The above-mentioned plus is that it's not just a falafel joint, something it might be getting unfairly pegged as. Recently when deciding where to eat with a group, I suggested Zizi Limona because it wasn't likely to pose a seating trauma on a Saturday night. It was shot down with the supposition that a friend of a friend didn't want kebabs because she'd just spent the past few years in Iraq. No arguments in this case--Williamsburg is rife with all-American food; fried chicken, burgers and bbq for miles--but the not wanting kebabs argument could be a problem. For what it's worth, there are seven items in the section called Classic Big Zi's (as opposed to less traditional Big Zi's, Small Zi's and salads) and only one involves kebabs, served with a mysterious sounding black babaganoush.

I may try the lamb eventually, but other dishes give a fuller picture of the border-crossing style. Take the Tershi, Jewish by way of Libya, a naturally sweet, gingery pumpkin mash grounded with cumin and stewed chickpeas. I don't know anywhere else in NYC that serves it.

Or the bourekas, called here Sometimes a Cigar is Just a Cigar, flaky pastry cylinders stuffed with non-traditional mozzarella and basil and moved eastward with almonds and honey.

A special featured chicken liver, rich, unadorned (I thought it might be coated and fried) and served with Jerusalem artichoke (or sunchoke, if you rather) two ways: pureed as a base and slivered and fried to a crisp as a garnish gone wild. Hit with thyme and Santorini vinegar, like a less sweet balsamic, this was about as far from a kebab as you could get.

Zizi Limona * 129 Havemeyer St., Brooklyn, NY

Eaten, Barely Blogged: 11211

Le Comptoir It seems like just yesterday I moved to Clinton Hill, but that was five months ago. Now it's winter and I'm living in Williamsburg where there is easily ten times the number of restaurants and I may as well be a grandma. That's one reason why Le Comptoir seemed like an odd choice to be name-checked in the new rental's glowing ad copy. I wouldn't consider the bistro notable enough to convince anyone to move nearby and only went because I wasn't in the mood for a long Saturday night wait after a day of moving and it was empty (while Walter Foods next door was at capacity) at first, then filled with drinkers up front. I think they live on their all-you-can-drink weekend brunch. Service was predictably wonky and my Sazerac, which I only ordered because it was listed, was served iced like the Manhattans in Southeast Asia. My steak tartare with salad was fine, if not generously portioned for $11. A fallback, not a first choice.

BrisketTown I've still not experienced the primetime bbq (nor the just introduced lunch sandwiches) but during the day they serve the brisket--and you should get the brisket--in Austin-style breakfast tacos. The floppy flour tortillas make the creation feel more like an open-faced burrito. Despite tales of lines for dinner and running out before closing time, there was not another soul inside for the morning shift. Though the pulled pork and brisket look similar (I did not try the vegetable, the third offering) each had its own unique garnish: a slightly bitter cabbage for the pork and pickled red onions for the smoked beef. The latter, blended with scrambled eggs and chile sauce had the edge. I have never been to Texas so I can't speak to any authenticity--bacon or chorizo are the favored meats there--but the breakfast tacos have been given thumbs up by more than one Austin transplant.

Forcella Part of the 2011 montanara pizza craze that apparently has died down. And once again, we were the only diners on a weeknight (not a good trend). I like the concept--it's not as if they're going full-Scottish and battering and deep-frying the whole pizza--but it failed to deliver. The whole center was sog, defeating the whole purpose of the fry. I would've rather had a langos.

 Maison Premiere A wild exception to the everyplace is empty experience. Arriving at 4:05pm for the 4pm-7pm $1 oyster happy hour was no prevention against waiting until 6pm until an iced tray of oysters appeared in front of me. Whether or not this was the result of a three-day-weekend Monday (I hope to god) or a normal Monday, I can't say. And the seating procedure was arcane, to boot. The initial 20-minute quote turned out to be just to enter the restaurant, which was already at capacity, and not for any guarantee of bar seating where you can order food (seats with ledges in the bar are drinks-only). Said prime bar seating is a free for all and predatory. If you wait another hour or so one of the real sit-down tables will eventually become available. Logistics aside, a buck an oyster is a good deal, and 18 varieties means you can get an education (I knew I liked Malpeques but the super briny new-to-me Beausoleil and Totten Island oysters were the best) even if it's unlikely that I would return anytime soon (or could unless I snuck off work early). The non-raw bar food is ambitious. Loup de mer crudo was precious in size, though brightly flavored with grapefruit and marcona almonds for a little richness. And I was not expecting a cloche and tableside saucing with the langoustine and sweetbreads, especially not as the large group of young men at the next table were doing their best impression of Dave Chapelle channeling Rick James by shrieking "I'm rich bitch."

OMG Taco Technically 11206 (and no, this isn't Bushwick) there is not probably any reason to eat here other than being very drunk and/or needing food on the same block as the Montrose L station.With that said, the bistec taco (pictured) could've been worse.

Taco Chulo There is not a strong argument to eat here either, though I have done so many times. It is useful for large groups with varying levels of interest in food--and there's no harm in a margarita and queso-drenched  nachos every now and then.

Three Letters

When I heard “70’s French Truck Stop,” my first thought was Restaurant Madrid, a ramshackle diner along the route between Quebec City and Montreal with monster trucks and dinosaurs in the parking lot, even though that's French-Canadian, not French French. My second thought was "that's likely bullshit," though to be fair they did temper their vision with "vaguely." (I had similar thoughts when The Third Man was described endlessly as inspired by the Loos Bar, a description I wouldn't have questioned if I hadn't just been in Vienna and knew better. I also see I'm not alone in my grumbling.)

I still wanted to see what Three Letters was about, if only because Clinton Hill is a little new restaurant-deprived. I was not alone in my curiosity. At 7pm on a Saturday there was already a half-hour wait and by the time I was seated it was getting a little traumatic (many of the same people were still waiting for tables by the time we vacated). Buzz, they have it.

Meanwhile, The Wallace, just a ways down Fulton is always empty and now a daily deal staple (couples on both sides of my table, British, deeper-middle-aged and not impressed with Three Letters, and the two younger men who liked things fine, mentioned this dichotomy, one to me intentionally, the other overheard) which makes me feel bad because the food at the Wallace is solid and the newlyweds who run it seem earnest. It's just not a cool place.

Perhaps its the bar with a good number of seats and lots of inexpensive snacks, including everyone's must-have: pickles, as we're now all living in a "fried pickle environment." (About those pickles--I got into an elevator conversation with coworker I've never really spoken with before and it turns out she lives nearby, had gone on opening night and took issue with what was described as fried pickles on the menu being fried pickled vegetables, not pickled cucumbers, i.e. how the average American thinks of pickles, and got condescended to by the bartender when asking about it.) The prices don't hurt; the most expensive thing on the menu is $18 and bottles of wine topped out at $45.

Rissoles are like savory turnovers, and stuffed with venison are not wildly dissimilar in concept to Do or Dine's fawntons. Served with a smoked cherry jam, the $4 hors d'œuvre is one of those aforementioned bites that could be fun to nibble at the bar.

The smaller dishes had more appeal on paper, though I didn't get to fully test out this theory. Moules poutine, mussels, fries and gravy, came from the kitchen in a steady stream, landing on what appeared to be every table but ours (yet still made it onto the check--we were scolded for not saying anything about not receiving it sooner). So, not all French French, after all.

I never order the roast chicken, but thought I'd test out a basic, here called Chicken St. James and accompanied by grilled broccoli and a potato gratin, described as pommes alene. I got nervous when warned that it was "cooked to order" and would take 20 minutes, since I would expect everything to be cooked to order. I remembered why I don't order roast chicken unless it's pollo a la brasa: it's really boring.

The food, overall, is just ok. I'd rather eat at a French truck stop in France, but I wouldn't discourage anyone in the vicinity from stopping by (it's really a neighborhood restaurant, not the destination it was being treated as). I would go back if someone suggested it. I don't know that they will. The service could use a little softening around the edges, despite the allowances I can make for a super-slammed opening weekend.

Three Letters * 930 Fulton St., Brookyn, NY

 

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Cold-Fighting

Taste Good Malaysian There are many directions you can go if you're a spicy soup to ward off a cold type: soondubu jjigae, hotpot, menudo (for some reason tom yum doesn't appeal) or Singapore laksa, a.k.a. laksa lemak, the rich coconutty style. Somehow the combination of heat and creaminess just makes sense for a sore throat. Elmhurst's Taste Good Malaysian is as good as anywhere to get a fix. Their version filled with bean curd puffs, half a hardboiled egg, chicken shreds, a few small shrimp, fish cakes, bean sprouts and fat, round translucent noodles is a meal in itself (always a problem because it's too filling to allow for any rendang, nasi lemak or sambal shrimp) though a shared roti canai and popiah won't hurt. I only regret having waved off the scrappy gentleman trying to sell a bottle of Robitussin in front of the Queens Adult Care Center on the walk to the restaurant because I'm still sick (the laksa didn't work, but it was tasty) and too beat to walk the eight blocks to the nearest drug store.

Die Koelner Bierhalle The Park Slope beer hall with a surprising amount of seating (communal, of course) is more for drinking and sporting, though a simple bratwurst and big plate of spaetzle and speck (not pictured) are fitting winter accompaniments. Just don't try to order the bauernwurst or you'll be steered away with "Nobody orders it. We're removing it from the menu." What's wrong with the bauernwurst?

Blaue Gans You could also get a bratwurst here (no bauernwurst, sorry) but it will be $7 more than in Park Slope. While relatively casual, Blaue Gans is still more of a sit-down affair. If you order the blood sausage, you might be asked if you've had it before. (Do you see a trend forming? During three recent meals--including Qi Grill, not mentioned here--I was essentially told that I didn't really want what I said I wanted, which makes me testy.) Or maybe the server just meant it's not presented in cased sausage form, but loose and molded into a circle. No one warned me away from the calves liver with apples and bacon, thankfully.

Cafecito Bogota If you find yourself in upper Greenpoint on Sunday during dreaded brunch time, you could do worse than an a la carte arepa (though feel free to order the $16.99 three-drink with food special if you're into mucho mimosas, sangria or refajo, an unseemly blend of Colombian beer and cream soda--they weren't able to make a bloody mary). The Cartegena comes with a big mound of scrambled eggs, shrimp and cilantro.

Hudson Yards Cafe This might be the most inoffensive lunch place closest to the Javits Center. Never mind that all the other badge-wearers (you've taken yours off, of course) are drinking iced tea and Diet Coke. Stick to your guns and down two pints of Stella with your fontina (spelled fontana) and prosciutto panini; it'll endear the older bartender who's also midday tippling to you. If you're a certain age being referred to as a "good girl" isn't offensive.

Taco Chulo I don't normally eat restaurant breakfasts (despite contrary evidence above) especially not on weekdays, but I had time to kill before looking at a nearby apartment (I didn't realize how many area restaurants are dinner-only) and rajas hash with chorizo was right on, greasy and yolky with a bit of heat. Of course when I showed up to the apartment on time, a twentysomething couple was also waiting even though their appointment was a half-hour after mine and so I was forced to look at their out-of-my-budget apartments with them (and vice versa). Why kill time, waiting your turn when you can just be a twentysomething in Williamsburg?

 

 

 

Qi Thai Grill

Qi Thai Gril is Williamsburg's latest attempt at Meatpacking the neighborhood. The enormous stage set restaurant could simply be ignored if the food wasn't actually pretty good. Though I can't say that's true across the board, since I was careful to mostly order things that sounded interesting, no green curry or pad thai. And if our server's cock-blocking of multiple dishes ordered is any indication, no one's opting for the stuff that's worth trying. (Overheard at neighboring table: "I don't like coconut milk." What?) 

Ignore the chopsticks, order the small dishes and specialties, don't for the love of god be a couple who each orders one thing and eats it like an individual entree (the worst!) dig the statuary and ambient Asian boutique hotel chillout music while pretending you're at an upscale Bangkok restaurant for foreigners. Then laugh because you're in beardo Brooklyn. Whatever Qi is, it's not Fushimi.

"Do you know what tendon is?" is not what you expect to hear after explicitly ordering tendon. No one should be scared off because I suspect this is one of the more intriguing things on menu, if you know and enjoy eating tendons, of course. In fact, it's the first thing on the first page of the menu (from the list of Sripraphai-created small plates). The tendons are not thin strips more common to Sichuan preparations, but fatty blobs that are a chewy foil for the bright lemongrass and kaffir lime and creeping heat that's mighty. The roasted rice powder adds a toasty finish.

Minus the chile dipping sauce, there's nothing particularly Thai about the Ovaltine ribs from Pichet Ong's grilled selections. Rich with five spice--or at least star anise and cinnamon--the malty chocolate blends into combination that's almost Malaysian. Like rendang on a bone.

When you see verbiage like "Perhaps the spiciest Thai dish that NYC has to offer" it's hard to let the claim go untested. I've yet to encounter anything hotter than the brutal Southern curry at Sripraphai that no one should order more than once every half-decade, and the Fiery Pork Red Turmeric Curry is a little kinder. The split bird and dried red chiles are tamed by a soupy amount of coconut milk, though the heat is certainly on the serious end of the Scoville scale by Brooklyn Thai standards. Plus, I'm always happy to see those apple eggplants.

Noodles are always underwhelming, and the pad kee mao fell into that carby and comforting but ultimately unexciting category. A little chile-spiked fish sauce might have helped.

Qi Thai Grill * 176 Ninth St., Brooklyn, NY

 

 

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Locals Only

I'll admit I kind of liked complaining about Carroll Gardens (and I did so with gusto--there's a grocer/sandwichery that called me out on citing them three times--Google alerts, clearly--in my blanket overhype condemnation). But as they say, love it or leave it, and so I did. There's nothing worse than whiners who don't take action.

And I can be honest and say that there's not a lot going on over here in my far northeastern corner of Clinton Hill (and technically none of what follows is in Clinton Hill--you don't really need to hear about the perfunctory sashimi and Caribbean snacks and melon cocktails I've encountered). But at least there are no illusions. A majority of the restaurants on Court and Smith streets were/are mediocre, and despite perfectly good meals at Buttermilk Channel and Frankies, I see no need to wait over an hour for a bowl of pasta or fried chicken anywhere.

So that said, my standards aren't as stringent in these parts. It's like in high school where there was a class called Reading and the students did nothing but read books on couches amidst a bunch of potted plants because they had bad grades and were underachievers. Ok, my standards aren't that low; I'm just saying there are different measures of success.

Dictated by the neighborhood made up of  Pratt students, old-timers, public housing inhabitants, and yes, the errant brownstone dweller (I don't think the Hasids play any role)  the dining options tend to be inexpensive and un-ambitious. The new busineseses all seem to be burger joints or wifi cafes, which don't mean much to me. The Wallace, which is more upscale, is already using Scoutmob and was recently on Blackboard Eats, which aren't typically good signs even though I've been known to use both. I assume Lulu & Po is still going strong (I need to revisit) and I haven't heard a peep about Prospect since it opened.

(I was going to say that the white bougie family influx hasn't hit hard yet, but just a few hours ago a preschooler sat down on the barstool next to me and then her Scandinavian-accented father asked her if she wanted to have her birthday party at "the new house" or in France. He then told her Bono was "a nice guy" after she failed to pay proper attention to the song playing that I didn't recognize. "I like it," she said. "You're not even listening!" he replied, but softly, not snappily because he was foreign.)

 

Brooklyn Bird Opened a few weeks ago to zero bloggy fanfare, this diner-styled restaurant that feels more suited to takeout is nothing special (I do feel bad that no one ever seems to be in there) but it's a block away and they serve food until 4am. They are advertising beer and wine coming soon. Plus, they've created a lesser-known-regional-fare trifecta with their upstate New York spiedie (nearby Speedy Romeo and Brooklyn Koalache Co. round out the mini-trend with St. Louis pizza and Czech by way of Texas, koalaches). I just tried a grilled cheese (cheddar and gruyere) sandwich with bacon and truffle oil. Of course, it didn't really need the truffle oil. I may be inclined to try the ghost pepper hot wings and that chicken spiedie some late night soon.

Dough It's only a block from the nearest subway station, but it's still a solid 12-minute walk from my apartment, so it's on the fringes of what I'd consider "my neighborhood." It's not like Dough is a secret; they made a name for themselves at the Brooklyn Flea. But even for someone who rarely eats doughnuts,  I can say unequivocally that it's the best $2.25 you'll spend for something of the raised yeast variety. (It took me three months to finally walk over there, and the main reason I did was to break the twenty dollar bill I had on me to tip the Fresh Direct driver who was arriving in less than an hour. Mildly related and good to know: the 99-cent store on the ground floor of my building--yes, I live in the same structure as a discount store and it rules--advertises an atm that distributes $10s, but I only wanted to tip $5.) Tart frostings are kind of their thing. I'd had a hibiscus doughnut before, and the passionfruit is in a similar vein. What sets it apart are the cocoa nibs that give it a bitter crunch. The dulce de leche with slivered almonds is more full-on sweet and makes you want to go back to sleep after eating it. That is not a criticism.

SCRATCHbread Another five minutes southeast from Dough and unquestionably in Bed-Stuy (I'm a newcomer and I already know that Classon is the cutoff despite brokers pushing Bedford as the dividing line). I didn't fully get that Scratchbread is doing crazy things until I actually ate a few baked goods. The sticky buns may look innocent, but there are a million things happening. I'm still not completely sure what. The bread itself is wheat-y and vaguely wholesome, and then the caramel isn't particularly sweet but burnt and spicy--both hot spicy and cardamom-spiced--and there are more of those cocoa nibs. I kind of just wanted sweet caramel and pecans. If you're going to go this direction, though, I bet you could do a cool caramel with fish sauce.

I also picked up a loaf of the bread custard, but it wasn't the seasonal loaf I'd seen mentioned elsewhere. I do think the guts were soft from roasted squash, but instead of rosemary there was sage and there was no trace of prosciutto. Instead, two cheese-filled red peppers had been stuffed into the bread like little Crater Lakes, almost treading into foreign Pizza Hut territory. It was a Christmas Eve hit, of course.

Lola f.k.a. Chez Lola. I guess the former bistro and Myrtle Ave. pioneer is now calling itself a gastropub? The revamp entails new cocktails (too sweet, though it was my own fault for ordering the Brooklyn Beauregard, essentially a whiskey sour with Jim Beam Honey Tea Bourbon and St. Germain) and a move towards American cuisine, meaning Canada, US and Mexico. The menu sort of reads like a Kitchen Nightmares overhaul: pared down, nearly foolproof to prepare, a bit of repetition, but overall inoffensive. Canada is represented by a duck poutine, which is a glorious drunk food (I wasn't drunk, though). The fries, cheese curds and confit could've use a little more gravy it was decided. I love a thin crust tarte flambee and their goat cheese, onion and bacon version was ok. A salad of smoked chicken, apples and cashews wasn't really more than just that. They do serve late for the area, until 2am, and nothing is over $20 (most is under $15) so there is an appeal if you want something other than pizza or Chinese  in the immediate vicinity. And I think they still do a $15 all-you-can-eat mussels deal on Thursdays, so there's that. They're also on Scoutmob, by the way.

Aska

Sundays are not typically for dining-out in my world, but it turned out that Aska was a perfectly suited end cap to the week. After a hazy week of holiday party drinking and the accompanying cheese plates, skewers and trays of cookies, it was refreshing to dine on composed plates of light food instead of buffet grazing (unless you've been attending parties serving moss and roots).

The $65 tasting menu, $20 more than previous pop-up incarnation, Frej, is still a good value. And a wine list with bottles starting in the $20s also sets the easygoing tone. Service and execution is friendly and polished--not to feed into a cliche, but finding both in Williamsburg is a rarity. 

The Bond, described as similar to a Vesper (but using Pineau des Charentes and Swedish punsch instead of Lillet) was crisp and aromatic but not so much that it distracted from the opening amuses, both containing puffed, fried skins, one pork, one pike. The non-fishy one came with super-Scandinavian sea buckthorn (grown in Maine) and strip of dried pig's blood that resembled jerky but was textured more like frico (a scabby frico, but sure).

Warm caraway-studded rye rolls and a yeasty flatbread with a powdery white cheddar quality similar to Smartfood were in the bread basket.

Shrimp, cucumber, dill, rapeseed oil was straightforward, like something you'd find on thin slice of rye.

Broccoli, mussel, seaweed looked straightforward, single floret presentation, aside, but the saline flavors were less usual. It's the crudite you might find at that mythical moss-and-roots party. You aren't given utensils for this course, by the way.

Potato, onion, mackerel was mostly about the potato, still shining through a blanket of sour milk foam.

Squid, turnip, purslane was my favorite, partially because of the painterly composition, and also because it exemplified the muted style of cooking. Muted (grilled squid, raw root vegetable) but not dull (fermented weedy herb).

Salsify, lichen, autumn leaves was the most challenging, and probably the most overtly forage-y. (My half-assed illegible notes that I didn't start taking till this point read: "dirty bitter seawater.") It reminded me more of a medicinal soup, a little hippier than Chinese.

Pork shank, apple, sunchoke was satisfying with the fatty cut of meat contrasting with the austerity of the former course. 

Tart whey and torn sorrel leaves transitioned from savory to sweet.

And Cardamom, brown butter, hazelnut was a conventional dessert--not a leaf, flower or herb in sight--that felt more warm and grandmotherly (not my grandma, mind you) than cool Nordic. The spiced ice cream and crumbles were delightfully salty-sweet.

Aska * 90 Wythe Ave.,  Brooklyn, NY

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Shrimp Heads, Downtown Ramen, Bitters-Free Manhattans

Allswell. Being open till 11pm is not late night dining, not in NYC anyway, and it's always bothered me, especially on weeknights when maybe you want to go out to eat at 10:45pm and the pickings are beyond slim.  Allswell serves real food until 3am, not whole menu, but it's something.  These hyper-crispy head-on shrimp in a Meyer lemon sauce and duck rillettes were pre-midnight, normal menu items. The burger, fat and meaty (with cheddar and bacon, both add-ons) and perfectly pink inside, can be had any time. The fries were an abomination, though, if you hate wet and oily thick-cut fries like I do. Steak fries are the bane of my existence. That's the worst part about pub burgers, which this appears to be emulating.  Bring a friend who likes fat, mushy fries (they exist!) and let them go wild.

Ganso. With ramen I often give the same disclaimer I use with barbecue: I'm neither a fanatic or expert. Obviously, I like both and have opinions, but I can't speak to what a broth's correct flavor should be or the specific pH of mineral water needed to produce the ultimate noodles. Frankly, I just like that there is a ramen shop in that odd pocket of downtown Brooklyn near the IHOP. The short rib buns weren't anything remarkable, and a little mesclun-y (I did not try the short rib ramen pictured, but love the idea that each broth receives a different noodle, subtle and thoughtful) but the spicy miso ramen with thinly sliced pork belly, Chinese broccoli and a soft-boiled, soy-infused egg was winsome, if not a little gut-busting (I always find that Asian noodle soups of this size put me into a coma). I will be even more happy about Ganso being there when it becomes cold enough to better appreciate the ramen's warming and filling properties.

Mayflower. A miniscule moderately new bar affiliated with neighboring Aita, a corner Italian restaurant I may never visit because I rarely eat Italian food (unless you count pizza). Some might call it a speakeasy (signage was recently added). Jonathan Ames was there on a date, at least I think so, I don't like staring at people. The bartenders (who can get overwhelmed when at capacity) are weird about bitters: on one visit none were used in a Manhattan, on the other I was asked whether or not I wanted them used. Would it be too hyperbolic to say that a Manhattan without bitters is not a Manhattan? Still like the place.

The Wallace. Along with Prospect, it's one of two new upscale restaurants to open on Fulton Street. I figured I should try one of them, and the main reason The Wallace won out because it was slightly less expensive (entrees in the low $20s vs. high $20s--now that I live in new shiny condo, no complaints, I'm going broke buying things like shades for ten-foot-high windows). There's nothing radical going on, food-wise or with the decor (one might get the impression this was another tin ceilings, Edison bulb joint, but the interior is oddly generic like it could've been a suburban Italian restaurant in a previous life--ok, it was Caribbean) just solid, well-seasoned New American dishes with French foundations like crispy pork belly on a bed of lentils with braised greens, the latter an unexpected slight Southern twist, and tilefish with a potato gratin and beurre blanc tinged with saffron. Manhattans are on the cocktail list and bitters are used, no question.

Il Porto. When I was assigned to review this Italian/pizza place for nymag.com after it opened a few years ago, I thought it was in the middle of nowhere. I guess it still is, though now that I live down the street and that the scary-seeming (not just to me) Navy Yard Cocktail Lounge has been gutted and looks like any generic storefront for sale, the block seems less isolated and off-putting. With that said, it's not a destination unless you're already in Fort Greene or Clinton Hill. The wood-fired pizza is pretty good (arugula, prosciutto and parmesan is popular) though the floury, barely charred and nearly flaky crust that I happen to like probably isn't the pinnacle of Neapolitan pie-making.

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Hello, Myrtle Avenue

I took so many photos at Sapolo that I decided to give it its own post.

Chinantla. I'm excited to have what feels like a secret taqueria (there is a full-on restaurant in the back of this bodega, not just a counter with a seat or two) only six blocks away. Mini-chains Calexico and Oaxaca have their fans, but they just weren't cutting it for me. The pork enchilada (as in chile sauced, not the dish with the name) probably wasn't the wisest pick. The meat was pounded to schnitzel thinness and sauteed till lifeless and tough enough to start bending the flimsy metal knife I was given. With a big scoop of refried beans, mountain range of Mexican rice and slices of avocado and nopales, it was a lot of food for $9, though. I'll definitely return for something simpler and more fool-proof because I want this place to be good.

Tepango. is four blocks closer to me and courts a broader audience with things like hard shell tacos and what they call a Super Taco, a $5 fat rolled corn tortilla filled with meat and enrobed melted cheese like a taco-burrito-quesadilla hybrid. These are just regular $2 tacos, the al pastor sweet with lots of pineapple chunks and grilled onions. They deliver, but it's worth stopping by in person to see the hand-drawn anime and fantasy Aztec art that decorates the walls.

Zaytoons. The only Carroll Gardens/Clinton Hill crossover, I think, and not the only neighborhood Middle Eastern choice (Damas Falafel House still needs to assessed). It's byob, five mezzes are only $8.50 (I'm always impressed with how good the boring sounding lentils and rice, moujadarra, is--it must be all the oily fried onions mixed in) and while maybe melted cheese and lamb weren't meant to go together, I often end up with a shawarma "pitza."

Maggie Brown. There's nothing really notable about this solidly neighborhood restaurant/bar (there is nearly an equal amount of small space devoted to eating as drinking). The burger is pretty solid (medium-rare is honored) and there's a nice backyard. My only knowledge of Maggie Brown up until now was when it got the Under $25 treatment eight years ago, and I was surprised to see a Clinton Hill restaurant making The Times. It still feels a little 2004, which is to say good enough for a transitional area but not in line with the current crop of new nearish restaurants (Lulu & Po, The Wallace, Prospect). And that's ok.

White Castle. For the second time in my NYC existence, I live a block from a White Castle. This time it's directly across the street and the view I'm treated to when peeking over the terrace. I don't think I will ever be tempted by the sign advertising their new parfaits, but the also-new jalapeno and cheese sliders (I have not been wild enough to try the version with crispy fried onions yet) are not a bad 94-cent snack for those who dig gooey processed cheese and chiles as much as I do. I hope this doesn't become a habit.

 

Sapolo

Unlike Lulu and Po or Do or Dine, which I can't technically claim as part of my new neighborhood (they're three and two blocks outside the Clinton Hill borders, respectively) Sapolo firmly counts. In fact, it's one of the first restaurants I noticed because it's kind of hard to miss. A late night favorite with the patrons of Myrtle Avenue doormen clubs, Bamboo and SoCo (ostensibly a restaurant) and mulleted Pratt students sipping cocktails the color of  jordan almonds, Sapolo also represents a dying NYC breed, the sit-down Chinese-American restaurant.

And then they also serve "Spanish" food, oh, and piña coladas in to-go cups. It's a lot to take in.

And to digest, portion-wise. Of course, you're first brought wontons and duck sauce to nibble on while pondering the list of cocktails ranging from the classic Singapore Sling to the notorious Nutcracker while checking out your zodiac on the paper placemat.

Combos are designed for value with a big butte of fried rice (with substantial chunks of chicken or roast pork) and classics like the General Tso chicken pictured. This is not a poor representation of the genre and easily a notch above corner takeout style. The brown sauce was not overly corn-starched and gloppy and while it was sweet as one would expect, there was actual spice. I was tempted to eat more than half the serving, which any sane person would get wrapped up to go.

The eggroll comes on its own plate with a steak knife.

Honestly, I'm not sure what you're supposed to order at a restaurant like Sapolo. The clientele isn't Caribbean, the staff is all Chinese, so it would seem safer to stick with lo mein and beef with broccoli than fried plantains, paella and bistec empanizado. The window sign does tout pollo a la brasa, though. And it just might be the biggest restaurant in the area, so I wouldn't call them liars.

Sapolo * 501 Myrtle Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Do or Dine

I’m more excited about Bed-Stuy’s burgeoning dining scene now that’s more in my physical frame of reference. (I make fun of Williamsburgers who’ll never explore beyond their defined borders, but it’s not like I’m going to check out a new Upper West/East Side restaurant unless it sounds extremely amazing.) Sure, I’ve been to Celestino, Peaches HotHouse and drink at Black Swan, but I’m not a neighborhood know-it-all.

It took me a while to get to Do or Dine. Yes, they have a menu with both small plates and snacks—does anyone understand the distinction? Because of this, I assumed the stream of food would be willy nilly, plates appearing when ready, the bigger items arriving last maybe. Instead, each course came progressively like a tasting menu, a new dish showing up as the former was being finished.

A serious cocktail (rye, averna, bitters) with a less-than-serious name, The Burt Reynolds, sets the tone. You could just as well have a cheap Rolling Rock (I had just been wondering whatever happened to this '90s staple) as a stiff $12 beverage.

How could a first-timer not order the doughnut? Everyone knows that the warm powdered-sugared dough is stuffed with foie gras. I didn’t know, however, that the rich liver was paired with fruity (strawberry, I’m guessing, raspberry, maybe) jelly. Split between two, the fried savory is a perfectly reasonable starter--unless you’re one of those types who only takes one bite of everything and acts like you’re overeating (or throws perfectly good cupcakes in the trash and sprinkles Comet on them). 

The Leap Year Special is a snack for those who consider frogs’ legs snackable. Sure, the flesh is mild and obviously white meat, but I wouldn't say that frog tastes like chicken, that’s just the nuggety batter talking. The texture is most definitely different, wetter, less firm, I guess, aquatic. The sauce was more peppery than sweet, despite the advertised addition of Dr. Pepper. To me, that’s not so much a junk or stoner food touch, but a Filipino bbq flourish.

The lamb breast is also a snack. The word fatty was thrown in with the ingredient list, and being a prominent feature, I suppose you could consider fat to be seasoning on par with the cumin. If you do not like fat, you would probably not be eating at Do or Dine.

Chicken and Woffals is a liver-smeared crispy game hen, atop a waffle. There is maple syrup, passionfruit something, cooked-down spinach (the only greenery we ingested), all-in-all another fried, sweet-and-savory clash that ends up delicious in spite of the rambunctiousness.

 Do or Dine * 1108 Bedford Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Farewell to Carroll Gardens

HBH Gourmet Sandwiches. This is totally one of those places that was new and talked-about and so ridiculously close to my apartment that I could put off going for some time. It finally turned out to be that time. (I did not get to Court Street Grocers, however--too many damn sandwiches in the neighborhood.) It's also totally one of those kinds of absolutely delicious (and kind of ugly when transported home and unwrapped) but caloric sandwiches that makes you wonder why artisanal food gets a health halo--what do you mean Shake Shack isn't good for you?--while other equally fatty food  is disparaged. Quality ingredients, yes, I know. This Smith St. cheesesteak, all tender short rib meat and taleggio on cibatta, is nothing like a cheesesteak, so if you're craving shaved beef of questionable quality and processed cheese, this will not satisfy.

Seersucker. I didn't grow up using the term townie, which feels more east coast anyway. I didn't need to because Portland was nothing but townies. I like the word, though, so I'm going to call the person in my neighborhood who told me that Seersucker was expensive with tiny portions even for her, a tiny person, a townie. I'd resisted for years, based on the name alone (which I chalked up to being a crank until a non-cranky coworker who lived on the block also hated it and was coming up with other deserving fabrics--perhaps Gabardine? Oh, my, that's already been taken by a Top Chef in San Diego). My duck with a succotash-ish bed of kernels at first did seem a little precious, but was rich, and the Berkshire pork, fall-apart belly topped with cracklings (and I swear there was a third pork component) was flat-out meaty. The prices were fair and reflective of what was on the plate. It was good enough that I forgot to even snap lame camera phone pics of the mains and only captured the starter of ricotta dumplings in a crazy broth perfumed with salty country ham. One day I may eventually warm up to the owners' future Vietnamese food project too, even if it doesn't make a lot of sense on the surface.

Prime Meats. There aren't a ton of dining choices close to 11pm on a weeknight in my now-a-memory south of Fourth Place universe. I was curious about what pleasures an $18 1/2 lb Creekstone Farms Angus burger might provide. More than a Guy Fieri burger created from beef of the same origin, I hated to admit. I only stole a bite, technically a forkful meat barely held by a wet bun because it was the tail end of the meal and the whole thing had nearly fallen apart with texture matching my steak tartare. Prime Meats grew on me over time, though I would never crowd in for brunch.

 

 

 

Lulu and Po

Homespun and tiny with intergenerational groups (making sure skeptical parents see the neighborhood's charms?) breastfeeders, small plates, Vampire Weekend tempered by Marvin Gaye, no reservations, no credit cards, Lulu and Po is pretty much a New Brooklyn stereotype, and a sweet place, nonetheless.

Maybe you've read about the bone marrow tacos? I suspect more than few have since the vertically chopped bones with three soft tortillas and a thatch of parsley-caper salad sat on nearly every table. They're kind of a mess since tortillas don't absorb the fat like toasted bread does, but I love the idea. And the accompanying house-made Sriracha was right on, more tart, less sweet than the commercial version. I could totally see spicy Yucatecan pickled red onions working with this too.

The wax beans in the wax and green bean dish had been 86'd (I'm directly quoting from the chalkboard that listed that evening's depleted items: a pork loin and said wax beans) which was ok. They were served cold and tossed with  generous hunks of feta and jalapenos for a little non-Mediterranean intrigue.

The lightly breaded and fried anchovies were like a Spanish bar snack (I've never had this exact thing in Spain, I'm just saying they could fit in) meaty, not greasy in the least and perked up with a Sriracha-spiked tartar sauce.

Smaller plates dominate, but the "iron" pressed chicken, with its nicely crisped skin, is a medium plate heavy on brown tones and still more than sharable. It made me remember the less purist, but slightly more attention-grabbing sweet tea-brined chicken recently eaten at St. Anselm and now I want to try brining a Thanksgiving turkey in sweet tea.

Despite the full house on an early Saturday evening, the service was always pleasant, never rushed. Frankly, I was surprised to have a dish comped as thanks for accommodating a weirdo seat that was in everyone's way. That counts for something.

Lulu and Po will more or less be in my neighborhood, ten blocks east on Myrtle, as of tomorrow. I probably won't rely on it as a show-off if my parents ever come to visit because roomy seating and individual entrees are more their thing (they might like sit-down Chinese-Spanish Sapolo, however) but I would definitely give it another go.

Lulu and Po * 154 Carlton Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Heroes and Never Ending Pasta

Defonte's With two weeks left in Carroll Gardens (never mind that I'm only moving four miles away and have access to a car) there are some oversights to be corrected. Though it seems farther because of the BQE and Brooklyn Battery Tunnel entrance, Defonte's is technically only three blocks from my apartment yet I haven't been once in eight years. Ridiculous. So, I finally got the famous roast beef, mozzarella and fried eggplant hero, as well as one, equally hefty with roast pork and pickled vegetables. Both seriously filling workhorse sandwiches that I'm happy still exist in this ever rarefied section of Brooklyn. I'm afraid I've been exposed to too many improved versions, though, like Paesano's (scroll down) in Philadelphia (yes, weird to compare to Philly, not NYC, but I don't eat a lot of Italian-American things on bread here--I still haven't tried Parm either) and now I find the originals kind of dull--or maybe just in need of a little salt or an extra condiment. 

Rocky Sullivan's I didn't realize the Friday night 6-9 lobster thing they advertise starts at 6pm and means you need to be there then, not any time in that three-hour slot. At 7:30pm, the 35 lobsters had been spoken for. The cheeseburger and fries I consoled myself just didn't cut it. And it must be said that if you're at Rocky Sullivan's, which is attached to the Sixpoint Brewery, one should probably drink a Sweet Action or whatever may be on tap, not a bottle of Bud, as suggested by possibly contrarian Sam Sifton last week.

Olive Garden The Never Ending Pasta Bowl may not be local or organic, but it's highly seasonal. Each August the ads appear, teasing with the limited-time disclaimer. I'm not sure when it ends, but not much later than Labor Day. I've written about the absurd secrecy of claiming this $9.95 promotion in Manhattan more than once, and this still hasn't changed. You have to ask because it's not on the menu or any signs, then will be given one big bowl (plenty for one meal) on the first round, then subsequently smaller ones. And if you order a drink (no making fun of my malbec) at the bar while waiting for friends to show up, you'll get an automatic 18% tip added in. Do I look like a tourist? Who else but an American would be at an Olive Garden on a Friday night?

 

St. Anselm

St. Anselm was the right answer to the which-no-reservations-restaurant-with-typically-long-waits-should-I-attempt-on-a-reportedly-sleepy-holiday-weekend question? Which isn't to say that it wasn't bustling on a Sunday or that Metropolitan Avenue was bereft of hanger-outers. There was, however, room for two at the bar at 7:30pm, and holding out for a table probably wouldn't have been more than 30 minutes but I didn't want to risk it.

There was an endless procession of burrata, tomato and basil salads being assembled in my line of vision. Too airy and blatantly summery, the thick stalks of pea shoots, long beans and charred halloumi was more what I was looking for.

I really would've been tempted by the rib-eye if I hadn't just done a semi-splurge meal the night before (I still don't know if you can rightly call a dating anniversary an anniversary even if it's been 13 years). Instead, the New York strip steak with pepper sauce sufficed. There was plenty of beef and nicely charred, but next time I want something bone-in.

And the sweet tea brined chicken because even though I can't stand the candied beverage, it lends just the right amount of subtle sugariness to the meat and maybe even helps caramelize the skin (though I'm certain it would brown and crisp up just fine using their combo grilled/oven-roasted approach).

Our server made me nervous when she interjected, "About the chicken..."

Me: panicking, bracing for horrible news.

Server: "It's whole."

Me, always concerned about over-ordering: "Oh, so it's too much food for two?"

Server: "No, it comes with the head and feet attached."

Oh, right, I knew that. Fedora, too, was serving birds with little scrappy feet. Frankly, I don't mind beak-to-claw dining and gnawed on the blackened cheeks when no one was looking. The above picture is doing it, and the rest of the food, no favors, but this is what happens when you try to be all free-spirited and live in the moment and force yourself to leave your real camera at home.

A bunch of professionally grilled things (there was also a crock of lobster mushrooms involved) and a bottle of Italian rosé (I was pretending to go along with the Labor Day is the end of summer thing--how are you liking this cool, refreshing fall weather?) were the perfect counterpoint to more mundane burgers on a Weber and lukewarm beers (which I enjoyed the next day).

St Anselm * 355 Metropolitan Ave., Brooklyn, NY

 

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Black Labels & Seafood, City & Suburban

Minetta Tavern Not-that-embarrassing-confession: I've never had the Black Label Burger (though, I recently encountered a Thai burger bearing the same name) and when you admit this, people always want to know what you thought of it. Ok, yes,  it was very much not a regular burger. It was a rich, messy and amazing burger that actually gave me a stomach ache even from eating half. (And now I wonder if it's just because I'm getting old and can't handle fatty foods because the same thing happened with pork ribs a week later. I fear turning into my boyfriend's mom who says things like "I like butter, but butter doesn't' like me," which sounds quainter on paper than coming out of her mouth.) I’m not a tasting notes type, but I can still recall the flavor even if I'm having trouble articulating it (I hate it when people online describe food as "flavorful"). The meat had that fleshy, aged steak flavor I think is more musky than minerally that you get in particular when you gnaw on a porterhouse bone to eke out all the scraps and congealed fat. There was also a lamb special involved and it seemed unnecessary for the server to explain what merguez is, but then the crowd was weird. It was also the first time I'd ever seen middle-American grownups taking photos of their food with SLRs. Also, bros who didn't know what animal bone marrow came from and were dismayed at the cost of hair and makeup for bridesmaids.

Nitehawk Cinema Ok, these weren't bad for movie theater nachos (though chips, along with traditional popcorn, aren't exactly the ideal food for an environment requiring quiet). And it wasn't ordinary queso. In fact, the super-cinnamony chorizo and lime-heavy guacamole almost distracted from the aggressively salty quality I look for in dishes revolving around melted processed cheese.

Ditch Plains There was a lot of lobster in this roll, enough to make for a surprisingly filling sandwich, though I still find the $28 price tag tough to justify.

Extra Fancy The $12 shrimp sandwich in a split, buttered roll and demure serving fries tucked into a paper fast food bag was certainly cheaper than the lobster roll, but more of a snack than a meal.  It's a shame that they switched chefs so quickly since a city can only handle so many New England and Maryland approximations--even when well-priced and easy to score a seat on a Saturday night.

Bonefish Grill Free birthday Bang Bang Shrimp in New Jersey on the same night that the chain's first NYC branch opened in Staten Island. I considered the opening, but the charity component seemed too serious and I wouldn't be able to use my coupon, which was the whole point. I'm pretty sure 90% of tables have these crispy shrimp bathed in what I'm guessing is a sauce made of mayonnaise and Sriracha. Apparently, Bonefish now serves a lobster roll, but I'd just eaten one the night before so it didn't seem right. For the record, it's only $13.90.

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Mexico, Spain, Brooklyn

Pampano doesn't get the attention of other newer, cooler Mexican restaurants, but it remains popular, seemingly with early-stage dates, guys who appear businesslike, and older Spanish-speaking women with younger relatives who only speak English. I was there to sample a new summer menu spotlighting ingredients from La Paz in Baja California. (I've also been before of my own volition, so this isn't totally shilly. And yeah, Richard Sandoval rivals Ducasse with his international expansion efforts, but I'm still curious enough to try a tapa or two at Toro Toro when I'm in Dubai this weekend. Ha, that's sounds hilarious, as if I'm always off to glitzy places.) Supposedly, different regions in Mexico will be featured throughout the year. The full menu is here with details, but I can say that the bacon-wrapped shrimp (is there a bad bacon-wrapped shrimp?) with a chipotle sauce, grilled pineapple and melon ball-sized rounds of avocado was the standout with its sweet, creamy and salty components. And it didn't hurt that the presentation was so pretty. An all-seafood meal, there were also smoked clams, a tamarind mahi-mahi and a tuna tamalito. The guava pastry did not contain seafood, thankfully, just fruit and Damiana, an herbal liqueur said to have aphrodisiac properties (they're not boasting that claim on the menu, though maybe it's legit since even WebMD mentions that usage for the herb).

Tapeo29 I find myself coming back here with increasing frequency. The corner bar using open windows instead of air conditioning is more Madrid than Barcelona (though both cities would let you sweat in the summer) meaning traditional, not avant-garde (I don't know the Spanish for avant-garde--de vanguardia?). Chorizo al sidra, croquetas de bacalao and boquerones aren't surprising, but they are satisfying, and before 8pm on weeknights only $6 each (plus wine and cocktails for the same price). I always leave a little drunker than intended and just full enough.

Lavender Lake I didn't try any food and, frankly, it's the kind of place I read about on blogs, or rather The Times Style Magazine, in this case, and decide that there's no need to rush over. Can I live without "Scandinavian  rustic" in Gowanus? (I also refuse to give pseudo-neighborhood, Gowanus, its own category--it's two blocks from the F train.) But I didn't realize it was located on the relaxing, over-the-canal route I occasionally take home when I feel like the F is going to crush my soul so I preemptively take the R all the way to Union Street and walk the mile-and-a-quarter to my apartment. So, I had an Aperol spritz, which is dangerously close to a white wine spritzer (in spirit, not taste) and awkwardly sat by myself on a folding chair too short to reach the bar-like ledge on the back patio. At 7pm there wasn't a free table in the entire yard, which is a common phenomena and I'm certain would've been the same even an hour earlier. I'm convinced no one in Carroll Gardens actually works, despite the crazy real estate prices. Regardless, it's a pretty place, all muted tones and reclaimed wood, like a physical Instagram.

Brooklyn Ice House I have far less to say about this Red Hook bar than Lavender Lake, and yet I like it more. Thai chile sauce wings served Buffalo style (blue cheese, carrots and celery) and a pint of Sixpoint Righteous Ale don't need rehashing. Neither bar has a website, which is distressing.

Fushimi

Yeah, yeah, Fushimi is garish, and I guess it's out of place in that section of Williamsburg (though not-in-my-backyard pioneers SEA and Tacu Tacu are only six blocks away) but it's hardly the sensibility-offender it's been made out to be. Anyone freaking has clearly never been to Vegas.

And just like Vegas, the customers aren't likely to be locals. With Bay Ridge and Staten Island already covered by the sushi chainlet, there is now a place for Brooklynites from all points north to enjoy glowing neon theatrics while "Big Long Dick" (I couldn't get Shazaam to work, but that's a pretty easy chorus to remember) bounces off the spot-lit walls and metallic chandeliers.

When Fushimi first opened, a friend who lives nearby suggested that we take mushrooms and check it out. I was tempered by no more than a coconut mojito on this visit, though I would not rule out the possibility of a psychedelic future excursion.

There is a Sexy Lady's Night, each Thursday, after all.

The food? Well, it's superfluous. If you frequently eat lunch-deal sashimi at uncelebrated Japanese restaurants like I do, you won't have a problem with the quality. You will be upset if Yasuda, Azabu or 15 East are in your regular rotation. The sushi and sashimi for two wouldn't have been able to compete with the decor if LED lights were not embedded in the ice.

A fried soft-shell crab with sweet-spicy Thai sauce was a perfectly fine appetizer.

I like fake crab so the kani salad filled that void with a slick of "spicy aioli," a.k.a. Sriracha-spiked thousand island dressing dotted with tobiko. Look at those little purple leaves, though. A touch that shows they're trying, right? Same with the sparse microgreens on the soft-shell crab.

The path to the bathroom feels like you're on a spaceship--if Liberace owned such a craft.  I was disappointed that the lights didn't change colors, but remained electric blue.

Fushimi * 475 Driggs Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Clinton Hill Times Three

SoCo I've been spending time in Clinton Hill recently, trying to assess the livability of the neighborhood (I would say the prognosis is good; we put an offer on a condo yesterday). I'm not a total stranger to the area since I did work at Pratt briefly in the late '90s (my first-ever, full-time salaried job [$22,000] which I left to work at a food website--yes, they existed 13 years ago--for $3,000 more. Everyone got laid off six months later...) but Myrtle Avenue has ten million more bars and restaurants than in my day. SoCo was the craziest (well, the booming sit-down Chino-Latino place with the name I always forget technically was) in that there was a huge crowd spilling out onto the sidewalk. More club than restaurant. But the next afternoon, the post-brunch crowd seemed mellower so I joined in, lured by the promise of fried chicken and red velvet waffles on the window menu. It's the most popular dish, too, I was told. I would estimate that at least half of the tables had at least one plate of red waffles on it. The mash-up was far less breakfast/dinner than dinner/dessert hybrid. The sweetness was there, and pumped up by the maple syrup, but the cocoa flavor almost grounded it. You really didn't feel like you were eating chicken and cake, just a tasty new form of fat and carbs. Lovers of unnaturally colored food and nonsensical flavor combinations will be pleased.

Speedy Romeo I love processed cheese, not just Velveeta and Cheez Whiz, but thickly sliced deli cheese, too, all extra creamy and salty. I also love Hawaiian pizza, so it's almost as if Speedy Romeo's Dick Dale was custom made for me. Using popular-in-St. Louis Provel cheese (a melty, processed cheese that combines cheddar, swiss and provolone) plus pineapple and smoky speck ham on a wood-fired pizza is pure genius. Adding a spoonful of pickled chiles, the restaurant's condiment of record, provides a sharp contrast against the smoother, sweet flavors, and makes this pizza one of my all-time favorites. That is not say, all will love it, especially considering ham and pineapple is a scourge to purists, never mind the utterly un-artisanal cheese. Oh, Slice covered this very pizza this week with a nice slide show and everything--I had no idea it contained béchamel.

Putnam's Pub It's a gastropub, nothing out of the ordinary, but good to know about if a late night roasted bone marrow or devils on horseback (not bacon-wrapped dates here, which is the usual interpretation, but fried oyster topped deviled eggs) craving strikes.

Sunset Park Diner & Donuts I never ate here once when I lived down the street, though that's not really a judgment of the restaurant but more about my rarely eating at diners. It's slim pickings for post-2am dining in the area, and they do a grilled cheese with bacon deluxe, i.e. with fries, as good as anyone. The restaurant is even on Seamless, which is surprising. It almost makes me wish I still lived over there just so I could have french toast and jalapeño poppers delivered to my door at 3am.

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Double Dandelion Greens & Falafel Three Ways

Levant I never ever used to order delivery, maybe more due to social anxiety (I hate ordering by phone--there's always a misunderstanding) than an abhorrence for convenience. But Seamless has won me over lately because it cuts down on all that messy interpersonal interacting. I was a little bummed when Palmyra went belly up, but turns out it was ok because they were replaced with another Middle Eastern restaurant with better food. Or at least more variety--there's not just falafel but Jordanian (chickpea and fava), Egyptian (fava) or Syrian (chickpea) falafel. I had the standard all-chickpea fritter in my five for $13 mezze, along with labneh shateh (spicy), muhammara, mukhalal (pickled vegetables with a whole preserved lemon tossed in) and mousa'a, a steaming hot stewy eggplant dish not pictured. The pizzas, a.k.a. manakeesh are only $6. The lahmeh bi ajin was topped with ground beef, onions, pine nuts, and was a little salty. I'm curious about the one with blue cheese, dates, honey and walnuts.

Paprika Despite its existence on St. Marks for 12 years, I don't recall ever noticing this Italian restaurant. There are just too many Italian restaurants in NYC, I'm afraid. That's why owner and chef, Egidio Donagrandi, has gone back to his roots and revamped much of the menu to reflect the cuisine of Valtellina, a Northern Italian region bordering Switzerland. It's also why I was attending a preview dinner. Gone is most of the red sauce (there are still meatballs--lamb, by the way) and a different type of hearty food has taken its place. Buckwheat plays a role the tagliatelle and the lasagna with leeks and fonduta (pictured), Northern Italian cheeses like new-to-me, Bitto, enhance the polenta, also given a little heft with buckwheat, pickled vegetables frequently show up as with the oyster mushrooms atop the bresaola. Also shown here is black kale with pickled onion and almonds, a dandelion salad with pickled radishes and creamy crescenza cheese, and beef crudo with beets and chicory. (Obviously, there are substantial mains, too, but the light waned and I didn't have my real camera on hand to adequately capture them.) Maybe my end-of-2011 prediction that Alpine cuisine would be a break out, will prove true. What happened with Harold Dieterle's The Marrow, anyway?

Frankies 457 Now that Pok Pok exists, waiting an hour for a table at Frankies seems like nothing. Technically, I'd already eaten enough snacks earlier to constitute a meal so post 10pm dinner was fine. But to counteract the already-eaten food, I went healthy and ordered a dandelion greens salad with octopus instead of pasta (well, I also shared a charcuterie plate). It was a bit too healthy, like giant bowl of tart, nicely dressed weeds accented by charred octopus tendrils. I would recommend sharing this unless you're the type who can regularly eat a whole forest of kale in one sitting.

Brick House Tavern + Tap I've mentioned this suburban breastaurant (which seems to be decreasingly breastaurant-y) before. I only want to mention that a short cocktail list with a Manhattan twist and a drink using Firefly sweet tea vodka seems to be in at these corporate-type establishments (Is there a company or consultant who designs lists for restaurants? I feel like I should know.) Brick House has a Woodford Reserve Peach Manhattan (which I ordered) and a Carolina Spiked Tea (which I would never order because I hate sweet tea). Though I can't find any cocktail lists on their websites, both Republic Gastropub and Bricktown Brewery (no relation to Brick House) Brewery in Oklahoma City also had prominently featured a sweet tea cocktail and a fruity Manhattan.

Eaten, Barely Blogged: From House to Haus

Peaches HotHouse I suspected the hot hothouse chicken would be no lie, but the boyfriend thought they were bullshitting. And he paid the price. The cayenne-induced blast is possibly the hottest thing we've experienced after Sripraphai's Southern Curry. Taking them seriously (because I read up on things ahead of time) I picked the regular hothouse chicken, which weirdly wasn't hot enough, a little sweet and a lot peppery. A middle-ground fried chicken is desperately needed. Also, the restaurant is oddly Shazaam-resistant. It would not work for me or the young man I noticed holding up his phone to no avail. I was able to recognize Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine" on my own.

Goat Town I thought I'd been to Butcher Bay during Lent last year, but after checking my blog (my only tie to reality, it seems) that visit was actually in April 2009. What the fuck? How did I lose two years? Now I've been freaked out all week and afraid I'll die in my sleep one night not realizing I'm completely elderly and decrepit. Butcher Bay is now Goat Town and on so-called Mexican Mondays you can order Tex-Mex things like the oozy Velveeta-ish enchiladas and puffy lengua tacos we had at non-Texan prices.

Schnitzel Haus The Bay Ridge German restaurant was so uncharacteristically bustling on a Friday that the only table was an awkward two-seater nearest to the Donald Trump photograph in front of the guy doing Neil Diamond covers and in line with the door blowing chilly gusts  (it was unusually cold Friday night) every time it opened. And the table we were given upstairs (who knew there was an upstairs?) after asking if we could move was even more awkward--dark and empty minus a staticky radio station filling the dead air and large group speaking a Slavic language--proving that whenever I try fighting my  tendency to never speak up, it doesn't  pay off.  I drank a Spaten Optimator and part of a schnitzel smothered in mushroom gravy and was out of there. Previously on Schnitzel Haus.

 

Pok Pok NY

As I approach my fourteenth year in NYC, I'm weaning myself from a no-longer-relevant ownership of everything Portland. Like somehow I would have an affinity for Atera or Pok Pok because Mathew Lightner cooked at Castagna or Andy Ricker made a name for himself in Portland. Never mind that I was long gone before any of this dining excitement was occurring, and that I didn't grow up in Portlandia.

 (Pre-twee Portland was working class when it wasn't unemployed, and unambitious and underdoggy with a chip on its shoulder--NYC certainly didn't make me this churlish--with a gun-loving, methy, murdery, white pride undercurrent. It's no coincidence that the aforementioned chefs are not native Oregonians.)

So, Pok Pok is purely new Portland, which means it's really good. And  Brooklyn Pok Pok isn't a letdown either. I'm glad to finally have something in the neighborhood to shut me up over the crappy state of local Thai food. Even the wait, which I'm averse to on principle, wasn't horrible. Initially, I balked at an hour-and-a-half quote at 9:30pm on a weeknight, but in reality it was 30 minutes (my city maximum--yes, I've waited double that at chains in the suburbs) which passed quickly with a tamarind sour in one hand and a menu to peruse in the other. I've waited longer in Portland standing on the sidewalk getting drizzled on my non-polar-fleeced self.

First off: Pok Pok is not a Sripraphai competitor, which I've heard/read, I don't even remember where. Pok Pok is not for curries and it's not all Thai things to all people; the food is mostly northern or Issan while Sripraphai is primarily Bangkok-style. And it's fairly obvious that Pok Pok has different aspirations. You will not find Mangalitsa pork, La Belle Rouge chicken, Niman Ranch ribs, drinking vinegars, nor Stumptown iced coffees (is there artisanal condensed and evaporated milk?)  at Sripraphai where I ordered a cocktail, a Thai mojito, for the first time on my last visit. I do miss the fridges full of desserts and nam prik, though. Well, and a lot of other things. You need Chao Thai, Ayada, and yes, Srirpraphai as much as you need Pok Pok in your world.

Also: Who cares if Andy Ricker isn't Thai? Or Harold Dirterle...or that I'm more Mexican than Alex Stupak (as if I were born knowing how to nixtamalize corn) and his food at Empellon Cocina hardly suffers. Does anyone question the ethnicity of chefs cooking French or Italian cuisine in the US, which is to say a large percentage of chefs in this country?

Oh, one other thing while I'm being a surly Portland transplant: Columbia Street is not Red Hook. Call it something invented like Columbia Street Waterfront District or Cobble Hill West, but you can no longer say an area is gritty when people are spending millions of dollars to live there. I just looked a house on the exact same block as Pok Pok  for $1.6 million and a condo down the street for even more. Er, not gritty (though also not prime enough to command those inflated prices). A diner actually asked where he was and was told Red Hook. I should probably be more concerned with people who manage to get to a restaurant without knowing where they are than with neighborhood demarcations.

Finally...the food: Mangalitsa pork neck. When I eat at restaurants years apart I often end up picking the same things I ate the previous visit without realizing it. I only recognized this dish when the side of iced mustard greens showed up. It threw me for a loop in Portland (and on this crisp spring evening) because it's such a tropical weather touch. Translating an authentic presentation when there's no fear of wilting produce was odd and charming both times (and yes, I realize the cooling effect is also meant as a relief from the chile heat) though I'm sure it will be appropriately stifling and toasty come summer with nothing more than a ceiling fan for ventilation in the makeshift tent-like back room. But yes, the grilled slices of pork (it was boar in Portland--I would have to try them side by side to taste the difference) were rich enough to stand up to the garlicky, tart dressing (citrus played a major role in all the dishes we ordered).

Papaya salad is where you should feel the heat, and the addition of salted black crab didn't just add serious funk but raised the spice level to a point that burned but didn't obliterate the flavor (the extra-spicy fried chicken at Peaches Hothouse last weekend, for instance, crossed the line into needless pain). I happen to enjoy the hot garbage/festering corpse smell of fermented sea creatures in condiments, which never taste as ominous as they smell,  but even smoothed out by lime juice and sugar this salad still retained a distinctive sludge color.

I hate to say it, but sometimes I find larbs boring or overly healthy (probably because I make them with Costco chicken breasts) but with grilled catfish it was perfect because of the fluffy, crispy texture you might typically associate with yam pla duk fu served with shredded green mango instead of larbified with herbs and shallots. The flavors were really bright with lemongrass and mint; galangal sweetness peeked through. This might have been my favorite of the three.

And the most simple thing that garnered attention was the pandan-steeped water at each table. I'll never understand the audience for Mio water enhancers, i.e. people who don't like the taste of water, but if you're going to infuse water, vanilla-jasmine ricey-smelling pandan is the way to go.

Pok Pok NY *127  Columbia St., Brooklyn, NY

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Not In My Backyard

Recette As payback for picking me up a handful of Jason Wu for Target items in New Jersey on Superbowl Sunday, I vowed to treat to a friend to a fancy dinner (I owed her $150) but not like Per Se or Eleven Madison Park fancy. I don't really hear much about Recette, and hate to imply that the creative (and yeah, a little pricey) West Village restaurant isn't worth discussing in greater detail, but this was a case of eating, drinking, talking, hanging out without over-thinking everything on the plate, an approach to dining I've been embracing more lately. I did still take photos of the five-course tasting, however, so peek if you wish. For nearly each course we were given two different dishes, so the variety was great.

PINK GRAPEFRUIT MARGARITA, Hornitos Añejo, Fresh Pink Grapefruit, Lime Juice, Espelette/KUMQUAT OLD FASHIONED, Bulleit Bourbon, Poached Kumquats, Blueberry Bitters/Uni amuse

BEEF CARPACCIO, Burrata, Tomato Jam, Porcini Purée, Basil, Watercress/MARINATED ARCTIC CHAR, Oyster, Crunchy Salad, Bonito Broth, Bottarga

GRILLED PULPO, Black Garlic, Olive Oil, Lemon, Fennel/"ONION SOUP", Onion Espuma, Oxtail, Gruyere, Consommé

BLACK BASS, Potato Gnocchi, Pancetta, Roasted Salsify, Seafood Nage/ROASTED SCALLOPS, Artichokes, Thumbelina Carrots, Caviar Beurre Blanc

ROASTED FLUKE, Shellfish "Congee", Leeks, Sauce Bouillabaisse/BERKSHIRE PORK BELLY, Rock Shrimp, Turnips, Romesco, Sherry Caramel

a pre-dessert (the banana chocolate real dessert photo didn't turn out)/"SMORES", Graham Cracker Ice Cream, Toasted Marshmallow, "Hot" Chocolate Ganache

Ox Cart Tavern As an experiment, I traveled from my office to Ditmas Park during a Friday evening rush hour. 4/5 at Bowling Green to B/Q at Atlantic Ave. to Newkirk Ave. Forty-five minutes wasn't so bad considering it frequently takes me 40 minutes going four stops from Carroll Gardens (it certainly did this morning) even though  no one believes me. My potential new neighborhood livability test doesn't take dining into account, though, because Ditmas Park couldn't win on that count. There are like two young people bars (I investigated a third for old-timers and almost got my iPhone stolen by one of the many  middle-aged--truly middle-aged, not 40--alcoholic women) and four restaurants. But really, it's doubtful I'll go to Momofuku Milk Bar or whatever new thing opens this week anytime soon (I am interested in La Vara) but there is something comforting about knowing they're there just in case. No matter, we have a car and always go out of the neighborhood to eat and drink on weekends anyway, and would do so on weeknights if we had a garage and driveway to come back to, which we would in Ditmas Park. Ox Cart Tavern is the kind of place that has Sixpoint Sweet Action in cans, sloppy duck sliders, lots of small children on the early side and waits for tables as the night progresses. It's average, but the disproportionate ratio of potential diners to seats implies the neighborhood is restaurant-starved.

La Fusta Like I said, weekends aren't spend dining around Carroll Gardens. We wanted steak and to try St. Anselm, but Williamsburg on a Saturday night didn't seem wise (unless you're going someplace non-hyped like Taco Chulo where I went the previous Saturday and there was still a wait). Argentine parrillada is nothing like St. Anselm, I imagine, but you do get some offal and weird bits (no goat head and hearts, sadly) when you order the mixed grill. The skirt steak and Korean-cut ribs are good, but I genuinely love the creamy and chewy intestines sitting on top of the pile of meat and the mushy morcilla buried beneath (I get all the blood sausage in exchange for giving up the not-that-exciting-to-me chorizo that is more similar in flavor to a breakfast sausage) and not just to show off. The intestines are nearly like those rolled wafer cookies you find at Asian grocers filled with chocolate or pandan, but I probably don't want to know what makes-up the meaty interior stuffing--it's certainly not shortening and sugar. Previously on La Fusta.

Taco Chulo Hey, it's better than San Loco.

Eaten, Barely Blogged: How Do You Like Them Apples (and Andouille)?

Donovan's Woodside on St. Patrick's Day is like marching into the belly of the beast, though far more family than the fratty scene I envision at the Irish pubs of Manhattan. We waited an hour at Donovan's for a table where we were serenaded loudly by drums and bagpipes (that's me pretending not to notice the ruckus) as one does. Corned beef, cabbage, and a single boiled potato should've been on my plate (I do love that meal and am surprised so many dislike it) but you know, Donovan's is famous for its burger and I wasn't changing my usual order just because it was a holiday.

Sripraphai All the usual suspects: crispy pork with chile and basil, duck curry with eggplant, crispy watercress salad (which I love so much that I recreated it at home the following weekend but forgot to photograph because I was in a hurry to get it made before The Walking Dead season finale aired) plus a rarely ordered larb and never-before Thai mojito. Remind me again, to never go to Sripraphai on a Saturday night (and kick me for pretending to be Thai-knowledgeable with never having tried Centerpoint on the next block). Beyond the insane crowds and weirdo orderers who eat dishes like individual, non-sharable entrees, the spice just isn't there. Thai-wise, I'm looking forward to the new Chao Thai branch, and I suppose Pok Pok, as well, but as a Portland transplant I have weird feelings about fellow Portland transplants.

Toby's Public House "Weird but good" was my honest response to "How was the special? The cook wants to know." Both pizzas we picked were oddly sweet. I happen to be a freak for sweet-savory mash-ups so that's not a knock. The special in question paired andouille with green apples, a not-unpleasant though untraditional combo. The surprise was more from the asparagus pizza that was nearly candied sweet from caramelized onions, and I don't know, there had to be something else at work. I want to say that the stubs of asparagus were cooked in balsamic vinegar? If it were up to me, I might combine the apples with the onions, add a little bacon, and pretend the pizza was a tarte flambee. I'd also sprinkle some blue cheese, thought that would dilute the Alsatian theme.  At that rate, there was no way I was going to opt for the much-lauded nutella-ricotta calzone.  Who needed dessert?

Blue Ribbon In my 20s, I never understood it when friends a decade older would say “I can’t drink like I used to” or genuinely old folks might have to forgo spicy or rich food, i.e. “I like butter, but butter doesn’t like me.” What? Shut up. As I approach middle age, though, I'm afraid some of this is becoming a reality. Thankfully, painfully hot food is not a problem...yet. The night after a night of over-imbibing I was still feeling too rough to handle the roasted bone marrow at Blue Ribbon. The pure fat coupled with a rich oxtail marmalade was wreaking havoc. Weird as it may have been, I just had it wrapped up and ate it the next day no problem. Why  not eat bone marrow on toast for breakfast? As the regular Blue Ribbon and the sushi version next door morph into one, they've begun offering raw fish preparations at the original. The small plate of sashimi was a welcome relief from the intended appetizer (which would've been better for sharing, except that Lent is still a thing) though I still think everything at Blue Ribbon is overpriced and yes, the crowd leans heavily Bay Ridge/Staten Island even if that characterization (not by me) offended a Chowhound four years after the fact.

 

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Cuttlefish, Tripe & Chinese Crawfish

Celestino. It's that time of year again when I play along with the boyfriend's Lent thing even though I don't get why it's a big deal to not eat meat one day a week (pizza’s not punishment, right?). You're not even restricted to vegetables. Sea creatures are totally fair game. So, Celestino, where the only meat is in the meatballs on the kids' selection of two items, was fitting. Super cute, whitewashed and hiply nautical (I still need to see Littleneck for comparison) with very good prices, it's the kind of restaurant that would be packed in Carroll Gardens, but was only a quarter full on a Friday night. A juice glass of a tart Italian white wine that wasn’t the Chardonnay or the Pinot Grigio was only $5 and bracing with oysters from Massachusetts and a kale salad, crunchy and oil-slicked with anchovies draped on top of the pile of greens. I wasn't expecting something so dense and stewy from the grilled cuttlefish with peas and polenta description--the peas played more of a prominent role than anticipated--though the damp, drizzly evening called for something savory and rib-sticking.

Rocky Sullivan's. After being traumatized by the sheer volume of under-26s at both places--Fulton Grand and Hot Bird--where we attempted to have a drink after Celestino (Hot Bird is a large space, and you literally couldn't get one foot in the door it was so packed) I sought solace in a no nonsense bar bar the next evening (this is not me being a grandma--in my 20s I didn't enjoy claustrophobic situations with 20-minute-waits for drinks either) and a Sixpoint Brownstone Ale and jalapeno poppers did the trick.

El Bohemio Jarocho. I have all but given up on house-hunting. After seeing a nicely designed, overpriced co op in Clinton Hill next to the projects that already had four all-cash bids (seriously who the fuck are all these Brooklynites will millions to spare? The crank in me says all of the 20-somethings now filling the neighborhood bars in ten more years) then a so-so whole house in Sunset Park, in hopes of less-trodden neighborhoods being less competitive, I just needed a taco…or two. I’ve never head a peep about El Bohemio Jarocho, but it happened to be on the block we parked on and had more customers than the empty alternative across the street. Sometimes you need some crispy tripe and pineapple-sweetened al pastor with Monkey Trouble playing on two TVs and no English interactions. The steak el huevo advertised on the chalkboard turned out to be a massive plate of everything (maybe a Mexican garbage plate?): steak and eggs, obviously, but also a slab of white cheese, grilled bulbous green onion, nopales, jalapeño, avocados, tomatoes, refried beans, chips, rice, and potatoes. Phew.

New World Mall. This is the fanciest of the subterranean Flushing food courts. I didn’t encounter crawfish in New Orleans (we were about a month pre-season) but they were selling the ma la-style for $9.99 at Sliced Noodles. I was tempted, but tried the beef soup with hand-pulled noodles since it was the original craving that drew me there (though I was thinking of Hong Kong-style, which this super-greens-filled Henanese version is not).

The dollar peking duck buns from across the street are a bargain, but pale in comparison to the not-much-more-expensive gua bao ($4.95 for two) from the Taiwanese stall. My favorite item of the afternoon: big fat soy-braised slabs of pork belly placed on fluffy buns and garnished with a pile of cilantro and pickled mustard greens, and given a crushed peanut finish. I saved one for breakfast the next day and wish this part of my daily first meal regimen instead of almonds and clementines.

 

Prime Meats

1/2 It's not really fair to judge things based on outdated notions. My first and last visit to Prime Meats was when the menu and space was a fraction of its current size. It's one of the closest (probably the closest after Frankies) restaurants to my apartment but I avoid venues that tend to have people waiting/loitering outside the door.

Maybe I give off this impression wordlessly too? I always thought I did a good job of masking my internal old and cranky self. At 7:30pm on a Wednesday (playing hooky from Spanish class--I hope no one there reads this) the dining room was less than a quarter full, and we were given a free-standing table for two instead of being fitted into the row of tables along the wall.

An applejack sazarac, sweetened lightly with maple syrup is a nice way to start. The cocktail, along with the stewy, braised, Germanic-leaning menu, also reinforced the disconnect between the season and the weather. Fortifying food makes sense in late January; less so as temperatures soar above 60 degrees.

A half-dozen savory oysters from New Brunswick (I zoned out on the name) seemed better suited for a bare-legged winter evening.

Ok, and a meat board, the so-called Vesper Brett. The selection included ham, calves' tongue, bacon, landjager (like a softer, fatter pepperoni), and chicken liver pate with assorted pickles and a milder "health bread" than the darker, denser stuff packaged into tight rectangles at certain grocery stores. Speaking of German-style bread, I'm kind of excited for Landbrot to open.

Somehow the sürkrüt garnie (no Frenchie choucroute here) managed to be light despite containing three meats: a small amount of pork belly, a bratruwurst, and a substantial slices of calves' tongue (yes, again) that I mistook for brisket in its pleasantly fatty, chewy texture.  When I say light, I only mean that in comparison to the version experienced recently at Renger Patzsch in Berlin. Unlike in Germany, though, I felt no strangeness in taking my leftovers home for dinner the following night.

Why not a shared side of gruyere-infused spätzle too?

You don't have to order German food (weird that I also ordered the exact same dish in 2009--I really like pork and fermented cabbage). That's just what I happen to like about Prime Meats and I wasn't up for paying nearly double for the goat special ($32 vs $18 sürkrüt garnie) even if it is my favorite underrated meat.  I could see myself going back on a weeknight, though I'll probably continue to stay clear of the  patrons spilling out onto the sidewalk brunch.

Prime Meats * 465 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Saul

Oft-mentioned 2011 places to eat that I could walk to and only feel semi-guilty for never having visited. 2012, maybe?

Battersby
Bien Cuit
Colonie
Court Street Grocers (ok, late 2010)
Littleneck
Rucola
Shelsky’s
Smith Canteen
Smorgasburg (er, not really walkable but it was mentioned so much it felt nearby)

However, after 7.5 years in Carroll Gardens I finally did try Saul. It's a solid neighborhood restaurant, no flash, not crowding or waiting for tables, serving the local, seasonal food that's become standard practice in Brooklyn. I couldn't help but think of Saul when I read Adam Platt's revised list of 101 restaurants and he knocked The Grocery off with the comment, " Almost everything on Smith Street now seems old."  Fair enough, restaurants that aren't viewed as exciting anymore, but aren't venerable enough to transcend their comforting sameness  (is there a Brooklyn Le Grenouille?) are in danger.

I only had an appetizer and an entree because it felt more appropriate than a tasting menu (and diners who came in after we did, left well before, emphasizing the  casual drop-in for a bite vibe).

The green beans , corn and squash accompanying the fist-sized portion of sweetbreads almost felt summery.  The fat, creamy tan beans, though, added heft and texture that was similar to the organ meat's soft interior.

Squab was served two ways: rare breast sliced and spindly legs that had been confited. Green faro added a nice chewiness, though with the brussels sprouts, potatoes, and cauliflower, the amount of grain overwhelmed a bit.

I wanted to try the signature baked Alaska because come on--how often do you get to eat a mound of ice cream frosted in burnished meringue peaks? I'd ordered heavier dishes than I'd realized, though, so went smaller...sort of smaller. The pine nut tart wasn't exactly light, but it satisfied a desire for a caramelly cold weather dessert.

Saul * 140 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

VIP@ Thai Cuisine

The other night, I found a paper menu for something called VIP@ Thai Cuisine in the foyer. What the what? I immediately recognized its peculiar brand of menu chaos--and then I decided to place an order. Apparently, Em Thai has rebranded as VIP@ Thai Cuisine. The thing about VIP@ Thai Cuisine/Em Thai is that there are a handful of dishes on the menu that make them the only Thai restaurant I'll order from in the neighborhood, but 90% of the other offerings (the already voluminous menu grew with the re-do) are middling or just plain weird.

I expect them to abide the pad thai, spring roll, green curry tastes of Carroll Gardens, but who asked for a new rambling dessert section? Key lime pie, Living on the Island (coconut jelly in a shell), something called Golden Palaces with no description, and Ruby Coco, i.e. tab tim krob (the one Thai dessert I've ever learned to make) are just a few new choices.

The handful of acceptable, more or less "real" dishes--steamed fish, a spicy pork thing, seafood salad, minced pork with chile and basil topped with a fried egg, grilled chicken with papaya salad--used to be relegated to a tiny section where they warned about heat levels. That "Authentic Specialty" section has grown to 26 items and now includes a panang curry with avocado (even though tempura'd, the vegetal-fruit is great, I'm grossed out by its presence in a hot stewy concoction), chicken breast in a walnut sauce with jade (spinach?) noodles, pork chop on a green salad, and udon all over the place. Oh, and they removed the fried chicken wing salad--I liked that oddball!

I went wild and ordered the rock & roll duck when I really wanted to order the shrimp cheesy roll, a.k.a. " Shrimp, celery, scallions, spinach and Philadelphia cheese wrapped in a rice paper," but chickened out.  Actually it's a roti, not rice paper, and akin to peking duck pancake sandwich with one piece of meat, one scallion, one cucumber spear, and shredded lettuce as filler, er, and  plopped atop a bed of baby spinach. It's heftier than a $1 Flushing peking duck sandwich because of the roti, but more Brooklyn-priced at $6.

Pa Cha Pork Red Hot is genuinely hot, though I always make a polite request in my Seamless Web order to make everything extra spicy because you can't take too many precautions around here.  The krachai, pickled peppercorns, and torn lime leaves, add an extra dimension and earthiness rarely found in the overly sweet local Thai food.

Duck salad (yes, double duck) is maybe fried a little hard, though it kind of reproduces the bony catfish chunks sometimes found in Thai curries. The pineapple and shredded mango are naturally sweet and balanced by the requested heat. Cashews never hurt.

VIP@ Thai Cuisine * 278 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Van Horn

1/2 Van Horn is one those places like Rucola, Strong Place, Court Street Grocers, Brucie, and countless others walkable from my apartment, that get enough chatter without me adding to it (plus, I haven’t eaten at any of them). Maybe you’ve heard of Van Horn’s fried chicken sandwich? Up until last week, I nearly felt like I’d eaten it already.

Now I have. It was impressive in person, the lightly battered chicken breast bulging out of its sesame seed bun. The weird thing was that the red cabbage slaw tasted more like shredded beets in that dirty way the root vegetable can. It added a healthy aura too. This was haute Chick-fil-A , not a substitute.

I prefer my Southern sandwiches to be less virtuous, though, and the PLB oozing with pimento cheese and further greased-up with bacon (then toned back down slightly with a lettuce leaf) was the exact late-ish night snack I had been looking for. The cheese blend was complex and hinted at more than mere cheddar and mayonnaise (in fact, they use garlic aioli).

It’s easy to poke fun at artisanal updates to classics (I’m still surprised that it took a mayonnaise shop to finally push the food world over the edge) but the hushpuppies--super light and nearly creamy inside--were better than anything I was served in North Carolina last month. The honey butter didn’t hurt their case.

By the way, these horrible photos were taken by my horrible phone, which I replaced with the new iPhone two days after this meal. Eventually I cave to most trends (though I’m stating right now that these scrunchy socks will never appear in my drawer or on my person). However, the jury’s still out on apps like instagram and foodspotting (hipstamatic is banned on name alone) and that’s because I’ve been trying to cut down on food photos, not increase my output (and I kind of hate social sharing, despite embracing Twitter and well, blogging before blogs formally existed, even though sometimes I feel like I’m missing out on something indefinable). I’m loathe to give up the SLR for portrait-worthy foodstuffs, even if it makes me a so-called food paparazzi, but I can’t see a camera phone, even a good one, replacing my real camera. Do people actually use both in one setting? I’m afraid of the future now.

Van Horn * 231 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Monte's

I had only been to Monte’s Venetian Room, the so-called oldest Italian restaurant in Brooklyn that sat dormant for the past few years and was just reincarnated, once in its original state, probably around 2003. It was the last time I ever saw my stalker, an unstable former coworker (librarian, naturally) who originally seemed harmless because I thought he was gay and too old (late 30s, ha). I mean, it’s not like I get a lot of stalkers so I had to get the attention where I could find it even though it needed to be nipped in the bud. After two mid-afternoon gin and tonics at Monte’s bar, that was that was that.

On Friday night, half past nine, the bar was the liveliest section of the new room, Venetian mural removed, wood-burning oven installed. The two-for-one drinks advertised on the chalkboard outside probably had something to do with it. We had our pick of seats and choose a red booth mimicking the original the leather banquettes in the same shade.

The arugula salad with lots of parmesan and thin slices of breasola was good and; the focaccia and crusty Italian bread was a nice accompaniment.

So, too was the diavola pizza, layered with sopressata, briny olives bound by a generous application of mozzarella atop a crust more yeasty than crackly. How did I become too distracted to take a photo? That never happens, which could be the sign that I’m finally weaning myself from rampant picture-taking. It really wasn’t because I was concentrating on the food, even though the pizza was at least as good as anything else in the neighborhood.

That was the issue I got stuck on. Why was no one there on a Friday night? It’s not the cuisine. Even though I think the area should put a moratorium on Italian food, I know I’m not the norm. South Brooklyn is teeming with similar reasonably priced antipasti, pasta, secondi restaurants and they’re busy. I don’t mean destinations like Frankies 457 or really Brucie, Rucola, Bocca Lupo or that ilk, but comparable spots like Savoia, the enoteca next to Marco Polo, Fragole. Even Red Rose, which always looks a little down on its luck gruffly turned me away a few months ago. Not a single free seat on a Saturday.

That leaves location as the problem. Gowanus, as much as I love it, isn’t really Carroll Gardens or Park Slope. There’s not a lot of foot traffic, hence no potential spillover from neighboring restaurants. I’ve always thought much of Smith Street’s popularity was due to the volume of restaurants, not necessarily the food quality. It looks bustling; people want to go. And if one place is full, you pick another Thai/Sushi/Italian/Small Plates option.

(Part of the reason I forgot to take photos was because when I saw James’ orecchiette I brought up Gabrielle Hamilton’s Blood, Bones &  Butter because I had just reached the part where she was making that pasta in Italy and I then started going off on a tangent about how had described Smith Street as “that minor-league stretch of Brooklyn that always disappoints,” which I wouldn’t disagree with. Then she lost me with the following overblown inaccuracy: “I would rather starve and kill my children—Medea-like—than eat the truffle oil omelette with chorizo ‘foam’ and piquillo peppers at Soleil or Blue Bird or whatever those restaurants are called…” Twee names maybe, but Spanish flourishes, foam and truffle oil are totally foreign concepts in the vicinity.)

Luna Rossa, at the butt-end of Court is in the same situation as Monte’s. They both have similar menus and aren’t grabbing attention on a non-prime block. I think people just go to Luna Rossa because they have a back garden. Perhaps, Monte’s could work the not-yet-realized patio beer garden mentioned in the press. I’m not sure what the solution is, but you have to stand out.

One of the owners happened to be picking the brains of a young couple at the bar that had replaced the earlier, raucous crowd of locals. Are Open Table, Seamless Web, foursquare and email marketing blasts worth it? How to get on “foodie blogs?” Ostensibly, I work in digital marketing (and even wrote a report called Digital Dining: Chain Restaurants Add Social Media, Mobile to the Menu) but frankly I don’t feel comfortable giving advice because it would only be something obvious and generic like create a quality product and people will come to you. That’s as obnoxious as book deal bloggers talking about cream rising, passion, doing what you love and the money will follow, blah, blah.

I might try to capitalize on Monte’s history rather than coming in as just another Italian-American restaurant in an area thick with them. Keep the pizza, add updated classics, Rat Pack era cocktails or even modern cocktails with Italian flourishes--Fernet Branca is in, right? It could be pulled off by someone with a sharp aesthetic, but it would be tricky to avoid crossing over into kitsch or alienating whoever this target audience is supposed to be. Astor Room hasn’t been wildly successful with this approach, though, so I will zip it now.

Monte’s * 451 Carroll St., Brooklyn, NY

Brooklyn Star

No amount of salad, yogurt, fruit and dinners ripped from the pages of Cooking Light—my dull weekday diet—can make up for an excess of pork fat, batter and beer. Weekends are a problem for me. But what’s the point of going to southern-by-way-of Williamsburg Brooklyn Star if you’re living a life of grilled chicken breasts and steamed broccoli?

Unusually, the long wait on a Saturday night didn’t sour my mood. The luck of two seats instantly opening at the crowded bar and a gratis Sazerac granted by the kindly bartender (whose accent leaned more Scottish than Southern) just shy of the one-hour-mark raised my spirits. We had duck rillettes to occupy us, too. Served in a jar, as country-fied cuisine in urban settings often is, the rich confit was cut by the tartness of pickled green beans and was just as good on a biscuit as a baguette. The thing about terrines, pates and the like is that there’s never enough bread and you feel silly eating charcuterie by the spoonful.

The fried pigs tails were more bony than anything, but if they’re on a menu you’re going to order them, right? The darker nuggets on the periphery of the bowl are jalapeño hush puppies.

 

I appreciate the starch variety. Hush puppies, biscuits and here, Texas toast as the bready delivery mechanism for roasted bone marrow. The parsley salad you may have seen before in this context; the red onion jam, maybe not.

I did not sample the country fried steak with a creamy white gravy, but it looked substantial.

Yes, one vegetable (there are a few on offer) fried, of course, and tossed with ham, apples and chow chow. The unexpected combination paired with brussels sprouts was the most Momofuku-ish dish I encountered.

I’ve never been into chili or chips, but I do love tripe so I’d deal with the Fritos accompaniment and likely-to-be hearty preparation to see what the tripe chili is all about. Something for next time.

Brooklyn Star * 593 Lorimer St., Brooklyn, NY

 

Me & My Egg Roll

Earlier this week I spied a shocking development on the corner of Court and 2nd. I’m surprised I noticed it at all because normally during my home-to-subway walk I’m zombified but speedy (more 28 Days Later  than Walking Dead) rarely noticing anything in my path. There was no doubt about this, though. Even I could see that Me & My Egg Roll, the Chinese takeout place with the best name for miles, had not only re-opened its permanently gate-down, lights-out dining room, but was now advertising Vietnamese sandwiches and bubble tea on a crisp new awning.

When I moved to Carroll Gardens (last week I realized I’m one-month shy of seven years, far longer than I’ve lived in any one place in my adult life. No wonder I’ve become so burnt out on the neighborhood despite the fondness everyone else in the city seems to have for it) I never would’ve anticipated a banh mi shop appearing around the corner. I’d given up on convenient tacos (do not try convincing me that Calexico and Oaxaca serve real Mexican food) and Vietnamese sandwiches after leaving Sunset Park in 2004.

Better late than never. And just because I declared a banh mi ban in 2009, doesn’t mean that I’m not happy to finally have the beloved sandwich being made four blocks from my apartment. Luckily, this work-from-home snow day coincided with their opening, so I could pop over during my lunch break.

I can’t say if they’ve redecorated the dining room filled with about eight-to-ten four-seaters because I never got a good look at the dim space before (I’m fairly certain that when I did first move here, you could still dine-in).The room is utilitarian with recessed ceiling emanting colorful glowing light and a few pendant lamps for good measure, but not dreary like sitting in the one or two plastic booths you might find at your corner takeout spot. A twosome who appeared to be a middle-aged son and mother were sipping coffees (the woman asked the man if my bubble tea was a smoothie, which reminded jaded me that decade-old Taiwanese trends aren’t a part of everyone’s word) out of paper cups, a younger man was eating in and waiting a bit for his food like I was and a lot of passerbys stopped to peek inside.

You can order from the Me & My Egg Roll menu (I’ll admit that when I’m in the mood for Chinese-American takeout I choose Wing Hua because they’re the only ones who serve crab rangoon) or the new one, which devotes most space to drinks—37 of them—five sandwiches and three resolutely American salads.

Banh mi are $5 apiece, which is fair (you don’t want me to tell you about how they were only $1.50 in Portland a million years ago again, do you?) and falls between Chinatown and contemporary Vietnamese in Manhattan pricing.

The house special was good for an opening day sandwich. One of the staffers admitted that they were still getting it right. Most of the components were there: lunchmeats, cucumbers, pickled daikon and carrots, cilantro, ground and bbq pork, mayonnaise... but the balance skewed a little sweet, maybe from a sugary pickling liquid and thickly sliced char siu. What it lacked was chiles and the pate, both mentioned on the menu. A little heat and creaminess would’ve added more dimension. Sriricha is always on my shelf, so that was easily rectified. The bread was fresh and pliable with a little chew, though not particularly crackly. Given the neighborhood, it’s probably Italian bread, not a traditional French baguette.

I realized the taro bubble tea was a mistake after I got out the door. The mauve beverage filled with brown orbs draws attention. Also, I needed my arms for balance while trudging through slippery piles of slush and navigating single-file paths carved out of feet of snow (not easy with the amount of dog and stroller traffic in the area—I really don’t enjoy playing chicken with strangers in the slush).

I tried squeezing past two boys, shovelers for hire, and one turned to ask me something. Oh no, I read enough police blotters to know that kids are always punching people and snatching their iPhones (I’m more concerned that they’ll discover that I only have a Cliq XT and punch me harder because it’s such a piece of shit phone).

“Where did you get that drink?” he said.

Oh, right, everyone’s into food these days. “Um, at the Chinese place down the street, Me and My Egg Roll,” I replied.

“So, it’s like a milkshake?” he asked.

“Yeah, I like it,” I said and then wondered why I said I like it instead of answering the question. I guess bubble tea is like a milkshake. Did he really need me to go on about Taiwanese tea being co-opted by Vietnamese and now sold by Chinese in Brooklyn? No, that deserves a punch.

Now I wonder if the kids who have been known to eat monochromatic fried combo meals from Styrofoam containers (and get into altercations with the staff) while gathered outside Me & My Egg Roll’s takeout door, will start asking for milkshakes.

Me & My Egg Roll * 407 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

 

Jordan's Lobster Dock

Like an out-of-touch politician clueless about the price of milk (I have no idea, myself), I don’t know what lobsters normally sell for. $6.99 seems like a deal, though. The prospect of cheap lobster was enough to motivate me onto the Belt Parkway to Sheepshead Bay on a freezing Sunday afternoon, a neighborhood I normally associate with summer and Clemente’s.

Clowns to the left, jokers to the right… Jordan’s is stuck in the middle of a Cold Stone Creamery and TGI Friday’s.

When you first walk in, Jordan’s has a casual eat-in restaurant where you can order platters of fried seafood, chowder and sandwiches. (And sadly, no bread bowls. I’ll never be able to erase the sound of a grown man’s voice, heavily Brooklyn-accented, on the JFK air train, describing a chicken salad in a bread bowl at a place called Jordan’s as “bangin’.”) Up a few stairs, you’ll see the retail market and where the $6.99 lobsters, clams and assorted shellfish can be bought to take home. Cooking soft-shell crabs at home is as far as I’ve gone with kill-your-own food—and I was more squeamish about it than I’d like to admit as a carnivore—so I chickened-out and had them steam our two lobsters for us.

While waiting, we went back downstairs and got some snacks. Jordan’s $15.99 lobster roll is served with a plastic container of coleslaw and a foil packet of Hellman’s. Barely a sandwich, this creation is really a pile of chunky lobster meat atop a flap of iceberg lettuce and a nondescript bun. I’m absolutely not a connoisseur of the city’s recent-ish lobster roll deluge, so I can only compare with the buttery Connecticut-style specimen I had at Red Hook Lobster Pound right before Christmas (which unfortunately, I didn’t photograph for comparison).

This lobster was a little overly chilled and stiff, though still sweet, and there was double the quantity of what I was served in Red Hook. Less delicate, for sure. This was a manly lobster roll.  I only wish that I had a beer (they do serve alcohol but I don’t go in for hair of the dog cures) and could’ve sat outside instead of being forced indoors by the snow and slush.

Somehow, I forgot to take a photo of the most important thing: the cooked lobsters, two enormous two-and-a-half pounders too large for any plates in my house.

Jordan’s Lobster Dock * 3165 Harkness Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Palo Cortado

Palo Cortado is an ideal restaurant in that I will be able to use my visit as fodder when asked to explain en español what I did the past week in my weekly Spanish class, two-and-a-half blocks away. It’s also the only tapas bar in the area—Reds Produce never really caught on and La Mancha, technically in Brooklyn Heights, has always seemed a bit off—so by default, it’s welcome on this burgeoning stretch of lower Court Street.

The food is traditional, straightforward, no gastronomic pyrotechnics in the modern Catalan tradition.  And that’s fine. I suspect they’ll reap benefits from Buttermilk Channel’s spillover.

The small square table could barely contain our selection of meats (chorizo, jamon iberico, lomo embuchado) and cheeses (caña de cabra, idiazabal, valdeon). I had idiazabal at home in the fridge, so ordering more when out is a testament to how much I like the smoked sheep’s milk cheese. I always feel like they cut the jamon a bit too chunky in Brooklyn, but I’ve stopped caring. It doesn’t really affect the taste, and they captured enough ivory ribbons of fat in the slices.

There’s something about fried balls of mush that makes them end up tasting the same even though they were crafted from very different and often tasty base ingredients. The goat cheese with truffle honey, jamon with piquillo sauce and bacalao with salsa verde would’ve been nearly indistinguishable without their accompaniments as signals. Croquetas do beat mozzarella sticks with marinara, though.

I’ve had so many versions of patatas bravas in the US and Spain that I don’t even know what’s standard or if there is a standard. Aioli and tomato sauce, one or the other, pimenton, no pimenton, cubed, sliced thinly into rounds, sauce on the top, sauce on the side. These golden squares did have nice crispy surfaces, and a good ratio of lightly spiced tomato sauce and thin aioli. It’s hard to have a problem with a fried chunk of potato.

It’s nice having a walkable place to drink a glass of Rioja and nibble on chorizo and Marcona almonds, but I wouldn’t feel right telling anyone to travel more than a subway stop or two to pay a visit. Palo Cortado is best for lazy locals feeling tapas-deprived.

Palo Cortado * 520 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Fette Sau

I’m not one to say to no to free drinks, but my office's quarterly Thursday afternoon happy hour in the conference room with Bud Lite, jug wine, mozzarella sticks and pigs in a blanket were no match for James' annual company Fun Day.

What this means is that they get the day off and can propose just about any fun group activity with a $100 per employee stipend. Last year, he participated in a Le Bernadin lunch. Friday, it was beer gardens of Brooklyn. By the time I got off work, a majority of the group had headed home, leaving me a pint at Radegast, a few bites of venison sausage and $160 to spare.

On to Fette Sau (not technically a beer garden, no) where James, one remaining coworker, myself, and a dismissed former employee happy to splurge on the company’s dime, ordered a pound each of pork belly, pulled pork and beef brisket, a sampling of bourbon and rye, followed by a gallon of Six Point Righteous Rye in an enormous glass jub. Oh, yes, and baked beans…with burnt ends. Meat upon meat.

I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve never been to Fette Sau; it’s the crowd avoider in me. We snuck in just under the wire, but being in for the long haul (I really didn’t think we were eating and drinking that slowly) ended up sharing a picnic table with a series of four other groups. Tables are definitely the premium I was afraid they were.

Now I know what all the fuss is about; the meat is ridiculously good and fatty in a pleasing way. The pulled pork shoulder was moist throughout, the sliced brisket was both tender and charred, and even cold (I guess we were eating slowly) the pork belly, which we saved for last due to awkward sharing, was ridiculous. I refrained from gnawing on the bone even though was I was getting egged on to do just that.

At $16 a pound for each meat, the pricing wasn't outrageous and more economical than Hill Country. I already want to go back and create my own Fun Day.

Fette Sau * 354 Metropolitan Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Em Thai

(spicy section only)

Living on the edge of Carroll Gardens in a corner apartment without a front gate, we rarely get the takeout menus that everyone else in the neighborhood tries warding off with menacing signs. I like reading menus, even pedestrian ones. When we recently found one for Em Thai, the glowing pink restaurant on Smith Street, my first inclination was to toss in the recycling bin, but my attention was grabbed by the large text on the first page, “New recommended spicy real Thai hot alert!! If you cannot eat real spicy food, we do not recommend all items on this menu.” Really?

That week James walked by after work and said the place was empty. Maybe they were desperate, trying new approaches. Friday night (and probably every evening) they were offering 20% off, not a tactic of a thriving restaurant. We had to move in quickly before the place went kaput.

With each bite of the Brooklyn-style larb my hopes for the promised hot and spicy experience faded. Why is all the local Thai food two-note lime and sugar? The chicken larb from the regular menu was making me very anxious. They did use ground, roasted rice but I don’t think there was even a dusting of chile powder. My insides were jumping around, concerned that the entrees were going to suck. I really hate wasting a good meal.

Pad Cha Pork Red Hot, the only dish on the special menu with four stars, came out next. I could see shredded krachai, crushed chiles and tiny branches of green peppercorns. Nice! And the first bite? Fiery in that way that almost tastes dirty, like the receptors in your mouth are being shocked and subsequently dulled as they get used to the feeling. Even though the pork was chunkier than what you might find in Thailand (I recall seeing mostly ground meat or fried pork belly) the flavor is the most Thai I’ve encountered in Brooklyn.

The fish looks innocent, but it too was spicy from a coating of pure chopped garlic and chile, with a sweet-tart lime sauce. The steamed filet was flaky and almost too delicate for the garnish. I would’ve loved this with a whole crispy-fried fish, but was trying to balance the pork with a lighter choice.

So, I would stay away from pretty much everything on the menu except for the nine dishes in the special section—that is, unless you like cherries and pineapple with your duck and avocado in your panang curry. I’m definitely going to return for the Spicy Fried Wing Salad—that takes some audacity.

After five years in the neighborhood, I’ve finally found a Thai restaurant that makes me want to return—or at least order takeout—because they’ve done something to differentiate themselves from the slew of Smith Street blahness. Now, I just hope that they stay afloat.

Em Thai * 278 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

St. Anselm

The problem with bars that serve food that garner raves is that seats are often a hot commodity. The much yapped about fried chicken and cheeseburger just weren’t going to happen when I popped into The Commodore last week. I’ll have to return at an off hour.

St. Anselm, across the street, was completely the opposite. They had open tables galore because their lack of a liquor license pushes everyone who wants to drink into the shared back garden with Spuyten Duyvil.

I was intrigued and a little intimidated by the initial menu that had been floating around. Meat on meat extremes like bone marrow poppers, foie gras, pierogies and beer battered brains. But in practice, the only oddball item on the blackboard was veal heart jerky. The restaurant has emerged as a full-blown New Jersey junk food joint.

Awesome in a way, but for the third time in very recent history I have been faced with my nemesis, the hotdog. Luckily, there was a World Cup-themed list of sausages to choose from. I went for Spain’s butifarra (not a blood sausage, sadly) served in a simple crusty roll with mustard. Very restrained.

I didn’t think I could handle the Newark dog served with a deep-fried Karl Ehmer frankfurter in addition to another sausage of your choosing, stuffed into pizza bread along with batter-fried pepper and onion strands and a fistful of fries. I ordered one for James, though, and forgot to ask for gravy. We were trying to determine if they meant brown gravy (I’m 99% sure, yes) or “gravy” in the Italian-American sense, meaning marinara. He was so obsessed that he brought his monstrosity back inside and asked for gravy to be added. No can do.

For ages we’ve been meaning to hit up Jimmy Buff’s and all of the classic New Jersey Italian hot dog purveyors on their home tuff. Thanks to Hank Krall’s comprehensive round-up on Serious Eats last week, I feel less urgency for an in-person sampling. My stomach thanks him.

St. Anselm * 355 Metropolitan Ave., Brooklyn, NY 

Am-Thai Chili Basil Kitchen

1/2 I already admitted my aversion to hotdogs, though I did enjoy a nice steamy, gooey carton of Nathan’s cheese fries at Coney Island on the fourth. Maybe it’s the heat and humidity conjuring up Bangkok memories, but when it’s hot and disgusting out (and I’m a little hungover) I always want Thai food.

I generally steer clear of it in Brooklyn because it just makes me too sad. In the back of my head, though, I’ve been aware of Kensington’s Am-Thai. It’s just that I’m never in the vicinity. A Coney Island to Carroll Gardens drive would finally give me the excuse.

I used to live on 31st Street, on the west side of Greenwood Cemetery in what people like to call Greenwood Heights even though it’s Sunset Park, so I’m familiar with general area. But Kensington, and specifically, this restaurant, is a straight line east through the cemetery in a totally different world. If Am-Thai existed when I lived down there, it would’ve been semi-reasonable walk. The immediate area seems to be a Bangladeshi hub--I want to go back and check out Ghoroa because I love Indian sweets even though they are literally the death of me.

While there is a makeshift table outside so you can pretend you’re in Thailand and another one inside, Am-Thai is very much a takeout affair. Upping the authenticity quotient last Sunday were the hot air blowing fans, no air conditioning, no way. We must’ve looked like we were suffering; while waiting for our order we were given a complimentary iced tea, sweet and thick with condensed milk. I loathe southern sweet tea (so full of hate, I know, I can’t help my hotdog and sugary beverage issues) but the creaminess and strong tannins made this one work.

Ocean salad was just one of a handful of seafood salads. Normally, salads are where you get the heat. Not true here. This was tamest dish of all, much more sweet, sour and lemongrassy than anything. The reddish overall color hinted at tom yum paste, and reminded me of Thai food in Malaysia where everything is tom yum flavored: spaghetti, pizza and who knows what else.

The chile basil duck was oily, sure, and full of spice. The onions and red pepper slices practically confit in the duck fat. Once again, they surprised me because chile basil stir-fries at most NYC Thai restaurants are on the mild side. I did request it hot, but you never know if your wishes will be granted.

The last time at Chao Thai our server asked how we liked the heat level after tasting a dish we’d ordered as hot. We said, “Oh, it’s good” to be agreeable. Then he smugly announced that it wasn’t actually the hot we ordered. The guy’s a tool. And the adjacent table of white folks who had just been commenting to him how their food was too hot? You’re ruining it for the rest of us.

I’ll never understand all the Sripraphai haters. Or maybe more so, the touters of newer, better Thai restaurants that never offer a credible substitute. I firmly believe the food at Woodside’s stalwart is still as good as ever. If anything, I appreciate their vast repertoire of curries. No need to cling to the red, green, panang canon.

Am-Thai, while also a Bangkok-style restaurant like Sripraphai, keeps it simple curry-wise, so I chose the greatest-hits green. Anticipating something soupy and blah, this rich and fiery tangle of bamboo shoots, tender eggplant and beef strips, completely exceeded my expectations. I couldn’t wait to eat the leftovers for lunch the next day.

Being a lucky Brooklynite with a car in my household, when the Thai urges strikes I can bypass the immediate area and head to Queens where I know I’ll be happy. Am-Thai has now softened my stance on Brooklyn’s Thai food mediocrity. Next time I’m looking for Thai cuisine, I might just keep it local.

Am-Thai Chili Basil Kitchen * 359 McDonald Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Der Schwarze Kölner

I wouldn't say that I favor beer halls over other drinking establishments, so it was odd that I ended up at semi-isolated Hungarian, Draft Barn, Friday evening and at Der Schwarze Kölner two nights later.

Fort Greene's German contribution isn't a true beer garden—there are smattering of outdoor folding tables and chairs facing Fulton Street—and food isn’t really the point, but the bar was just right for a Fourth of July stop, post-BAM.

No, I didn’t mess around with fireworks or barbecues this year. Instead, I witnessed my first Nathan’s hotdog eating contest in person, then sobered up with some bleak Americana while watching Winter’s Bone.

The dark (and extra echoey) room was the perfect setting to test out my new point-and-shoot, an uncharacteristic impulse buy. My old-ish PowerShot SD800 died last week and I could make do like the rest of the world who now seems to rely solely on iPhones for photos, but the quality doesn't cut it (plus, I don't have an iPhone). I'm not always in the mood for cramming an SLR in my purse, but still want to take casual photos on occasion. Things like pretzels and sausage that can only be so pretty.

And clearly, I still have some way to go in mastering this new camera. These are not glamour shots. (By contrast, the first time I ever used my SLR in the wild at Hill Country, my photos turned out well despite not knowing what I was doing—amusingly, one of these test shots was recently used in an Ozersky post).

True confession: I hate hotdogs. My patriotic eating duty went unfulfilled at Nathan's. That doesn't mean I dislike sausages, though. Weisswurst are more delicate and I kind of like their albino appearance. And no one can argue with a soft pretzel.

Obazda was completely new to me. The cheese spread, a sharp blend of cream cheese, butter, brie, beer and caraway, is like Bavarian pimento cheese, in a way. The radishes and dark Spaten Optimator added an additional layer of welcome bitterness to the dip.

Der Schwarze Kölner * 710 Fulton St., Brooklyn, NY

The Vanderbilt

1/2 Waiting long enough after an opening and long enough past prime dinner time can make dining at popular Brooklyn restaurants more enjoyable (despite the hype and proximity to my apartment, there is no way I’m touching Seersucker in the immediate future--I learned my lesson with patience-trying Thistle Hill Tavern). Of course, that also means that no one in the online world cares because not-so-new equals dull. That is fine; I’ll take seven-month-old, The Vanderbilt, at 11pm on a Saturday.

I’d already eaten pepperoni pizza and a few bites of a reuben earlier at Rocky Sullivan’s while trying to be a semi-sophisticated American embracing the World Cup. (I don’t watch sports period, and frankly, don’t understand where World Cup mania sprouted from all of a sudden.) A small plates dinner and cocktails were fine.

You would think that someone ordering the Whiskey Skiffer (rye whiskey, Cynar, sweet vermouth, mole-amarillo bitters) would know what they were getting into. Clearly not, since our server warned me, “It’s bitter.” Better safe than sorry for him, I guess. Then again, the last Cynar cocktail I had at The Sackett (what’s up with all the The?) was kind of foul.

Maybe it was because I’d just had a few handfuls of movie theater popcorn while watching Please Give, but this wonderfully oily broccoli with singed edges reminded me of Smartfood. Each pecorino-draped bite oozed olive oil and had a delicious crunch.

The Serrano croquettes actually tasted like ham. You never know if you’re going to get a bready mouthful or be able to distinguish the advertised filling. Plus, the aioli dollop was a nice touch.

All that brown needed a hit of green. It was the boudin noir that attracted me to this dish, but the fresh peas and shoots kept the blood sausage from overpowering.

Even if you know rillettes come packed in fat, seeing so much melted animal product can give you pause. I like mine a little stiffer and opaque, more spreadable. The rhubarb preserves did add a nice sweet tartness. 

The Vanderbilt * 570 Vanderbilt Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Thistle Hill Tavern

3/4  Remind me again not to visit brand new restaurants, particularly in Park Slope.  It only causes knee-jerk Yelpy reactions and that’s unfair. The food, which should be the focus, always becomes secondary and I end up not wanting to ever come back under more normal circumstances when all the kinks have been worked out. Sidecar, Alchemy and Ghenet are three not terribly recent examples that come to mind. First visits became my last.

(In my day life, I work with data so I think about numbers a lot even though I’m better with words. I've blogged about 29 restaurants in Park Slope since 2001, not that many. I've only experienced new restaurant blues at four, which would be approximately 14% of all of my Park Slope restaurant posts. The unusual discovery is that these four restaurants fall within my last six posts about Park Slope dating back to 2007. I wouldn't say that restaurants have gotten worse in the past three years. I think this is about food blogging becoming prominent and my feeling the need to visit new restaurants sooner than I used to. I am going to curb that behavior. )

Being quoted a 30-minute wait, to be seated at a typical squished two-seater in a crowded row an hour later when the couple who waltzed in 40 minutes afterward gets a primo table for four at the same time, is bad service and planning. It causes resentment and impressions of the food become tainted. Babies squalling at 11pm also guarantees a bad first impression (trying not to be anti-family, on the same day as the Fornino hubbub, no less. I have no problem with early evening dining for tots in this genre of restaurant--not so much Cafe Boulud--but I’m old and of an era when bedtimes for children meant something).

It seems that Thistle Hill Tavern is clearly serving a void in South Slope. The Wednesday night crowds prove it. It’s not a destination, otherwise, though. The gastropub menu hits all the right foodie points: pork belly, pickled ramps, grass-fed beef. On paper it works.

I shared the beet salad, not typically cubed or dominant but layered in thin circles and topped with peppery watercress. It could’ve been dull, but the breaded, fried blue cheese croutons kept things interesting and the scattering of pistachios didn’t hurt.

I tried the duck confit atop spinach with blue cheese and marcona almonds, echoing the salad I’d started with. A fine entrée.

The rib-eye, the most expensive thing on the menu at $24. I did not try this.

Admittedly, this is only an early glimpse. Places like this will either prove popular as is or find their groove. Check it out for yourself. I might not be their target audience.

Thistle Hill Tavern * 441 Seventh Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Fatty 'Cue

I knew I would like the food at Fatty 'Cue even if it was my third choice. Friday night I went looking for fried brains and bone marrow poppers at St. Anselm but they didn't appear to be in business yet. Foie gras pierogies will have to wait. I put my name on the list at Pies & Thighs, then before even sinking into the 15-person-crowd out front, gave up. At 8pm, a table for two at Fatty 'Cue down the street, was no problem.

My hesitation, why Fatty ‘Cue wasn’t destination one or two, stemmed from the spate of early online criticism. And after eating there myself, I am torn. I love the concept. And I love funky Southeast Asian flavors made American without being dumbed down. Pok Pok, the wildly popular Thai restaurant in Portland, is a stellar example of a restaurant doing this right.

Lightly spicy, fish saucey, palm sugared pork ribs used the flavor combination of my dreams. But $4.67 per rib ($14 for an order of three—everything is served in threes, which makes splitting between two awkward and impossible among four) did seem a bit much.

Everything comes as it pleases, which is to say mostly all at once. Fun and festive or disorderly, depending on your perspective. Four dishes plus plates for eating won’t fit on a table for two.

I didn't get a distinct coriander taste from the thick, meaty bacon, as was advertised, but definitely got the smokiness. The little cup contained steamed custard flavored with yellow curry, like a savory flan. It’s meant to be spread on the toast points and topped with the bacon slices.

The smoked eggplant and anchovy nam prik is one of those dishes that would stymie a diner expecting more traditional barbecue menu, Asian-inflected or not. Nearby customers seemed confused by tamarind in the ice tea, so I imagine that this Thai-esque platter would be more challenging than baked beans for some. Sour green mango is one of my favorite vehicles for chile hot, fishy nam priks. This dip was more earthy-salty, nice with grilled garlic, blander radishes and crisp bok choy. Kind of healthy if you gloss over the chicharrones.

Smoky was the theme, also with the clams, rife with bacon and sitting in a pork bone broth. Texas toast was the most American part of the meal whether or not they call it dragon pullman toast.

Shoofly or s’mores pie just seemed weird, but I still wanted something sweet. The dark chocolate bar seasoned with Aleppo pepper, almonds and sea salt did the trick even if it felt more like you were eating a souvenir than a dessert proper.

Fatty 'Cue * 91 S. Sixth St., Brooklyn, NY

Metro Cafe

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I haven’t left the house since Wednesday. Shuffling between my bed and couch, fevered, sore throat, sinuses infected, unable to concentrate, I’ve been going stir crazy. Maybe food would help?

Last night I was brought take out from Metro Café, the Brooklyn Sichuan/Japanese restaurant that I’ve been meaning to try. Obviously, I can’t speak to the décor or service.

I can speak to James knowing my taste. Even though he pestered me (I’ve lost my voice and trying to talk is excruciating) with five calls from Hong Kong Supermarket on subjects like, “What is a wide rice noodle?” Er, go to the rice noodle section and look for the least skinny variety. “What’s the difference between noya bok choy and shanghai bok choy?” I have no idea what noya is, I’m guessing a handwritten typo. “Do we have star anise? Limes? Cardamom pods?” Yes, no, yes. All I had to say in regard to what to order at Metro Café was, “something cold like tendon or tripe” and I was given pigs' ears. That’s definitely what I would’ve chosen if I had had a menu in front of me.

The ears, sliced into ribbons, were a nice balance of crunch and chew. I did not detect a strong peppercorn tingle, but I’m afraid that I’m missing out the full flavor spectrum. You would think that bold spice and chile oil would be the perfect match for a palate-dulling cold--I just nibbled a few bites of a chocolate bunny and could barely taste a thing--but I’ve encountered an inexplicable sensation, once before while at Sripraphai while sick, that hot food tastes even hotter, painfully so. I could only eat a few bites. Should I have new sympathy for people who claim to be unable to tolerate hot food?

Same with the cumin beef, which is similar to lamb preparations at other Sichuan restaurants (there is no lamb at Café Metro). I’ve never thought this was a punishing dish. Sure, there’s heat from the grilled green chiles; the overall sensation is an oily cuminy one, though. I’ll save this till tomorrow.

The double cooked pork is always one of my favorite dishes, super unctuous, mixed with tons of grease-softened leeks. This pork was a little dry despite sporting fatty layers. Odd. Still pretty good. I could eat the savory, black bean-enhanced onion and leek slices all by themselves on rice.

Water spinach, because you need a green vegetable.

I'll return for a dine-in version after I perk up. Chong qing chicken and a fish dish next time.

Metro Café * 4924 8th Ave., Brooklyn, NY