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Posts from the ‘Pizza’ Category

Eaten, Barely Blogged: 48 Hours in Seoul

gontran cherrier duoGontran Cherrier This lovely matcha almond croissant prompted a Facebook friend to comment “Aren’t there any local delicacies you could eat?” Uh, no. Well, French pastry is practically Korean. Hello, Paris Baguette? I didn’t set out to eat absolutely no traditional Korean food (though I intentionally stayed in Itaewon, which has a lot of American and international influence) but traditional Korean food is extremely unfriendly to solo diners. The restaurant culture is super communal, social, and family-style, barring fast food and street food. I’d read stories of people being turned away at bbq joints even if they promised to order portions fit for two. Tokyo, was totally the opposite, thankfully.

pancake house

I almost went to the Original Pancake House instead of Gontran Cherrier, just because it felt like my duty as a native Oregonian. Yes, the original Original Pancake House is headquartered in Portland.

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Un-American Activities: KFC and Domino’s Japan

kfc-christmas

I was blessed to be in Japan in December because I got to witness first-hand the phenomenon that is KFC at Christmas. However, I wasn’t able to partake in it because all those displays and set menus plastered on the wall (Sparkling cider with the Colonel’s face on it! Chicken cordon bleu! A $50 whole turkey with its own tote!) are for pre-ordering only. I had no idea.

kfc-trio

So, I settled for a four-piece meal with biscuits, no finger sheaths provided. I love how even at fast food restaurants (well, at least KFC and MOS Burger) if you order iced coffee you receive a little plastic container of simple syrup and the creamer comes in an even tinier plastic container (even though I take it black).

 

Twitter knows me far too well, as evidenced by Pizza Hut’s enticement of online ordering (no human interaction!) in English (bonus!). But after a solid 20 minutes on their site and being surprised that pizzas cost $30+, I kept getting a garbled message after inputting what I thought was my postal code, which I took to mean I was out of their delivery zone even though I was in a centrally located neighborhood. I was not going to give up ordering pizza to my Airbnb even though it had a wonky address that confused multiple cab drivers.

Plan B. Domino’s, similar oddball flavor combinations (roasted pork with demi-glace and mustard sauce,  crab gratin and something called Mayo Jaga with potato, corn, sausage, and mayonnaise obvs) also offering online orders in English, and no less expensive. I, no joke, spent a half hour trying to type my address into a form so the system would recognize it.

dominos-screenshots

I thought with near 80% certainty that I would be charged, and then like an hour later would receive an angry call in Japanese and I would have no way to direct the driver. I clearly have been living in in NYC too long because in Tokyo you could track your pizza every step of the way. I registered for the service (and received a 1000 yen coupon for another order) about ten minutes into waiting and was shocked to see the pizza was 9 minutes away, marked with a cartoon reindeer (despite Domino’s shelving reindeer delivery in Hokkaido) and moving fast. I could also read about the driver’s favorite pizza, music, and sports team, except that I couldn’t read them.

dominos-duoI made my boyfriend put on pants and run down to the street from our second floor (first floor in everyone else in the world’s parlance) to intercept a potentially lost driver, still not convinced we were actually going to receive our pizza. No worries, two friendly guys on mopeds showed up and the box was handed off (I love no tipping culture even if it results in a $33 pizza).

I was the proud owner of Cheese ‘n’ Roll Quattro Delight. That meant a surprise cheese-stuffed crust, and one quarter each of Margherita, deluxe, special seafood, and garlic master. I kind of was the Garlic Master. Japan can thwart visitors in so many ways–procedural, cultural–so I felt a strange sense of accomplishment for having conjured a pizza to my door without speaking the language. Also, I wonder how long my coupon is good for?

 

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Oregon, Better Late Than Never

 

mae-grid

Mae. I was reluctant to eat at a Southern food pop-up in Portland. Who needs it? (I would be more interested in a Pacific Northwest pop-up on the South except that there isn’t a distinct cuisine to speak of.) But it was one of the highlights of my trip; very vegetable-focused, light when it needed to be (chilled zucchini & buttermilk soup with sweet pepper relish, cherry tomato, and sumac-toasted pecans and lingerie beans, flame nectarine, pickled chantrelles, purslane with brown butter vinaigrette) hefty when it was required (chicken fried in three fats–no idea which). And I will never again underestimate the power of biscuits slathered with Duke’s mayonnaise and topped with nothing more than heirloom tomatoes and bourbon barrel-smoked salt. At $65 (suggested donation) for ten courses (was too busy eating to take photos of them all) and BYOB I would consider it a great bargain, though in Portland that means you’ll be sharing a table with some wealthy middle-aged Bergen County transplants and siblings from Eastern Oregon of mysterious means (and a dubious relationship) one whose child with a septum piercing will be going to Harvard in the fall. I was the only teenager-free diner at the table (even my boyfriend has a daughter going to the cool downtown public high school, which everyone approved of) and when the sister from Pendleton made everyone state their favorite movie, and wouldn’t let up after I demurred, I was like maybe I’m a poor conversationalist? No matter, when there’s pickled ramp pimento cheese to be eaten.

nodoguro-grid

Nodoguru. $125 ticketed omakase that sells out in minutes. It was all right. Something about it felt off for Portland, not that I’m critiquing quality or creativity.  I just couldn’t get excited because I’m a jaded monster.

pizza-vendor-grid

Pizza Vendor. Totally the break-out hit of this trip. With its straighforward name and no reason to go unless you happen to already be in Scappoose identity, it suited my needs just fine. It’s the childhood pizza of your dreams, half-and-half if you please, lots of cheese, thin, chewy, and puffy cornmeal-dusted crust, except that now you can get pitchers of beer instead of root beer and I still can’t figure out how what seemed like six-pints worth of some local IPA was only $6.99. Bon Appetit had recently declared Pizza Jerk, a take on East Coast pizzerias, one of America’s Best New Restaurants despite it being closed due to a fire. Magically, it reopened two days before I was to head back to NYC. I had planned to hit it on the way to the airport but went back to Pizza Vendor instead.

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Hat Yai. It’s no secret that I’m a fan of Portland Thai food. There are all sorts of interesting niches being filled despite the Thai population being practically nonexistent. The shtick is Southern Thai in a fast-casual format with cute branding. Fried chicken, lightly battered in seasoned rice flour encrusted with fried shallots and sweet chile sauce is featured and I tried a combo with a big buttery roti and chicken curry, not exactly a light lunch. I kind of love that there are six straight liquors for $6, soda an extra $1.50 (though I’m sure that’s considered overpriced since a majority of cocktails in Portland are still sub-$10) as I’ve been on a tequila and soda kick (so I can pretend I’m not a lame as a vodka soda-drinker). Sometimes I think I will move back to Portland and then I see middle-aged foodie dudes with goatees setting up elaborate photo shoots (was under the impression this was a blogger of some consequence) who pronounce prix fixe, pree fixay, and I’m all nope, I would just be too mean for this town.

urdaneta-duo

Urdaneta. Stopped in for a snack because I was wandering around the area and recognized the name as something newish and ended up ruining my appetite for the $5 Little Bird happy hour double brie burger I had planned on later. Complimentary pimenton-spiked chickpeas and a sweetbread-topped pintxo would’ve suited my needs fine. The tortilla was substantial, gilded with Idiazabal and sherry aioli, and I couldn’t stop eating it.

pine-state-biscuits

Pine State Biscuits. I’ve been before. It was close to my Airbnb.

giant-grid

Giant Drive-In. There’s a shingled A-frame practically in the backyard of the apartment complex my mom and stepdude are now managing. No, it’s not a destination but I would recommend the big, fun (Hawaiian!) burgers and homemade shakes even if you lived a little more than walking distance.

chinook-winds-trio

 

 

Cedar Plank Buffet. We gathered 10 family members for a Sunday brunch buffet at Spirit Mountain Casino because nothing is too good for my mom’s 66th birthday. Fried oysters, smoked salmon, biscuits and gravy, lemon meringue pie, french toast, and bacon is just all a part of the deal.
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Mountain View Sports Bar. Oh, and a late night sports reuben that I carted around from my mom’s to Scappoose because I’m gross and can’t toss food. I can’t remember if this was before or after the mushrooms and Keno (my sister is a hippie) but it was ok because we stayed overnight, no driving.

coyote-joes-trio

Coyote Joe’s. Weird that I would encounter biscuits three times in two days because biscuits aren’t particularly Northwesty.

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San Dune Pub. An oyster po’ boy with local Willapa Bay oysters. See? New Orleans appropriation.

little-big-burger

Little Big Burger. I completely forgot I ate this.

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An Xuyen. Banh mi, only $1.49 more than the ’90s. Best sandwich under $3. The owner/cashier was so damn chatty I thought the line of customers behind me were about to kill us, yet when I looked up no one gave a shit.

pho-van

Pho Van. Part of a mini Vietnamese empire. Solid pho. No, I did not make it to Rose VL Deli.

shut-up-and-eat

Shut Up and Eat. My grandma is into this food truck-turned-brick-and-mortar restaurant and I’m half-convinced it’s simply because of the name. The Italian sandwich contained a little more roughage than I’m accustomed to.

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Ixtapa. The waiter was all, “I put habaneros in your food,” I guess to get a reaction, but I was all “ok…” That’s humor in Scappoose. The combos are crazy cheap and you won’t feel weird for ordering a chimichanga. That’s all you need to know.

sharis-duo

Shari’s. The last two times I’ve been (2x in one year is more than I’d been in two decades) they did not have my first choice or second choice pie. YMMV. They always have tots, however.

 

Newborn: Sac’s Place

sacs-facade

So, Jackson Heights finally got good pizza. Not a Motorino or even a Milktooth. No brussels sprouts or negronis–are you insane? Believe me, I’m good with grandma slices, garlic knots, and meatball heroes, the sort of classics you take for granted in many New York neighborhoods. This is Sac’s, a new branch of a popular Astoria Italian restaurant that recently opened a block from my apartment, which is to say in the Latino section of Jackson Heights sitting among two of the best Uruguayan bakeries. The world needs empanadas and calzones, though. 

sacs-counter

It feels more like a takeout counter operation, though there are eight tables configured in twos and fours, and more substantial entree specials, like the lasagna (cheese or meat) and wild mushroom ravioli announced out front on one of my visits.

sacs-slices

So far, I’ve tried a few slices, a pepperoni roll that was nearly hefty as a calzone, and a whole pie. The “mama,” simple with full moons of fresh mozzarella and basil atop what read as a zippy sauce, chunky with San Marzano tomatoes, and tart. (I say “read as” because lately tomatoes, even roasted grape tomatoes which barely qualify as tomatoes, taste acidic to me and I’m not sure if that’s accurate or something I’ve done to my palate with new prescription drugs.) and a white slice, creamier and milder, obviously, which I liked well enough to order as a whole pie with sweet Italian sausage (ground up and blobby not firm and sliced, a surprise) another time.

Unsurprisingly, the Jackson Heights doesn’t have a coal oven that lends that trademark char to the thin crust. Here, it’s a little floppier. No complaints. Ok, just one–with Sac’s now on the scene, I can no longer justify ordering Hawaiian pizzas in the neighborhood. It would be a shame.

Sac’s Place * 86-14 37th Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

Eaten, Barely Blogged: French-ish, All-American, Mexican Mash-Ups

mimi trio

Mimi The mark of a good restaurant is one where you leave feeling better than when you arrived (despite young men good-naturedly but firmly asking you to move down six inches so their lady can have more room even though you’re already arm-to-arm with the older-but-not-old man waiting for his lady on your right, being there first [the first customer period to avoid this situation because you know your limits], the isosceles triangle napkin placed by a server establishing your plot of land at the bar). That’s not a lot to ask, though it’s scarcer than it seems. Mimi succeeds. The sliced madai in brown butter with lemon curd and dried seaweed was like candy, or more accurately, caramel corn, fish caramel corn, which sounds dubious but is brightened by the citrus and amazing with nice bread and butter. I would go back and have this as a bar snack with sparkling wine in a second.  Don’t play around with it too much or else the sauce will start to cool and congeal. Peppery calves liver, rare and steak-like, is served with boudin noir-stuffed eggplant, studded with golden raisins, and also blended sweet with savory well, potent and energizing in the same way as the crudo without being heavy, matchingwith a glass of equally bold French red wine that I vowed to remember without taking a photo  and promptly forgot (comped, I realized later, which occasionally is a benefit–at least at a certain type of casual-polished place–of dining on your own) Even approaching fullness, I was never bored.

emmy squared duo

Emmy Squared I forget if this is supposed to be Detroit-inspired or Detroit-style pizza (which I did try last year for the first time in a very different setting i.e. one that doesn’t threaten a $25/per person fee for no-shows because you just show up and eat pizza). The slices are square, the crust thick but not Chicago deep, with crisp edges and plenty of cheese. I will take any excuse to eat Hawaiian variations in an acceptable manner. Here, that would be ham and spiced pineapple on the Lou-Wow. I’m also a sucker for pretzel buns, which hold together Le Big Matt Burger, the formerly semi-secret double-pattied, white american cheese, and sambal-spiked mayonnaise monster that’s now formally on the menu. Split a burger and pizza if possible. Both are good but you’ll probably leave feeling more or less the same as when you entered. 

mission cantina trio

Mission Cantina is as good a spot as any to unintentionally stumble into on a weeknight. The whole operation from service to menu feels haphazard, and that’s not a criticism (though I almost ordered a drink special because it was green until I parsed that it contained  Midori, god no, which the server thought was cucumber liqueur). It’s a perfect place to knock back micheladas and marvel at more fried chicken than would seem imaginable for $26. That would be masa-crusted, spicy, honey-drizzled, and tarted-up with pickles and pickled jalapeños in a vaguely Southern/South of the Border/Korean way. Like pretzel rolls and Hawaiian pizza, I will always order crab rangoon if I see it. There was an undercurrent of what I thought was curry powder in these fried wontons, which you have to be in the mood for, and then the next day while sweating on a walk home it hit me that the abrasive seasoning was likely Old Bay, with celery salt being the offender.  Limey, lightly funky mussel tostadas, chosen instead of a side vegetable that was practically insisted upon, were more guacamole than anything.

 

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Seattle Take 2

seven beef trio

Seven Beef Sometimes I go crazy, especially when time is limited, and this was a purely social long-weekend trip, not a food-focused mission. Originally, I reserved at this newish pseudo-steakhouse with a vague Vietnamese undercurrent because it seemed interesting and was walking distance from my Airbnb in a residential neighborhood, but then Bateau, seemingly more serious, also doing in-house butchery and serving lesser known cuts of locally raised beef, started getting buzzy (and Renee Erickson has since won a James Beard for best chef Northwest) so I scrambled to switch, only to get an 8:45pm slot, which would be fine anywhere else but is late-ish by NW standards, but more detrimentally because I’m a sweaty, anxious person, was the fear that only super expensive, non-optimal cuts of meat would be left, plus I already tried attached Bar Mesuline in January so I knew the vibe. So, back to Seven Beef where I didn’t even end up ordering steak but the namesake bò 7 món tasting. Big hunks of meat definitely seem to be the thing here–on a packed Saturday night I didn’t notice any other tables opting out of steak–but something must be done with all of the extra bits, hence lots of sausage (there is also a popular burger, which I totally would do for happy hour if I really lived four blocks away). You start with a beef salad with pickled vegetables and then there’s an onslaught including vinegared beef carpaccio and grilled sausage three-ways (lemongrass-skewered, wrapped in la lot leaves, and laced with five spice) served with fresh herbs, lettuce, and sliced fruit. Congee with meatballs and shrimp chips caps off the meal. It’s totally a deal for $40 per person, especially if you’re into variety and not married to the idea of eating a whole rib-eye. I also ordered fries because it was a birthday dinner and why not?

ian's on the hill pizzas

Ian’s on the Hill If you need any further proof that this was not a food recon trip, I ended up with Hawaiian and taco pizzas, the result of missing my reservation at Vito’s (loved the atmosphere so much last time that I was open to eating lasagna despite being an unabashed Italian-American disliker) the first night due to barfing that started at noon in the car service to JFK and lasted 12 hours, the exact thing that happened when I flew to Seattle three months ago and makes me think I should maybe never go back to Washington or ride in a car. Despite all the Caviars and Ubereats and Postmates that keep on coming and Seattle ostensibly being a tech city, food delivery isn’t much of a thing outside of NYC in my experience. I wanted pizza and this was one of only two options on Seamless. #seamlessinseattle, yes. Oh, I’m just now seeing that this is a Wisconsin-based chain. Even while nauseous yet hungry, I had the right instincts. 

ma'ono trio

Ma’ono Fried Chicken and Whisky I was recently asked what quintessential Seattle food was. “Is there a Primanti Brothers of Seattle?” Uh, no. Dick’s is an icon but that’s just burgers. An argument could be made for teriyaki. Hawaiian food is also relatively big in the Northwest considering the islands take as long to reach by plane as NYC. I just wanted some fried chicken. Here, it’s a thing big enough to reserve birds ahead of time. It just happened that brunch was a meal I had free, so I got the morning version with biscuits and gravy and maple syrup. A half order, so wonderfully crisp and crackly that it held up two days later, is plenty for two. If you want to die, feel free to also start your day with spam masubi and a fancy loco moco (Basil-mint chutney? Wood-grilled ground chuck?). I didn’t realize exactly what sort of place this was until my bloody mary arrived with a pickled sunchoke garnish. Now you know.

elliot's oysters

Elliott’s Oyster House Touristy doesn’t have to be bad even though there’s a lot of crap on the waterfront. I can’t speak to the rest of the menu or long waits for tables, but sitting at the small bar watching more than 20 varieties of regional oysters being shucked while drinking Oregon pinot gris is not crappy. You might even get a few freebies tossed in with your half-dozen.

charlie's monte cristo

Charlie’s on Broadway Finally got my damn West Coast monte cristo. What makes a monte cristo West Coast, you ask? It can’t be an open-faced abomination served with maple syrup. Raspberry jelly all the way. That’s it. These wedges were so perfectly battered and fried that the layers of turkey, ham, and swiss had nearly melded into one with powder sugar-dusted bread, giving a cake-like impression. It seems like it needs fries as to be less naked on the plate, not out of caloric weakness. Apparently, Charlie’s was recently redone after a closure, yet it still looks like a ‘70s fern bar, i.e. my kind of joint, so there’s that.

aoki chirashi

Aoki serves sushi that is neither fast food nor luxurious nor loungey and sharing a menu from other Asian nations. That’s not a simple ask for a spur of the moment choice in Capitol Hill. I just wanted some solid chirashi and got it.

honey hole sandwiches

Honey Hole I’ll admit I went just because that name? Walking past the nondescript facade a few storefronts down from a Babeland this winter, I automatically assumed it was a gay bar not a sandwich shop. And a good one at that. My dining companion also wanted the Liotta (an Italian sub with quality ham and salami) which warmed my heart to discover we have similar tastes in sandwiches, but I don’t allow parties to order the same dish, so a Corleone (no, the names are not all Italian though there is a Chachi’s Favorite) which sounded like a baguette reuben by description but was so pastrami-forward that it tasted more like a deli sandwich even minus the rye bread. I also consumed a coffee cider (local brewery unknown/unremembered–there is no evidence of this creation existing on either Schilling’s or Seattle Cider Company’s sites) which might be the most Northwest thing ever. I’m still not convinced those two beverages are meant to be one.

cheesecake factory duo

Cheesecake Factory My cross-country rendezvous was with someone who had never been to a Cheesecake Factory and hasn’t drank for the past 25 years, which is to say after 60 hours living my way there was serious malaise the final day in Seattle. And brutally, there was a huge block of time to kill between the Airbnb check out (even at an unusually civilized 1pm) and my 9:50pm flight. Being a near-90 degree day (as I currently sit in gray, damp 50s NYC) we did the only sensible thing and headed to the suburbs, specifically an upscale ghost town mall in Bellevue for good air conditioning. After paying $9 to take a nap in a completely empty movie theater across the escalators from a comedy club/pool hall/ping pong lounge and not sleeping because Boss, the lesser of evils playing at a workable time, ended up being more stupid-funny than expected (I literally LOL’d just because I could in this impromptu private screening) it was time to choose among the chains. P.F. Chang’s almost won out, and  I’m still curious about non-chain Tavern Hall, which has the post-millennium, upwardly mobile young adult trappings–Sazeracs on tap, shuffleboard, brunch–I would normally go nuts for. At Cheesecake Factory, which went from dead to completely filled during our stint, I loaded up on pre-flight fat and dairy with their version of crab rangoon, a bacon date pizza, plus a slice of salted caramel cheesecake. Even eating less than half of all that ended up feeling like a very bad idea. One must go out with a bang. That’s the rule.

Nothing like a roaring fire in full-on sweat weather

Nothing like a roaring fire in full-on sweat weather

You know you're in the Northwest when there's Dale Chihuly hanging in your mall

You know you’re in the Northwest when there’s Dale Chihuly hanging in your mall

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Ears, Tongue, Pizza, Pizza

margot's hot supreme

Margot’s Pizza It’s doubtful I would order a supreme anywhere else but this Saturday pop-up. Hawaiian is my suburban pizza  of choice, ham and pineapple being the sweet-and-kind antithesis of ground sausage and green peppers, but a supreme also seems like the ultimate bar pie style (casual, thin, crispy) even if I went slightly out of bounds with the Hot Supreme that wisely subs pickled jalapeños for those diced green peppers. This was a very good pizza, with a nearly frico’d rim and wonderfully anisey free-form sausage that made me wonder why I had a problem with it in the first place. All that was missing was a pitcher of beer (insert your own regional cheapie brand of choice). I lucked out when a friend and his friend turned out to be in attendance (the other two bar-sitters until Margot herself showed up) so I could swap for a slice of pepperoni drizzled with honey, more to my natural sweet-and-savory tendencies. Why is honey on pizza so good when it can be so gross in other guises?

el atoradero duo

El Atoradero Since I rarely stray beyond North Brooklyn if I’m going cross-borough due to public transportation logistics and general impatience, I had to squeeze in a second meal to make my Clinton Hill pizza journey more worth the while. After killing some time, trying to work up another appetite by counter-intuitively drinking beer and buying doughnuts in Bed-Stuy, double-borough-crossing Bronx-to-Prospect Heights Mexican it was. (And if you think I’m bad and provincial, I couldn’t convince any Brooklynites to meet me.) I had a nice taco, blue corn tortilla and chewy-crunchy pig ears, followed by tongue, dead opposite texturally, described as “like filet mignon” because of its softness, drenched in a moderately spicy salsa verde. Look at those tasty slabs. I’d prefer this to that pricier cut of beef even if it provokes revulsion on social media. It’s doubtful anyone would identify braised tongue if fed a delicious bite. As an aside, if I were someone else, someone to whom Plant Love House wasn’t dead to after abandoning Queens, I might’ve stopped by Look too on the way back to the G train.

00+co farro fennel pizza
00+Co If I were to choose a new-school, unconventional pizza in the East Village I would probably pick Bruno because I like cheese, but this was not up to me. Birthday dinners that aren’t yours are like that. I like modern vegan food. No biggie. It’s more like you have to evaluate a non-traditional pizza against itself not some Neapolitan standard. Same for Chicago pies. These are hardy pizzas, no doubt, with farro-fennel balls standing in for sausage on the one of my choosing, along with tomatoes and cashew mozzarella that was a little overshadowed. My favorite was the smoky, tangy grilled trumpet mushroom and walnut cream pizza with green harissa, an overall earthy vibe and noticeable lemony brightness that once again made me covet my neighbor’s slice. 

alewife solo lady receipt

Alewife is a fine enough place for a sour beer (and maybe a super dark stout or two if its Friday) and a pile of duck confit poutine on the way home from work if those two points are connected by the 7 train and and both Corner Bistro are Casa Enrique are full, but if you are a woman doing so alone at the bar it will not go unnoticed and might be used to identify you on your receipt. Yep, just a “solo lady” here. That’s me.

 

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Pizza, Pizza, Sushi, Himalayan and Not

pizzeria sirenetta arugula & prosciutto pizza

Pizzeria Sirenetta This is type of place–pizzas, pastas, snacks, all under $20–just taken for granted in so many neighborhoods. (A little less so in this more-desolate-than-you’d-think pocket of the Upper West Side.) I mean, it’s kind of boring. Also, I would kill for one. There just isn’t anywhere to get skinny linguine creamy with meyer lemon-spiked ricotta and sprinkled with micro-croutons or what I’ve decided is my favorite pizza, the perfect bitter/rich/salty combo of arugula and prosciutto. Instead of the little chocolate pudding freebie offered at the end of the other Mermaid restaurant meals, you will receive a tiny panna cotta with a droplet of balsamic vinegar.

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Dani’s House of Pizza: Pesto Slice

Always the best part of getting my hair cut in Kew Gardens. @danishouseofpizza #queens4lyfe #pizza #queens #kewgardens

A photo posted by Krista Garcia (@goodiesfirst) on

Roughly every three months for roughly the past year I have Instagrammed a photo that looks almost exactly like the one above.

Dani’s slice is a fine slice. Of course it is a sweet slice (for the first time on this visit I noticed a female staffer in a t-shirt proudly stating #sweetsauce, yes, hashtag sweetsauce, so they are really owning it). But really I’ve been biding my time, waiting for the fabled pesto pie to make an appearance. One Saturday afternoon, the two teens in front of my got the last slices. I wasn’t mad. Other times I’ve been told it’ll be a 20 minute wait, and I always eat in, and eat slow, and I’ve yet to witness fresh pesto pie made or emerge from the oven.

dani's pesto slice

BUT this time as I was wrapping up, taking my last bites, having timed my beer perfectly, full, and needing to make it to the bus to Trader Joe’s before closing, out came the pesto. A big moon made of green cheese resting hot next to my arm.

I looked around, marveled that there were two women occupying the stools to my left, one who seemed lost and had traveled from the UES via the LIRR like a real journey on the way to a reading, which I did not know they did in Kew Gardens, the other in  a leather mini and a Hoegaarden with a glass who clearly knew what she was doing, and figured it was a sign. So, another slice, another beer, happy holidays. Soon we all had cheesy triangles speckled with basil and garlic, flopping on paper plates in front of us.

Dani’s House of Pizza * 81-28 Lefferts Blvd., Kew Gardens, NY

 

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Weekend in Detroit

I wouldn’t necessarily say I went to Detroit for the food, though I did end up eating way more one human should (the biggest downside of traveling alone is the inability to share dishes) and was practically drunk for two days straight (had to check out those new-breed distilleries). I went for the same reason I’ve gone anywhere this year (hmm…just Hudson, NY and Los Angeles–gotta step it up in 2016), primarily to get out of New York City and visit a place I don’t really know.

Detroit’s in-progress renaissance, the emergence of bars and restaurant included, has garnered a good deal of coverage. (I’m kind of partial to this balanced take.) And if the hype over the city’s more Brooklyn-esque aspects (it’s no Paris) make you feel avoidant, don’t worry because Detroit is coming to you like it or not, one semi-artisanal coney dog and pan pizza at a time.

gold cash gold duo

Gold Cash Gold My first stop. Late-ish Friday, “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” playing. That thing where as soon as I’m settled, everyone at the large bar finishes up and I’m sitting smack next to the only couple and inadvertently hear everything they have to say. He wanted Benedictine but didn’t know “the liqueur with the white cap” was called that, and she didn’t want to get married at the Detroit Institute of Arts because it was cliche. (She was right–there were two wedding parties there on my visit.) My first impression: Brooklyn food, even though that’s not fair. I can get on board with the self-referential name, the restaurant occupying a building formerly not serving food . The menu reads well and the prices are refreshing; $12 is a solid plate of food, not a snack, but everything I tried could use a little something more, maybe just salt. The chicken skin salad was all there, pickled peaches, peppery greens, and yet completely under-seasoned so the dish’s calling card made little impression beyond texture. The duck merguez with heirloom apples and potatoes was a little rough around the edges like the results of a weekend cooking project. The fermented pistou (fermentation is this place’s thing) was interesting and barely hinted at basil, though the meat and potatoes were both oddly grainy. 

sugar house a.k.a. bill murray au revoir, gopher

Sugar House/Bill Murray I may be the only person alive who’s indifferent to Bill Murray. One of Detroit’s first craft cocktail bars, they are still doing the speakeasy, suspenders and mustaches thing while charging New York prices. Oh, and apparently changed its name indefinitely to Bill Murray with a Bill Murray themed cocktail list. There was a lot of flourish to the $14 Au Revoir, Gopher (Vida mezcal, Amontillado sherry, masala, Angostura bitters), literal smoke, mirrors not so much. I wanted the less precious Ectoplasm Cooler because blue curacao but Midori is a step too far for me, not because I’m classy but because I find melon foul. This wasn’t a particularly friendly crowd (one thing I’ll say for Detroit is that people are not too cool to be chatty) that was composed of bald men in leather jackets, a lot of baseball caps on men of all races, older dudes in glasses and barn jackets with a faculty-like quality mingling with younger muse-y women. Beach Fossils’ “The Horse,” from an album I love enough that I paid for it on iTunes this summer as driving music but couldn’t figure out how to make my phone play over a rental car’s speakers, did not fit the vibe one bit.

bobcat trio

Bobcat Bonnie’s No one needs a $3 tumbler of well vodka, even if it’s the foundation of diy bloody mary bar, complete with every mixer and hot sauce imaginable, plus bacon, salami, and cheese for garnishes, but if one wakes up their first morning in the city and finds a bloody mary bar a mere block away, just across Michigan Avenue, one of those multi-lane thoroughfares that would be a boulevard of death in NYC but so lightly clumped with cars leisurely crossing (or do wild u-turns or drunk drive in a rainstorm–not that I would know anything about that) is no problem…well. Because I wasn’t alert yet, I ordered the SOS, mostly because I liked the idea of lamb gravy, thinking oh, like biscuits and gravy but with Texas toast instead of biscuits. But no, it’s like shit on a shingle but with lamb instead of chipped beef. And it was tasty. I brunched alone, which is somehow even more fearsome and evil than brunching in group, and survived. The bartender who called me a “Detroit stalker” to my delight because I’d researched the hell out of dining options, was a pleasant mix of cynicism and chill, much needed but not always found in Detroit. My suspicions about my previous night’s dinner and cocktail being no more than ok were confirmed. I was recommended Selden Standard, a known heavy-hitter, then against it by the two middle-aged couples, also sitting at the bar, in the city for the weekend from the suburbs–a sometimes criticized demographic that seems to sustain much of these newer restaurants–for a beer festival. They knew they their stuff, and I didn’t listen and I regretted it.

chartreuse trio

Chartreuse Kitchen & Cocktails Just some snacks and a requisite Last Word since that’s the city’s cocktail claim to fame and almost anything with gin and Maraschino is great. Made with Chartreuse, it’s the color scheme and a featured spirit in multiple styles. Neither the grilled octopus with chorizo nor steak poke were particularly regional, though that was my own doing. Lake Superior whitefish and Michigan shrimp were available. I was keeping it light because I was aiming for a second dinner (and ultimately ended up with a third, if I’m to admit the 1am White Castle fast-walk from my apartment).

selden standard tartare

Selden Standard Strong, I want to say. Despite only trying the steak tartare (yes, the second raw, chopped beef dish in two hours) this felt polished. And yet, too New York-y, too many people bunched up at the bar (yes, it was a Saturday) and getting ma’amed by staff and hoverers coveting my seat, killing the buzz and good spirits I’d amassed at DIA and Chartreuse.

cafe d'mongo whiskey sour

Cafe D’Mongo’s Speakeasy  I didn’t really enjoy this place until I got too drunk. In retrospect, maybe that’s how it works. I know it’s a favorite but there was something slightly off. I guess that could be said for the whole city in many ways.

batch brewery pork belly bolillo

Batch Brewing Company. I thought I’d hit Mudgie’s for a brunch sandwich, but it was closed for no reason on a Sunday, so nearby Batch sufficed with a pork belly bolillo and an imperial milk stout brewed with Great Lakes Costa Rican Microlot Coffee. Really set the tone for the day. 

two james distillery tasting

Two James Spirits If I had to choose a single standout Detroit interaction (thanks for asking) it would be the aw shucks, farmboy-ish kid from somewhere near St. Louis who had been in town two months for work and was sitting a stool away from me at a distillery’s tasting room and freaked the fuck out over the blue corn tortilla chips garnishing his chicken hominy stew. “I’ve never seen a black chip,” he said, clearly upset, no longer wanting to finish the dish he had ordered only because everyone else at the bar had been raving about it. (He wasn’t familiar with cumin and didn’t like it either.) He asked me what my green drink was. Absinthe, which I explained tasted kind of like licorice, trying to find some common ground and not sensory overload him any further.“Regular licorice or black licorice?”

detroit city distillery double dad

Detroit City Distillery I didn’t make it to Eastern Market Saturday or to the crazy bloody mary place or another fancy place, Antietam, named bizarrely after the bloodiest battle in US history, a fact unknown but shared with me after admitting I had no idea how the pronounce the word or had any knowledge of what it was (to further boast my ignorance, I didn’t even know Detroit was across a river from Canada, the only major US city north of Canada I also learned). This is the Double Dad (Elvethea gin, ginger beer, basil syrup) a nice respite from the tailgating wildness occurring outside. Is it too Northwesty of me to admit that I’ve never encountered tailgating in person in my life? History and geography aside, my dumbness was confirmed when I bought a bottle of gin and white rye at Two James without thinking about how I’d flown Spirit with a $40 checked bag surcharge. 

buddy's trio

Buddy’s Too much fancy was occurring, so it’s not surprising that this was possibly my favorite meal and not just as an antidote to new-school Detroit. With hard-baked corners, substantial mozzarella, and a degree of doughy heft, this square style bridges the New York thin crust, which yes, is the best, and Chicago deep dish, which I don’t hate but is barely pizza-like (we all know it may as well be lasagna). This is fun pizza only enhanced by the atmosphere. You have to get into the crispy edges, cheese heft, eaten with a fork and knife. This was the Detroiter, a combo featuring curled and crisp pepperoni slices, a specific subgenre of pepperoni prep I didn’t even know whas a thing. This was the only time I would’ve preferred a table and company (so what if I put an innocent plea on Tinder looking for a pizza date, which didn’t totally come to fruition despite interest and botched plans) rather than being relegated to the bar, in this case not by choice. There weren’t any open two-seaters in the half-filled upstairs dining room.

american vs lafayette coney

American Coney Island and Lafayette Coney Island. I don’t love hotdogs or chili or the combination of the two but regional specialties are more important than my petty wants and needs. It had to be done. American is clearly the Geno’s, flashy, self-congratulatory, to Lafayette’s bare-bones no nonsense a la Pat’s. (I’m talking Philly cheesesteaks, if that needs saying, and if it does, ugh, who are you?) What I learned about myself? That I do like chili cheese fries (not pictured). Fried starch and melted cheese is never a disappointment.

first little caesars

Little Caesars is based in Detroit, and the original 1959 location still survives in a strip mall in Garden City. I very much drove out of my way for this. Proud.

culver's curds

Culvers. In some ways Culver’s was the impetus for this impulse-trip. Or sort of. For a scary peek into how my decisions are often made, here is how it went: I matched on Tinder with someone maybe a little too young (but the guys who claim to be 40-ish look 50-ish and I can’t deal–dudes, just say you’re 52 and own it) who was visiting his parents in Pittsburgh.  I was bored after a few texts but decided I needed to visit the Rust Belt, so posed a Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, or Cleveland question on Facebook. Somehow Culver’s emerged as one compelling reason to visit this region, posited by an age-appropriate but geographically inconvenient person I met on Tinder over four months ago and who was partially the reason for choosing LA over the summer instead of my original two ideas, Seattle or Santa Fe. When it’s all laid out like that, it’s a little disturbing that a dating app would play any role at all in my travel plans, let alone such a large one in 2015. Still single, and I can’t imagine why. 

culver's butterburger

So, a Butterburger, cheese curds, and Vernor’s rootbeer were the last things I ate before returning my rental car. I regret not having time or fortitude for a Custard and being unable to eat more than a few fried nuggets of cheese. The weekend had caught up with me and I was feeling it. Without the Culver’s stop, though, I would’ve considered the entire Detroit mission a failure. It was important.