Goodies First

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: 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

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.

Luz

This time of year in 2007 I was writing ten restaurant reviews a month for Latina, and it didn’t take long before I felt like crying tio if faced with one more plate of beans, yellow rice, plantains or yuca. The gig didn’t even last into the second half of the year, but I still burnt out on nearly everything Latino (Peruvian and Mexican, excepted). I wondered if I’d ever have a craving again.

It took three years. Saturday night and all I could think about was Nuevo Latino fare. And being provincial like most Brooklynites, I didn’t feel like heading into Manhattan (it’s not as if the MTA has been making it easy lately) where Yerba Buena would make a fine choice. Brooklyn has Luz or Bogota Latin Bistro. Both are acceptable not remarkable. Sometimes average is good enough, though.

I chose Luz because I have only been once when it was new (and because the last time I was at Bogota Latin Bistro, I threw up on the sidewalk out front, no fault of the food, maybe the fault of cahaça). Scaffolding nearly obscuring its entire façade, the busy restaurant is a bright spot in a barren patch of Clinton Hill. And it was hopping, only one table open and every bar stool occupied, primarily with date night couples.

Based on casual observation, cocktails outnumber wine orders two to one. I had a Baron Rojo, the blackcurrant, rum, pisco, cranberry juice and aguardiente garnished with star anise was potent yet still sweeter than what I'd typically drink.

Crab ceviche was light and limey and served traditionally with toasted corn kernels.

The pork ribs were an odd choice to start with since I had beef ribs for my main. Once again, a bit sweet, and from a cranberry bbq sauce. Cranberries don't strike me as particularly Latino, but here they were again.

I chose the short ribs because the description seemed so cold weather appropriate: rijoa chestnut jus, butternut squash and shrimp pastelon and pickled okra. The okra seemed like the oddball component but the rich, fatty meat and shrimp-filled pastry covered in melted cheese desperately needed something crispy and tart. Okra was smart.

Luz isn't really a destination restaurant. It's not really even a travel from Carroll Gardens restaurant. But if it were in my neighborhood, I would pay a visit every now and then.

Previously on Luz.

Luz * 177 Vanderbilt Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Mariam

  Vowing not to write off all West African food after my Ghanaian mishap at Meytex Cafe,  I was happy to attend a group dinner (Pete from Word of Mouth, Dave from Eating in Translation and a few message board regulars were also present) at Clinton Hill’s Mariam, not to be confused with South Brooklyn’s Israeli cuisine chainlet, Miriam.

The owners are from Guinea, and the menu reflects that country’s offerings as well as nearby Senegal’s. Frankly, I know little about either so sampling a wide variety was a must. Hopefully, I won’t misidentify too wildly. I’ll start with the high points.

Poisson frit with achecke in mustard sauce was a hit and more complex than simple fried fish on a plate. I’m guessing the fish was tilapia because it’s common and it had that not unpleasant soil taste that you often get from the bottom-feeding species. The mild white flesh was encased in rightly crispy skin. Acheke is a fluffy fermented cassava-derived starch that only had the slightest tang, and it paired well with the sharp mustard-flavored onions.

I really liked the stewed oxtails but how can oxtails be bad? The bones had a nice amount of meat attached as well as bits of gelatin.

Sauce feuille patate. Our first choice was cassava leaves, but they only had potato leaves. Not that I would be able to detect the difference. I didn’t even know potatoes had leaves—I do wonder if they meant sweet potato? This dish is described as containing meat, but I’m not certain what meat as I didn’t sample any brown hunks. Interestingly, a welcome fishy shrimp paste flavor colored this dish.

The guinea fowl was a bit dry and tough, not the most successful dish. We chose the same accompaniments that the fish came with. I did appreciate the half-cube of Maggi bullion even though I didn't understand its purpose. Were they attempting to display quality? A table across form us had an enormous jug of Maggi sauce sitting on it--this was clearly an MSG-friendly zone.

We ordered callaloo but I swear this isn’t predominantly the leafy green, which is akin to chard. There was some serious mucilaginous action occurring that could only be attributed to okra.

They don’t only employ couscous look-alikes acheke-style, but the mini grains, themselves. The sauteed onions, hard-boiled egg half and green olive were a nice addition. There's something almost Moorish about this.

Ok, I wouldn't say that sweets were Mariam's strength. I wasn’t sure what to make of one described as being served with tomato sauce. That couldn’t have been a typo, right? We ordered one, which was essentially yogurt mixed with canned fruit cocktail. This was thaikry, couscous tossed with sour cream and vanilla extract. I wouldn’t say that it’s wildly cravable, but was slightly more satisfying and sweeter than I'd expected. I might occasionally eat it for breakfast instead of Trader Joe’s instant oatmeal or Greek yogurt if given the option but it’s not the most stellar dessert.

Unrelated to food, this restaurant happens to be a mere two blocks from that fancy condo complex that I'm mildly obsessed with. I strolled by and took at look since I had 20 minutes to kill before dinner. The building isn't shabby,  but it might be hard to justify a $1 million price tag with little more than car washes, storage units, 24-hour adult video store, check cashing joints, McDonald's, Golden Krust, and yes, a pretty nice Guinean restaurant, in the immediate vicinity. Well, I have always complained at the lack of 99-cent stores in Carroll Gardens...

Mariam * Fulton St., Brooklyn, NY

Mojito

Is it fair to be suspicious of a poorly named, industrial-chic Cuban restaurant abutting the desolate Navy Yard, on the same block as one of the city’s scariest bars (don’t just take my word for it)? My initial concern was mediocre food but I later became more consumed with trying to interpret the vaguely sketchy shenanigans taking place around me.

The food was surprisingly un-bad, reasonably priced (most entrees were under $12) and the $8 mojitos were generous in size and potency. I felt tipsy after two, which is a rarity (I’m not a cheap date) and totally messed up the photos I’d taken.

It was difficult to not plow through the complimentary plate of squished and toasted garlic bread with three dips but I was pretending to be healthy and ordered a salad instead of something weighted down with rice and beans. A giant pile of lettuce covered with avocados, mango, grilled dark meat chicken, white cheese and fried onions is hardly austere, though I was unusually careful about only eating half (though I couldn’t bear to just leave half even though salads are pretty soggy and foul after a few hours. The thrifty gene in me still asked our sweet but spacey waitress to wrap up the remainders. Just the day before at Yemen Café, as frequently happens without warrant, James got all freaked out that our leftover louyabia and fateh we’d requested to go had been tossed in the trash. This has never happened in my life, though I shouldn’t have said that aloud on Thursday because Friday at Mojito I was to never see the rest of my salad again. Jinxed.) I also split an order of two empanadas, one chicken, one cheese, both more than edible.

Being in proximity to Pratt, projects and luxury lofts (Mojito is on the ground floor of the Chocolate Factory, which sounds vaguely dirty to me), the clientele is a total mixed bag. The tables were filled with a wonderful melting pot of African-American families, scruffy college kids and the mandatory white guy/Asian girl couple.

I noticed a tiny white guy in moccasin boots, who looked like a scrawny version of George on Grey’s Anatomy (I had to look that name up—that show is painful to watch) had been propping up the bar for most of our meal. He had a messy haired, white studded leather belt friend with him. At some point George left and came back in a bathrobe like he was the Howard Hughes of Wallabout (the revitalization-hyped neighborhood name that I just learned last week). Ok, and then I was like that’s cool that the two 300-pound black men who ordered take out, then ate out of round aluminum containers at the bar while staring down fellow diners were palling around with the artsy gay guys. Ah, sweet diversity. “Is that a housecoat?” was my favorite exclamation (it reminded me of a girl who used to call shorts short pants). At some point they all skulked into a back room, which I suspect leads into the condo complex.

In high school, whenever you’d see rockers (I attended an extremely hesher-heavy institution) hanging out with popular kids you knew something was up. Only drugs (and perhaps, consequently, sex) could bring the two worlds together. Clearly, Mojito is totally the place to be if you want to expand your social circle.

Mojito * 82 Washington Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Luz

I find it irksome how New Yorkers are so tied to their neighborhoods, particularly Williamsburgers who treat the “nabe” like some hipster hobbit shire. I will gladly venture out of Carroll Gardens, though it recently struck me as odd that I haven't tried any of the newish restaurants in Clinton Hill/Fort Greene. In fact, I don't think I've set foot in the Pratt area since working there half a decade ago (jeez, its weird to quantify NYC time in terms of decades. It simultaneously makes you feel authoritative and really old).

For my first proper meal since my big S.E. Asian vacation I was aiming for something relatively local and recently opened. Little Bistro, Taku, Beast and Luz were the contenders, and somehow the latter won out.

The food is a Nuevo Latino mish mash, the décor modern and stylish, the clientele multicultural and both youthful and mature. It cuts a wide swath. James and I shared a trio of acceptable empanadas, tasty but kind of mushy. My entrée, a fairly traditional plate of lechon, plantains and rice and pigeon peas worked (and probably cost $5 more than at a Puerto Rican take out joint, a fair price for the ambiance). The pork was juicy and flavorful rather than dry and bland as it tends to be at these upper scale Hispanic restaurants.

James chose a weird dish of salmon crusted in brown sugar with something green and a lima bean puree. He wasn't fond of it, which wasn't surprising since it sounded a little off. The couple seated closely next to us ordered the exact same duo, he the fish, her the pork. Not that that's a testament to great ordering skills. I would suggest sticking to the less experimental dishes, and having a few strong caipirinhas.

Oh, and skip their version of a molten cake, which anyone with good sense would do anyway. I was just tempted by the accompaniments of coconut ice cream and caramelized bananas. James proclaimed the less-than-molten overcooked cake a “fucking muffin” which drew the amused attention of the loud Bay Ridgey girl right next to us (who'd replaced the earlier couple) who claimed to be an expert in molten cakes and joked that shed order hers “rare.” Unless you want to bond with your dining neighbors (and I know some people enjoy that sort of thing) keep quiet about your dessert's shortcomings.

Luz * 177 Vanderbilt St., Brooklyn, NY