Goodies First

Sergi Arola Gastro

Ok, let’s get the Michelin stars out of the way. I always put off writing about the more serious restaurants as if you need to give them more thought and weight. Eh, this is a blog, let’s keep it light.

Catalonia gets all the accolades. Can Roca, where I ate in 2006, just made the fifth spot in the World’s 50 Best Restaurants and has also received its third Michelin star. Madrid doesn’t have any three-starred restaurants. But I did want to see what was happening on the higher end and you really have two choices: Santceloni and Sergi Arola Gastro, both with Catalonian chefs. Why no homegrown heroes? I chose the latter because if I only have one meal I’m more interested in razzle dazzle than produce worship. Of course, the two aren’t mutually exclusive.

But Gastro is still fairly staid with muted neutral décor (I can’t remember a thing about it and am convinced the room was draped in shades of beige and sand—this is what the long, narrow dining room actually looks like) and formal but warm service. This was the one splurge meal and we picked the 130 euros 12-course tasting menu minus the wine pairing (I wasn’t feeling that flush).

Instead, I picked a wine from Bierzo because I’ve been interested in that region and was steered toward a light red reminiscent of pinot noir that was a little less money (50 euros) than the one I originally asked about, which was appreciated. There’s nothing worse than getting an unwelcome upsell. I felt like a rube, though, when the wine was presented to me because I expected it to be a white. I know Bierzo is a region not a grape (in this case it was the the mencía) but I had seen the word scrawled on a few chalkboard wine lists and always under the vinos blancos. Knowing is half the battle.

But one can only feel so intimidated when others chose beer as their aperitif. They really do love their cañas in Madrid. When asked what we wanted to drink while looking over the menu and snacking on “tapas” I blanked and just asked for cava. Cocktails? Beer? Wine? Not a tough question, I just wasn’t sure what was typical. This, as well as an after-dinner glass of port were a gratis part of the meal.

Unfortunately, I was fussing around with my camera’s color balance when I was supposed to be enjoying my tapas so the first two photos turned out like shit and I only had one sip of my foamy truffled shot before it got whisked away. There is certainly a good argument for just eating your food and eliminating the distraction of a camera at the table. It’s a hard habit to rid yourself of, though.

The tapas, in an unfocused shot here, included radishes, endive with romesco sauce, olives (the best ones we had all week), crispy cheese puffs, croquetas and my surprise favorite, peeled cherry tomatoes flavored with little more than salt and olive oil. One of those simple let the produce speak for itself things that pays off.

It was decided that the dishes would be presented in Spanish and if we had questions they could answer in English. Most of the staff seemed to have decent-to-fluent English skills but I would prefer someone speak in their native language in their own country. Well, when I can understand it; dishes described in Chinese wouldn’t be so helpful to me.

Anchoas: servido en un cornete de pan y tomate. The English translation on the menu I received at the end of the meal (and which I’ll be using here verbatim, odd translations included) simply says anchovies in a coronet with bread and tomato, but the cone itself is the bread and tomato. Admittedly, those flavors take a back seat to the cold salty fish ice cream. Perfect in a bite but you probably wouldn’t want a whole bowl of it. There were a lot more ice creams to come.

“Bocata”: de calamares fritos con mermelada de limon/Baby Squid: fried in a sandwich with mayonnaise and lemon jam. This was gone in a flash and I hate to say that I barely remember it. Though I never tried one, battered, fried calamari ring sandwiches are common street food in Madrid so I got that this was a tweak on that but didn’t have memory of the original to compare it to.

Las Patatas: “bravas” al estilo Arola/Potatoes: “bravas” Arola-style (spicy fried potatoes). Ok, these were freaking adorable and fun to eat. This is when we noticed that the chef loves doing tiny food. Not in an obnoxious way, though. The crispy little potato cylinders were hollow inside and housed the lightly spiced tomato sauce, capped with dollops of aioli. This was a play on a classic dish that I totally understood.

Remolacha: en “sashimi” al estilo de Alain Passard con helado de aguacate/Beetroot: Alain Passard “sashimi” style, avocado ice cream. I see they’re being all British with the beetroot instead of plain ol’ beets. I have never eaten at L’Arpege or in Paris (technically, I probably ate something there in ’89 when my student exchange group spent the night in the capital before flying back to the US) so I can’t speak to the homage. The slightly sweet, toothsome squares of beet paired well with the cold, creamy avocado. I feel like there was a licorice component tying this dish together but I don’t see overt evidence of that on the plate.

Boquerones: “a la Espalda” con ensalada de manzana y sirope e sidra/Fresh anchovies: “a la Espalda” style with apple salad and cider syrup. We loved this not just for the bright, tangy flavors but for the insane attention to miniature detail. In the background are the world’s tiniest cubes of apple topped with a lentil-sized dab of sauce and finished with a baby leaf of what I think was parsley (whenever I think an herb is exotic and ask, it turns out to be parsley). James pictured a hamster chef crafting Lilliputian food. I imagined a perfectionist Japanese intern slaving away in the kitchen over these precision tasks (I’ve seen more than a few behind the scenes photos of high end Spanish restaurants, and I swear there’s always a young Japanese guy present).

Parrillada: de pescado y marisco con un jugo natural y mojo de algas/Barbecue: fish, seafood with a natural juice and seaweed “mojo.” Lots of delicate grilled things from the sea. I was excited to try percebes, those rare prehistoric looking goose barnacles, and made a point to savor them. Yet now, just a few weeks later I can’t dredge up how they tasted.

Foie Gras: en “torchon” rellena de confit de pato con verdures y sopa de cabello de angel/Foie Gras: “torchon” stuffed with duck confit with vegetables and its consommé. Sometimes tasting menus go wild with foie gras and kill you with heaviness too soon. This was the first very rich dish, though it wasn’t overwhelming because the consommé added a sense of lightness.

Red Mullet: beans and peas sautéed with black sausage and fat Iberian ham. The above series of dishes come to everyone then you can select your fish and meat courses. This was mine and it was perfect for me. Beans and morcilla always go well together, the firm buttery fish had wonderfully crisped skin and there was a hint of salty, porky jamon. I prefer fish dishes that have a little heft.

Lenguado: con manteca de setas, col picuda y gnoquis de cítricos. James’ sole was on the lighter side and came with mushrooms, cabbage and a single gnocchi served on a spoon.

Pigeon: basmati rice stewed with candied fruits and vegetable, charcoal grill oil. I also like dark meat and sweets together so this Moroccan riff was an obvious choice. The rice was little chewy-firm and after serving tableside there was quite a bit left over in the pan. I wondered what they did with the extras and shortly found out: they offer seconds.

Cerdo Blanco: fricasé, tirabeques y espinacas. James’ meat course. I’m not sure what is meant exactly by white pork, if it’s a specific breed or a pig that is fed a particular diet. This almost looks like Shanghainese food to me. The spinach is on top, I’m not sure where the snap peas are.

Coco: lágrimas de tamarindo y naranja sanguina/Coconut: tamarind tears and blood orange. The first of the desserts and it was certainly pretty and refreshing. This was mostly fruity even with the creamy island of coconut. I think by “tamarind tears” they are referring to the little brown dots on the white puck, interspersed with mint leaves.

Ruibarbo: guisado en frio con helado de guisantes y sopa de piña/Rhubarb: cold stew with peas ice cream and pineapple soup. This was unmistakably rhubarb, a fruit I had never associated with Spain. The pineapple broth doubled the sweet tartness and the pea ice cream…I’m not really sure. If anything, it tamed the fruits’ sharpness.

El Chocolate: coolant a la pimiento verde y helado de fresas/The Chocolate: green pepper coolant and strawberry ice cream. I was wary of this one not so much because I’m anti-molten cake but because I’m not wild about bell peppers. It turned out that green pepper meant jalapeno or a similar green chile pepper. There was tingly heat with no overwhelming vegetal bluntness. Nice.

I was happy that at the end of the meal you are presented with a dated menu detailing what you just ate. High caliber restaurants usually provide menus if asked but I prefer it being a given because I am a dork that way. The amusing thing was that apparently it was determined at some point that James was more adept with the language because his menu was in Spanish and mine was in English. I was not insulted, though I didn’t think my Spanish was that abysmal. It is handy for comparing translations such as black sausage for morcilla. I would say blood sausage but maybe that didn’t sound appealing.

After dinner madelines are served with citrus candy that look like pebbles and a lime jam. Another couple that came in at 11:30pm (we were early birds at 9:30pm), the ones who had beers as an aperitif, blew through their meal before we were done and took their candy tray with them downstairs to the small bar. We followed soon after. The sleek room was occupied by a good number of young rich kids, kind of like a Madrileño cast of Gossip Girl.

I had an exemplary whisky sour, with egg white foam and all; it was finely crafted and should be for 12 euros. Maybe we frequented chichi bars but I found drinks to be Manhattan in price. Fun, deco Museo Chicote, across the street from our hotel had 10 euro gin and tonics (but they were enormous) and Del Diego, just behind Museo Chicote, (which I had to visit because the Time Out guide described it as ‘80s Wall Street and I wanted to see what a British writer’s idea of that era might look like) had similarly priced cocktails. And no, it didn’t remind me of Wall Street in the least. And of course in all venues, you could puff away till your lungs burst, and 90% of the imbibers were doing just that.

Sergi Arola Gastro * Calle de Zurbano 31, Madrid, Spain

Elettaria

I wouldn’t believe you if you told me I would be eating Filipino congee for my Christmas meal. Every year I have a holiday dinner date at an often random restaurant a few days before December 25th because I don’t do the going home with the boyfriend for Christmas thing (no, not even after nine Christmases). This year was Elettaria, primarily because I never paid a visit when it was new--and why not now?

I got the impression somewhere that the bar scene overshadows the dining. That wasn’t really the case. In fact, I still have no idea what kind of scene it is other than an all-encompassing one. Maybe the Monday before Christmas isn’t representative because the room really cleared out after 9pm (as opposed to Wilfie & Nell--where I showed restraint by only drinking and not ordering pork sliders--packed solid earlier this same evening. Maybe that’s the New York magazine review effect). All of the larger corner tables were taken by canoodlers, gay and straight. There was a primo banquette between the bar and dining room that seemed reserved for seniors only. Children were present, as well as twenty-something lawyers flirting with each other. Oh, and even a little person (who was not Peter Dinklage). Something for everyone.

Including me. The cuisine is Asian-inflected, I knew that. But I was still surprised when our waiter described the only appetizer special, “Lugaw, a Filipino rice porridge with beef torchon, quail egg and tripe.” Really? I had him repeat it later because his accent was thick and all I caught initially was Filipino and tripe. That’s all I needed to hear, though, and more than enough to sway me from my original choice of smoked duck.

I should’ve been eating congee my entire time in Hong Kong because it’s good sick person food. Now, I could make up for lost time. I don’t know that porridge makes for a compelling Manhattan starter though really it’s not any stranger than ordering soup as a first course. And it endeared me to the restaurant. The menu was otherwise winsome and filled with lots of ingredients that appealed to me but it was the lugaw that won me over.

I’m still not certain what a beef torchon is or if I even heard that correctly (you usually see that term in relation to foie gras). No matter, the flavors and textures worked. The meat, a bit chewy and gelatinous, melded well with the creaminess of the egg and ricey broth. Fried garlic and minced scallions added punch.

Normally, I would’ve been drawn to the fried quail. This looked like a decent-sized portion. Maybe I’ve lost my tolerance because the food even though mildly fussy, was very filling. Fussy isn’t the right word, what I mean is there were many components to each dish.

Being overporked in 2008, I went for the guinea hen. I’d forgotten how wonderful a simple skin-crisped-to-perfection bird can be (though not simple in price—this was the most expensive thing on the menu at $30. It was early Christmas dinner, though, so no nickel-and-diming). The legs were surrounded by gnocchi, sliced chestnuts and a soft cabbagey squash relish. Maybe I’m just imaging the cabbage.

Sea bass, potatoes, fennel prosciutto and octopus? A little complex without being incongruous, and hearty for a fish-based course.

That would’ve been plenty but you need dessert for a celebration so it was an unnecessary pineapple upside down cake and served with coconut gelato. At least it wasn’t molten despite its pucky looks.

Thumbs up on lugaw and hen skin. And here's to venturing beyond  pork products in 2009.

Elettaria * 33 W. Eighth St., New York, NY

Tailor

While settling into a post-birthday dinner at Tailor with my friend Sherri, conversation turned to her recent Portland excursion. I am from Portland. She is not. I was wowed by all of the photos of trendy restaurant food she had taken because it’s not my Portland. It’s not that upscale dining didn’t exist pre-1998 (though the food scene has hipified radically), it’s probably more that I tended towards the “grubbin’” side of cuisine. Horrible, horrible word, but it conveys the message: cheap, filling drunk/stoner food, exemplified by rice-filled (abhorrent) burritos big as your forearm.

To say Tailor is anti-grubbin’ is an understatement. Which isn’t to say that it’s not enjoyable. If price were not a concern, I could’ve sampled peculiar ingredient combinations on plate and in glass all evening long. It’s fun. I even gave into a bell pepper dessert (not so the bell pepper lemonade), despite the sad vegetable being on my bad side (strangely, the green menace had also shown in my Pret a Manger gazpacho at lunch earlier).

Cocktails, kind of Tailor’s selling point, were an immediate must. A lightly sour, gender-neutral hibiscus 7up, rye and key lime beverage for me and the insane prettiest pink Bazooka, that yes, relies on bubblegum liqueur and tastes exactly like it looks though maybe one notch less sweet. I do wonder where the color comes from. Could it possibly be natural?

Despite ultimately sharing, I picked out the veal, which came thinly shaved and cured like prosciutto. The whiter more gelatinous spheres were marrow, rightly rich and fatty, the denser orbs were composed of parmesan. Once again I was taken with color, apparently so much so that I can’t even recall what ingredient created the intense emerald green swoosh. The culprit was obviously herbal and tasted like a shot of wheatgrass. Paired with huckleberry drizzles and purple leaves, the result was pleasingly foresty, nothing like this scary forest.

Coriander-crusted sweetbreads were more straightforward and creamy almost like foie gras. A salsify base was neutral while the beer foam added bitter punch.

There are very few things more compelling than pork belly. Normally, those fatty striated slices would’ve been my first choice but the starchy component of “skate frites” snapped me to attention. Tater tots would’ve been good enough on their own because I love them (though not quite enough to craft a vest from Ore-Ida bags). But purple tater tots?! This had to be seen. To be honest, they didn’t have much flavor but they came atop a pool of ketchup and well, the looked pretty cool. The skate was formed into scallops and accompanied by a mayonnaise tarted up with malt vinegar and pickled shallots.

If mixing and matching were allowed I would’ve tossed a few purple tater tots into the pork belly bowl and created a giant plate of awesome. The butterscotch miso is the perfect blend of caramely and savory, almost like a salted palm sugar. I can see why Dale copped it for his own on Top Chef; unfortunately, it led to his downfall. Even the addition of artichoke made sense when bathed in this sauce.

I’ve said it before, but I am fairly conservative when it comes to desserts. Herby granitas and poached fruit bum me out. But that’s primarily because they’re unfun. I don’t really mind cerebral as long as I’m entertained. So, I gave into the bell pepper cake with cornbread ice cream topped with a pea frond. I mean, it makes sense that this trio would be compatible. Cornbread is frequently sweet and cake-like anyway. This could just have easily been a starter.

In some ways, the kumquat confit finisher was more challenging because I have a hard time associating deep, brown European caraway and pumpernickel flavors with sweets. All it needed was the addition of dill or sauerkraut and I might’ve lost it. The candied fruit paired with thin crisps and earthy rye-like ice cream made me think of what would happen if I took my usual Wasa crackers and slathered them with jelly instead of laughing cow cheese. I don’t think I’ll do that anytime soon.

The flavors of these two cocktails have merged in my brain because I was drinking them at the same time (don’t ask). On the left is a maté sour using yerba mate and while tea-like at first, an astringent, not unpleasant dirt-like aftertaste stuck with me later. The other is a blood and sand using scotch, sweet vermouth, cherry ale and an orange foam, which was smoky and orange peel bitter.

Tailor * 525 Broome St., New York, NY

La Vineria de Gualterio Bolivar

Sometimes you have to ask yourself if you want to travel over 5,000 miles to eat shot glass and soup spoon food; modern fine dining, molecular gastronomy, whatever you want to call it. Even chef Alejandro Digilio, himself, didn’t have a preferred label when I asked him how he describes his cuisine. He simply said, “contemporáneo.” But yeah, I’ll bite. I mean, you have to temper all that steak-eating somehow and you won’t find a tasting menu like this anywhere else in Buenos Aries.

This was our most expensive meal on vacation, and if you didn’t know what you were in for you might not have high expectations based on the bare bones San Telmo storefront. The small, concrete, high-ceilinged space is in the heart of the tourist district. I don’t find talking about money in relation to dining to be gauche, especially when espousing value, so we spent 320 pesos.  $105 dollars for nine courses of creative food plus wine pairings for two is pretty remarkable.

You can order a la carte but that’s not the preferred way to dine. Once we opted for the tasting menu we were presented with a jumble of appetizers. The spoons contained a liquid “ravioli,” whose flavor I have completely forgotten, cheese croquettes topped with a tiny jellied tomato square and ceviche.

The granules on the left were a tomato powder. You dipped flatbreads in olive oil and then the tomato essence. The almonds in the center were spicy and sweet, but only spicy by Argentine standards. Candied nori sheets were were wedged atop apple cubes like crackly wind sails. Sugared seaweed should be a new Jolly Rancher flavor because these were good.

You would probably be fine just sharing a bunch of fun amuses while sipping a glass or two of wine, but the more substantial dishes are definitely worth trying.

 
sopa en 2 tempuraturas

This pea soup is pretty, well, if you like shades of pea green like I do. I’m still not sure how I feel about contrasting temperatures. They were also playing around with this sense when I dined at Moto last year, and I wasn’t crazy about it then either. James was kind of accurate when he said it’s like when you microwave a bowl of soup and there are still cold spots in the middle.

 
papa huevo trufa

This is the dish I kept thinking about later because it simply tasted good. You’re supposed to crack the shell (they’re good at that candied lacquering thing) swiftly with your knife so you don’t mush and the potato and the runny yolk comes out cleanly. I destroyed mine. The starchy, garlicky, creamy and truffled flavors were actually similar to my risotto at Casa Cruz. Maybe these are components are more Argentine than I realized.

 
twenty-four weeds

They called this assemblage of vegetables, herbs and flowers weeds. Pretty and flavorful, it was almost like something you might find at Blue Hill at Stone Barns. I’m always surprised how much I enjoy dishes like this because, not because I dislike vegetables but because I’m scared of eating flowers. I realize that makes no sense coming from an intestine-and -blood sausage-lover.

 
pulpo vinagreta solida

Chewy and tart octopus with a vinaigrette formed into a substance resembling feta cheese.

 
mero jugo de paella

Paella juice isn’t the most appetizing description.  I was more interested in the Rice Krispie bits floating in the broth around the sea bass.

 
carrillera caldo de hongos

I’d never had beef cheeks before and certainly wouldn’t have known what they were. They were rich and just fatty enough, kind of similar to short ribs. Ack, those flowers showed up again.

 
cerdo rabanitos hongos

Despite the name I don’t recall any mushrooms or radishes with this tender pork. This dish was served with a skinny perfume sampling paper scented with smoke. Inhaling and chewing at the same time created the sensation of barbecued meat, something that would seem to appeal to both Americans and Argentines. I enjoyed it. Toying with temperatures hasn’t wowed me, but manipulating scent and taste is kind of impressive, and fun too.

 
ravioli de ron

Another ravioli, and I can remember the filling this time because it was like a mini shot of rum, tempered by a granita.

 
crema catalana

This was deconstructed, obviously. Soft, foamy, powdered and creamy all mixed with hot espresso poured in tableside.

James took wine notes, which is weird because he’s not into wine. I only have surface knowledge, myself. Well, they weren’t tasting notes, just what we were served. I don’t have the same brain/memory for wine as I do for food, which is the main reason I don’t tend to discuss it here.

We were served a sherry first. His notes read "malo malo," which make absolutely no sense. First off, no one would call their wine malo because that’s bad. I can’t even come up with a homophone that would be accurate. The order of the rest are as follows:

Aristides Chardonnay
Colomé Torrontes
Escorihuela 2005 Syrah
Weinert Sauvignon Blanc

La Vineria de Gualterio Bolivar * Bolivar 865, Buenos Aries, Argentina

Casa Cruz

I was inclined to pass up Casa Cruz, even though magazines and guidebooks love it and it was close enough to our apartment that I could wear heels without suffering. All the descriptions put me off, especially the notion of giant gold entrance doors (not actual gold, duh—I took a photo upon leaving but it was too dark and blurry). I was picturing cold Meatpacking district, but it was more plush Vegas. The scale of everything—those doors, towering floral arrangements, well-spaced seating—was grand. Trump would feel cozy here.

I didn’t encounter cocktails so much in Buenos Aires so I was intrigued by their list containing classics and unique specialties. No matter that The Cruz cost as much as a steak in nearby restaurants. ($10 give or take). I wanted to try something with Chartreuse since you don’t see it used as a mixer that often. The result was stiff, bitter and fitting for an aperitif.

This was the only restaurant we visited that had a sommelier, not that I tend to use them because I don’t like relying on humans. We chose a Torrontes, a crisp local white that I know little about and am trying to figure out. It definitely doesn’t have the same name recognition as Malbec.

I wish I could remember more about this amuse other than it tasted like Parmesan cheese.

Guidebooks list Casa Cruz as Italian, which isn't really true at all. I'm not sure what cuisine this is. Many of the ingredient combinations sounded wretched (Lisa’s peanut butter mashed potatoes on Top Chef immediately came to mind) but worked on the plate. You’ll see (at least hazily—mood lighting is death for furtive flashless pics).

 
black pudding * figs * scallops * sprouts salad * almonds…

I’m mimicking how dishes were listed on the menu, don’t blame the pretension on me. English descriptions were on the left hand side and Spanish on the right, which was interesting for comparison. I don’t think the average American knows what black pudding is or wants to know, and would probably be more inclined to order morcilla since it sounds nicer. Of course, I ordered it because I love blood sausage.

The almonds, and even the figs made sense, sweet/savory and kind of Spanish. It was the scallops that seemed weird. They didn’t clash with the rich charcuterie at all, though.

 
grilled shrimps * potato and pear warm salad * shrimp nage

I’m a control freak and don’t like to let James take his own photos because they tend to come out as blurred as a palsied photographer’s. He also doesn’t get close enough. I didn’t taste this dish.

 
white risotto *  truffle oil * duck confit * pickled mango * portobello mushrooms

I never ever order pastas or risottos. The ingredient combination must’ve grabbed my attention, the pickled fruit specifically. Garlic and truffle oil dominated a bit, but only a bit because this dish was sumptious on all levels. It’s not like you can play down cream and duck confit. It seems odd to be recounting this item now when it’s a gazillion degrees outside and the thought of this makes my stomach hurt, but it made sense for fall weather when I was craving something substantial.

 
red tuna * chimichurri * bone marrow * raspberries * potatoes

Raspberries are obviously the odd man out in this combination. James insisted that the fruit was absent and I can't detect any hint of it in this photo either.

This was a basil tomato granita. I guess that's Italian.

 
corn crème brulee * black currant * dulce de leche * cinnamon sugar

This was a take on crema Catalan, a flatter, spread out Spanish crème brulee. The sweet corn kind of gave a rice pudding effect while the dulce de leche didn’t register at all. I was really hoping for more caramel flavor.

I expected more scene than substance from Casa Cruz and was wrong. The setting felt luxurious without being stuffy and the food was genuinely good. Of course my perception might be clouded by the amazing exchange rate and foreign locale. I wouldn’t like this restaurant in NYC at all. It just wouldn’t work.

At the very least, I was happy for the chance to wear my new cute/tacky Target earrings with laser cut lions (I'm a leo, I can't help it). I don’t normally wear much, if any, jewelry, and never gold-toned, so these might’ve languished in a drawer for months. Thank you, Casa Cruz for the opportunity.

Casa Cruz * Buenos Aries, Argentina

Grayz

Grayz is very much a grown up restaurant, though that Z at the end has always struck me as an ill conceived youthful affectation. It only recently occurred to me that it’s a homophone, tweaking the chef’s surname to play on the on the small plates grazing concept. Ok, I get it, but I’m still not crayzee about the name.

So, Grayz is grown up in that they serve pricey fancies masquerading as bar snacks (and that the average diner’s age prime time Saturday hovered in the 50s). I’m not in the habit of dropping $39 on finger food (rebate check burning a hole in my pocket or not) but I found my cobbled together dinner more enjoyable, or should I say awesome (it was our waitress’s favorite adjective) than expected. Civilized has its place every now and then.

James insisted the room reminded him of some Atlantic City Trump restaurant where we had a middle-of-the-night burger a few Fourth of Julys ago. There were some tame chandeliers, mini-banquettes and recessed lighting peeking out of undulating ceiling cutouts but I wouldn’t call the earth toned townhouse garish. It’s not my taste, but it’s hardly Trumpy.

I’ve been obsessed with crème de violette, mostly because of its intense color. I meant to track some down around Christmas to make an Aviation but never got around to it, so I was happy to see this cocktail on their list. It’s hard to tell from the photo (the dim lighting was murder, as you can see) but the color is a pale ever so slight periwinkle. I was expecting a cherry, but they garnished with orange peel. The flavor was more bitter than sweet, in a quinine way, but my taste could’ve been skewed from sucking so many sugar free cough drops last week.

Bread basket with yogurt dipping sauce. The herbs might’ve been fresh oregano.

Complimentary lamb sausage amuse. The fluff was similar to baba ghanoush.

What I hadn’t anticipated was how Asian many of the ingredients and preparations would be. A special involving the words fish and dumplings caught our attention, but these little patties were straight up tod mun pla. Funny, because fish cake would’ve kept me away—they’re one of the only Thai treats that I’m ho hum on.

Ceviche was composed of kampachi and fluke squiggles rather than chunks or slices. The citrus was meyer lemon, which kept the acid level tame.

Weisswurst was a fun diversion. Why not plump ghostly sausages with sweet mustard? I wisely lost my carb consciousness for a warm pretzel.

Here’s the $39 prize. Well, they were very satisfying short ribs, but yeah, spendy. The sauce was flavored with tarragon and horseradish but I swear garam masala was hiding in the mix. There was a distinct earthy Indian quality to the beef.

We probably didn’t need a dessert, especially since I wasn’t bowled over by what I ordered anyway. I’m old fashioned about sweets and when I hear white chocolate brownie I envision homey and rich. This creation was sharp and crumbly like eating shortbread and pineapple. If I had known that we were going to be gifted with two truffles (coconut and possibly passion fruit) and a tuile at meal’s end, I would’ve skipped this course.

Read my extremely condensed version for nymag.com

Grayz * 13 W. 54th St., New York, NY

Momofuku Ko

I’m neutral on David Chang, no hate, no love. I’m naturally turned off by hype, though. Obviously, or I would’ve eaten at Momofuku Ssam in the evening by now but I just can’t be bothered.

I was kind of fascinated by all the Ko hoopla and the gone in sixty seconds reservations game didn’t even bother me. At least it’s democratic, if not glitchy. And trying to score a spot did get me to work at 9:55 instead of 10:05 for a week. Um, and today post-Momofuku Ko I didn’t even make it into the office.

I do wonder if the newness has already worn off. On my way to the East Village for pre-dinner drinks (a few shots of Maker’s Mark at Otto’s, which was probably a mistake. Not the tiki bar so much as over-imbibing. But I’d been home alone all weekend and by 7pm on Sunday I was antsy and bored out of my mind) I received a call presumably from a hostess asking if I’d prefer an 8:45 to my 9:15. Sure, why not.

Tipsy and running late, my friend Sherri and I completely missed the extremely subtle entrance, marked with the signature peach but obscured by metal latticework, and had to pop into the noodle bar a few storefronts down for directions. Normally, I’m anal about addresses and luckily, this was the only misstep of the evening.

Well, and maybe ordering a bottle of the private label sake. I wasn’t feeling flush enough to spring for the wine pairings ($50) but we didn’t realize the bottle was going to be so large. Those little juice glasses start adding up and next thing you know you’ve forgotten half the things you just ate. Thank goodness for photos and the internet.

By now you’ve already seen a cavalcade of photos and descriptions, but that’s never stopped me from adding my Johnny-come-lately perspective before.

Pork Rinds with Togarashi Pepper

I’ll concede that the cracklings were better than the over-salted puffs you normally buy in a bag. Very light and airy but gone in seconds.

English Muffins with Pork Fat, Sea Salt and Chives

Hmm…I couldn’t determine if the rolls at Allen & Delancey were amazing or if I’m just bread deprived. I know now that they were amazing because these mini muffins were certainly good but they didn’t bowl me over. The pork fat could’ve been more assertive. Maybe my taste buds had been dulled but I expected a richer more unctuous flavor.

Fluke Sashimi with Spicy Buttermilk and Chives

I’ve been on a sashimi kick recently so this was fun. The creamy chile-spiked sauce was a welcome diversion from soy sauce and wasabi, and I would never think of adding poppy seeds into the mix. Yes, more chives.

Kimchi Consomme with Beau Soleil Oyster, Pork Belly and Braised Cabbage

The kimchi was so mild that I forgot it was a component of the broth until looking at other's photos. I think the food could remain refined and still punch up the spice a bit. I hate the word luscious (I promise never to say succulent) but the soft, barely fatty pork belly definitely was. I also like shellfish paired with pork, which I usually associate with Portuguese food. There’s definitely nothing Iberian about this presentation, though. The pork-seafood combo definitely seems to be a recurring Chang touch.

Coddled Egg with Hackleback Caviar, Onion Soubise, Potato Chips and Chervil

I notice other reviews mentioning osetra, but I’m fairly certain this was hackleback (or was it paddlefish?). I also notice sous vide coming up in conjunction with this dish but I don’t think anything was cooked in that manner. Perhaps soubise, a slow cooking process in butter that enhances sweetness, sounds like sous vide? A printed menu would be appreciated by introverted freaks like me who need to know every little detail but hate to be all pretentious and chit chat aloud about every minute ingredient. No matter, this was very luxurious and the sliver-thin crispy potatoes added nice contrast to the softness of both chicken and fish eggs, and I don't even like potato chips.

Scallops with Nori and Bacon Dashi

I can’t remember what the white swipe is to save my life and I even asked. I also don’t see this exact dish on any blogs so I can’t jog my memory that way. The porky broth and sweet scallops complemented each other. The seaweed was a little chompy.

Shaved Foie Gras with Lychees and Wine Gelee

This was the nuttiest dish by far, and by nutty I mean creative and unexpected. All you can see in this shot is a pile of fluff that’s actually shaved foie gras. It totally does melt in your mouth but that’s one of the foulest metaphors in world history. The liquid underneath softens the shavings into a mousse-like consistency. The sweet perfumey squishiness of the lychees didn’t seem like a perfect match for the liver but I did like eating this.

Deep-Fried Short Rib with Pickled Carrots, Daikon with Mustard Seeds and Grilled Scallion

Throughout the meal I was transfixed on hunks of meat getting deep fried (they were using the same deep fryer that I own) and sliced into thirds and wondering when this decadence would come our way. The proportion of crispy exterior to rare insides was wonderful. I now resolve to deep fry meat more often. The mustard seeds weren’t overwhelming at all. And you kind of have to love all the bright colors—they felt kind of Uniqlo and the pickling punched up what could've been an overly rich dish.

Grilled Rice Cake on Pickled Turnips and Cabbage with Miso Soup

I ended up dunking my rice cylinder into the soup, which caused it to fall apart. That probably wasn’t the optimal eating style. My powers of observation were long shot by this point but this seemed like one of the tamer courses, simple and soothing. I would've been fine with skipping this course and going straight to the sweet.

Pineapple Sorbet with Dried Pineapple

The transitional palate cleanser of double pineapple. It's not very often that I get excited by sorbet, and this was no exception. Sure, it was fruity and cold with some concentrated chewy bits but I was looking forward to the apple pie.

Fried Apple Pie with Sour Ice Cream and Toasted Miso

Ah, wake up call. I remember the cool mouth-freezing sensation more than the fruity taste. This is where I freaked out. Not because of the food (though I will say the sour cream was a distinct touch) but because of the music. I couldn’t concentrate on my apple pie because They Might Be Giants's, “Ana Ng” was making me laugh. It was an accumulation of the entire evening’s soundtrack enhanced by too much sake. Rush, Luna and the Stone Roses didn’t throw me into fits as much, though.

The song that really pushed me over the edge was “Take the Skinheads Bowling.” I’ve never felt more thirtysomething in my entire life. I didn’t feel sad and nostalgic (my default state of mind) but rather kind of incredulous and peaceful (which was short lived since I started a fight when I got home).

In the ‘80s I wouldn’t be able to fathom sitting on a stool in NYC spending over $100 on dinner while listening to Camper Van Beethoven. But then, as a teen I had zero idea what the future might be like so nothing would surprise me. As a senior in high school I used to joke with my sister whenever seeing then strange and new, space age-seeming minivans, “wow, it is the ‘90s.”

Inventive tasting menus paired with the sweet strains of decades-old college rock is the ‘00s.

Momofuku Ko * 163 First Ave., New York, NY

Momofuku Ssam Bar

Momofuku Ssam is like Fatty Crab to me: a restaurant I’ve always been reluctant to visit even though I know I would love the food, so I wait a million years, then end up going for lunch which isn’t even their raison d’etre. This is probably more egregious at Momofuku since the day and night menus are well…like…you know.

It’s kind of annoying that up until 2004, James spent nearly a decade living a block from where Ssam Bar (and that damn mob scene Trader Joe’s) now exist. If I only had to meander from Third Avenue to Second, it wouldn’t have taken me over a year to stop by. But the neighborhood is ick. Why live on a makeshift NYC campus when you can move to Brooklyn and experience all the same obnoxious kids ten years later after they’ve bought condos and procreated?

But yes, the food: my pork belly buns were fairly amazing, and I absolutely dig the pickle mania that has swept foodie-dom even if I hate the word foodie. The buns and ssams were as I’d expected, but I hadn’t anticipated the sides.

I loved my fried cauliflower dressed (heavily) with olive oil, fish sauce, chiles and mint. I might try reproducing this for Thanksgiving. It’s one of those dishes where people who think they hate fish sauce wouldn’t necessarily realize that’s what they were eating unless someone told them. The kimchi’d apples and bacon mix I sampled were also a mishmash that worked.

Sure, I’d like to try the country ham, banh mi or wrangle enough people together for the pork butt, but there’s no telling when that will actually happen. It’s much more likely that I’ll eschew my typical wait and see approach and try upcoming Momofuku Ko first.

Momofuku Ssam Bar * 207 Second Ave., New York, NY

El Celler de Can Roca

I don’t think I’ve ever eaten at a Michelin-starred restaurant, let alone a two-star (three stars is the upper limit in Michelin’s realm, quite unlike New York’s new five-star scale and Time Out NY’s slightly newer six-star insanity) so I was revved up by the prospect. There are three three-stars also close to Barcelona, but El Bulli was out of the question since I’m no reservations guru, and I’d heard that Can Fabes and Sant Pau weren’t remarkably better than Can Roca, yet pricier.

New York, which was just granted a Michelin Guide this year, has only four two-star restaurants (Bouley, Daniel, Danube and Masa, if you’re curious). It’s funny because I live in a town where high end dining abounds yet I rarely indulge in any of it. I’ve only eaten at three of the one-stars (Annisa, WD-50 and Peter Luger) and haven’t set foot in the higher ranking establishments. I’m thinking maybe the new ballyhooed Eleven Madison Park incarnation for my seventh dating anniversary next month.

We took the hour and a half train ride to Girona. There was a little time to kill before our 3 pm lunch reservation, so we wandered around the station, smoked cigarettes, had coffee. There were taxis lined up outside so we figured we’d be safe. But of course, being me, this would not be the case. We had no idea how far away the restaurant was, but allowed ourselves half an hour for the taxi trip. So when 2:30 rolled around there wasn’t a single cab to be found. We waited, and waited and started getting scared (we had the worst time ever on our last vacation trying to catch a cab to a restaurant in Macau. We couldn’t hail one despite an hour of trying and when we finally flagged one down, they wouldn’t take us to Fernando’s. I was so exasperated with Macau that we just ferried it back to Hong Kong, never tasting the fabled suckling pig we’d come for). Then a freak thunderstorm broke out. Jesus Christ.

I spied a cab on the other side of the station so we ran and grabbed it, but after the driver heard where we wanted to go he was all, “tan lejos” so far. We tried both taxi numbers in our guide book and one no one answered, the other was dead. In a panic, we went to the information desk and asked the nice girl how to call a taxi and she gave us the same number we already had. Desperate, we had her point on a map where the restaurant was from the train station and she was also heading into “tan lejos” territory but I think she meant to walk, not drive because that’s what we were contemplating. It didn’t look far to me at all, but then I’ve discovered that New Yorkers have very different ideas about what’s walkable.

Just then, I noticed a new cab had pulled up outside so I ran and accosted the guy, practically begging him to drive us to Can Roca since we only a had a few minutes before our scheduled meal (I was shaking in my boots because I’m a punctuality nut, but then I reminded myself that late or not this was Spain where time has less meaning—why else would Dali make those clocks melt?). He didn’t have a problem with it. The drive was only like five minutes, if that. Insane. Tan lejos, my ass. If I wasn’t wearing heels, we seriously could’ve hoofed it if need be (though all the roundabouts and lack of right-angled street corners might’ve thrown us off).

So we made it on time and all was right with the world again. The first thing we both noticed was the décor. Totally Ureña. Ok, I’m making my own inside jokes now. When it opened earlier this year, Ureña got so much shit over its bland hotel lobby style that the food almost became secondary. Despite the Dominican chef going trendy Nuevo Spanish with his cuisine, I don’t think his eponymous restaurant is calculatedly trying to approximate a weirdo high end dining room in Spain. He probably didn’t have a big budget and fancy investors, cut the guy some slack.

The tasting menu seven courses for €75 (I don’t have that anywhere in writing, but it’s the number that sticks in my mind) seemed like the best route. A la carte would leave us wanting more and the chef’s menu might be over the top for the middle of the afternoon. We would’ve done dinner over lunch but the last train back to Barcelona is around 10 pm, far too early for a meal that would surely go hours and not even begin until after 9 pm.

I hate that I’m a wine retard almost as much as I hate being Spanish illiterate. I’m working on rectifying both of those situations, but these things take time. We took the coward’s way out and asked for wine pairings. If I’m correct, this was a reasonable €25 or so a person (especially when you read the things other people order. Do you think there was an upsurge in envy and feelings of inadequacy with the advent of the internet?). I’d heard about the three volume wine list that gets wheeled around on its own podium. That’s almost more simultaneously funny and frightening than snakes on a plane (sorry, I had to toss in planes and snakes in there somewhere). I’m not qualified to speak about the wines we were given and honestly can’t remember many of them (except for the gratis [I think] Bollinger served with the amuses) especially since they were described to us in Spanish. There was a port and a sherry in there, it never occurs to me to order sweet wines (which James took to calling "Disarannos," possibly to annoy me like when he intentionally mispronounces “The Devil Wears Pradas,” making fun of the lowbrow tendency towards adding unnecessary S’s to proper nouns. [I've humiliatingly said, and recently heard my mom say Fred Meyers for this popular NW store, simply called Fred Meyer, so no one's immune.] “Oh, another glass of Disaranno.” We’ve never had the amaretto, but it must’ve made an impression from the old Queer Eye days when they seemed to be their only advertiser and got mentioned on every episode) though they make sense with crazy combinations like foie gras and chocolate.

Only one of our servers spoke spotty English so a lot of details were lost on me when they presented each new dish. The additional trickiness is that the cuisine doesn’t always lend itself to simple translations. The dishes are fanciful, there are visual puns, quotes employed in menu descriptions, it’s not always easy to get if you’re not a native Spanish speaker. Like is the coco helado rallado con sorbete de yema de huevo mimicking an egg yolk, the orange orb on white edible grated coconut canvas or is the ice cream actually flavored with egg yolk? I try not to over analyze the food and simply concentrate on flavors. Even that can be difficult with so much going on. I was rattled with the newness of Spain, the fanfare of an acclaimed restaurant, concentrating on foreign words, the giddiness of the alcohol creeping up on me—sometimes it’s hard to stay focused. Thank goodness for the novel concept of presenting customers with a print out of what they’ve eaten (if you ask—I wouldn’t have known to do this if I hadn’t read about it on the web). I’ve never seen this done in NYC. I’ll simply show photos and offer mangled translations and vague descriptions. Delving into the minutiae of taste isn’t for me.

crujiente de tripa de bacallao/salt cod rinds
These were like pork cracklings but with bacalao skin. Fun to snack on while drinking champagne.

caramelo de sesame and crujiente de parmesano con aceite de trufa/sesame seed brittle and parmesan strips with truffle oil
More pre-meal snacks. Sweet and savory.

sardinas con helado de anchoas, moras y Olivares, veloute de hierbas anisadas con hinojo y agua de mar, higos con foie gras y Pedro Ximenez/sardines with anchovy ice cream, mulberries and Olivares, veloute of anise with fennel and sea water, figs with foie gras and Pedro Ximenez sherry

Ok, I'll admit that this tapas trio is baffling me. They weren't explained clearly to us and the Spanish descriptions aren't helping much because I'm not sure what some of the ingredients are. The spoon in the foreground definitely contained berries and fish, but I have no idea what Olivares is, which translates literally olive grove. Perhaps a brand name of olive oil? The shot glass contained a licorice-y concoction with a smidgen of sea creature that I'm thinking must be the agua de mar. It clearly wasn't a blob of sea water. The dish held a thick pudding, which must've been composed of figs and foie gras. I thought that it was topped with caviar, but there's no mention of that in the name.

sopa de cerezas con gambas y helado de jengibre/cherry soup with shrimp and ginger ice cream

The amazing nearly hot pink hue was much more vivid than pictured (I don't use a flash in restaurants). This was very bright and refreshing.

bonbon de foie gras con oporto Taylor's/foie gras bonbon with Taylor's port

A play on candy, these bonbons were foie gras encircling a chocolate center, topped with truffles. Olive oil and salt dotted the edges of the plate. The was insanely rich and I'm afraid it gave me a stomach ache later.

berenjena con anchoas/eggplant with anchovies

A smoked eggplant mousse with an aspic layer, anchovy and a little leaf, possibly basil. Our server was trying to search for the right word when describing this and after a few seconds declared, "aubergine." I should've been all, "speak American, dammit." I'm honestly not sure that the typical American (whatever that means) knows what aubergines are. Courgettes either, for that matter. I'll never understand why the British use all those Frenchified words.

lenguado con "bullavesa" /sole bouillabaisse

This was a sprightly dish, not dark and ominous like the photo intimates. I couldn't really discern what the different green, white, yellow and red circles were, though I'm sure thought was put into them.

ventresca de cabrito con parmentier de leche de cabra y menta/baby goat confit with goat's milk and mint foam

I had no idea this was goat until I looked up cabrito. For some reason I thought it was suckling pig. I think this is a play on suckling pig in its mother's milk (or some such dish). That's kind of gruesome if you think  about it, but not as creepy as eating flowers (see below).

coco helado rallado con sorbete de yema de huevo/coconut granita with egg yolk sorbet

Like I said earlier, I'm not clear if this sorbet was yolk flavored (clearly I have no palate) or mimicking a yolk in appearance. I liked that it was served in a coconut shell bowl.

adaptacion del perfume Carolina de Carolina Herrera/adaptation of Carolina Herrera's perfume Carolina: Despite the sheer novelty (I'm normally a sucker for novelty), this dish was the hardest for me to handle. I'm really fucking scared of eating flowers. I'll eat organ meats and baby animals, but flowers absolutely gross me out. (I found a flickr set from someone who ate at Can Roca the week after we did and they had a dish with squab and rose petals. It looks beautiful, but it might've freaked me out a bit.) I used to not even be able to eat lettuce or spinach if I could still make out ribs and stems but I've gotten a little better with that.

Youngest brother, Jordi Roca, is the mastermind behind all these inventive desserts. He is known for creating edibles to approximate the scent of perfumes like Miracle, Eternity and Tresor (I've also heard Polo, which I have horrible connotations with. I can't imagine eating Polo without gagging over bad teenage memories). You're brought strips spritzed with the perfume to smell and compare with the taste of the dessert. It's kind of uncanny.

End of dinner confections. I don't know the details. There was a white chocolate praline bark, fruity gel squares. White chocolate bonbons. The two in the right, front corner elude me.

We couldn’t figure out the youngish possibly-not-a-couple seated diagonally from us. The male was disheveled Euro-hip, the girl more mousey yet still artsy. They had a table already filled with wine glasses when we were seated and they were the only table remaining in our dining area when we headed out. There had to be at least 25 glasses in various states of fullness. I assumed they were doing a lengthy wine tasting, but then food would also come out so perhaps they’d opted for the chef’s choice route. They received a lot of attention from who I think was Josep Roca, sommelier/maitre d’. The girl had on a wedding ring, the guy did not. He seemed intoxicated, she didn’t. When she got up to use the restroom, she hugged him and he forcefully grabbed her ass. Their relationship was ambiguous. What were they doing here on a Tuesday afternoon? We were tourists, we had an excuse. I suppose they could’ve been, too. There’s no reason to think that all Spanish speakers are residents of the city I see them in.

Despite trying not be even an occasional smoker, I do love that smoking is permitted in the restaurant as is the case with Spain in general (though not at Cinc Sentits, where we dined a few nights later. I think there’s a direct correlation between the English fluency of the staff and smoking restrictions). At first James was like, “no we shouldn’t, it’s rude.” But the girl with the 20 wine glasses was puffing away the whole afternoon and I couldn’t let her have all the fun. During a marathon meal it’s luxurious to be leisurely about the whole thing. Stop to sip your wine, relax, converse, have a cigarette between courses. Worry about your health later.

I hate to say this (ok, I don’t because bathroom humor is the only thing that gets me by) but serious, er, digestive troubles slammed both of us later. James was having trauma at the hotel that evening and I refused to believe Can Roca was the stomach wrenching culprit. But me with the sluggish metabolism got my payback in the form of an unexpected accident the following afternoon at El Corte Ingles. ¿Donde esta el baño? (but I knew the word was baño in Spain so I wasn’t only fretting over finding a bathroom but not sounding like idiot while asking. It’s an L word and I’ve already forgotten it) got added to my tiny repertoire quite quickly.

I think the food was just really rich. My stomach isn’t accustomed to foie gras bon bons. James insists it was the anchovy eggplant custard that did him in. Nevertheless, we enjoyed the Can Roca experience. I apologize for the mildly gruesome postscript. I will say that just because you spent $300 on food is no guarantee that it will stay in your stomach for long. But aren’t the best experiences often ephemeral?

El Cellar de Can Roca * Carretera Taiala 40, Girona, Spain

WD-50

1/2 Dinner at WD-50 was better than expected, really top-notch and fun. I'm always afraid I'm going to be disappointed by popular restaurants (like a couple weeks ago we went to Mermaid Inn, which isn't quite in the same league, but was a hot spot last year, and I was under whelmed. Plus, the waiter called me ma'am, where at WD-50 they had the good sense to use miss. It's the little things, you know.). Maybe that's why I tend to give them a good six to twelve months to mellow out.

The disturbing yet entertaining portion of the evening came from the couple one table away (luckily it wasn't so packed that you have to do the classic NYC crammed thing where you can barely squeeze into your seat because it's set up with about 3" of space between tables. The waiters always pull the table out for diners, but still you have to either scoot your crotch or butt right up against your neighbor's table. It doesn't really matter how svelte you are, settling in is going to take a few awkward seconds.) At first I thought we were witnessing a flaccid date, but it felt a little too strained for that.

The duo was made up of an Asian guy who exuded finance industry with his blahness and a so-so blonde woman who probably thought she was prettier than she was. They could've been anywhere from 28 to 34--it's not always easy to peg that demographic. I was obvious that the gentleman was trying to impress her, it was transparent enough that she was subtly egging him on in a manipulative way. She wasn't going to hump him (though James thought there was a slight chance she might) she just relished the attention...and probably the free meal, he did order a $145 pinot noir (we opted for a sauvignon blanc that was exactly $100 less). She only ordered one thing, a cod entre and didn't even finish her tiny portion, while he ordered two appetizers and an entre for himself.

He proceeded to bring up his fiance, and it was clear that he was fishing to see if there was any chance things might work between him and his dining companion. We guessed they were college friends, or old acquaintances, not likely coworkers. He was saying stuff like, "if circumstances were different..." and he brought up babies like three times, it was totally gross, and how this woman would make a good mother. Nothing gets a girl wet faster than pregnancy banter. I almost barfed up my pickled beef tongue and fried mayonnaise (and not because I was eating pickled beef tongue and fried mayonnaise).

He then began schooling her in the history of avant-garde cooking and saying how the chef Wylie Dufresne, was a protege of Ferran Adria who is like the progenitor of all the current culinary trends (he invented using foam, you know like carrot foam, but has now moved on to essences, seriously, you don't even eat them, you just breathe them in and experience them) and is chef at the impossible to get into (though not so impossible that this guy wasn't able to eat there and brag about it) restaurant in Spain, El Bulli. Anyway, Wylie Dufresne isn't a protg of Ferran Adria (doesn't protg mean you studied under the person?), I wanted to tell him so, but that was hardly even the point.

They exchanged gifts, he gave her a L'Occitane gift set (the same one James is giving his mother--does that make it any less romantic a present?) and she offered a wine bag and what must've been a fancy bottle of wine because he couldn't stop thanking her for it (though he probably would've jizzed himself over a jug of Gallo of as long as it came from this woman). We were appeased when this guy seemed to become unnecessarily humiliated when the sommelier wouldn't allow him to open this bottle of wine and share it with his lady friend, the mood was totally ruined, and he got all snippy and asked for the check when the waiter subsequently inquired about dessert. "We're not dessert people," he snapped, and they left in a huff. He probably figured that extra wine might've been adequate to lower his companion's defenses enough to impregnate her. Such an uplifting holiday tale.

Yes, the food. We did eat more than eavesdrop and just because I've neglected to discuss our actual dinner doesn't mean the meal wasn't noteworthy. As mentioned, I had the pickled tongue with little fried mayonnaise cubes and sprinkles of crumbs that were supposed to be onion streusel, there were also dehydrated scattered grains of what formerly was lettuce. If you created a bite using all components it tasted like a sandwich. A small beef tongue sandwich. Being a pork belly fiend, that entre had to be done. Sure, it was rich and I was pleasantly surprised by the decent portion. Even though pork belly is best in small doses, I feared the artistic giant plate/tiny serving syndrome. The five meltingly unctuous slices were more than adequate and accompanied well by fatty antitheses: turnips and soybeans. We shared what was probably the most pedestrian dessert, "chocolate cream, coffee soil, tonka bean ice cream," which was a conglomeration of vanilla and chocolate shapes and textures, cakey and creamy. I was tipsy enough at this point (I'd already downed a few pre-dinner cocktails at the new Barramundi across the street) that the idea of eating chocolate dirt seemed like the ultimate nightcap.

WD-50 * 50 Clinton St., New York, NY