Goodies First

Maison

Times Square is tricky for dining, most would say avoid it altogether, but sometimes it's just not worth fighting. There are out of town guests who enjoy being shown what makes NYC special—whether it's finding a platter of Filipino sisig that they can't get where they live or wowing with high caliber multicourse tasting menus or hip neighborhoody places that cure their own meat—and then there are those who would be perfectly happy eating anything, anywhere as long as it’s within a reasonable walking radius of their hotel, and not exorbitantly priced or a mob scene. It's not about the food, you’re just trying to catch up. Though if it were up to me, I'd walk way west to Pam's Real Thai or Tulcingo.

My grandma (I can’t say grandmother because it just doesn’t sound right even though it reads better. I could really go all out and type the more phonetic gramma, but that’s a hideous looking word) has never indicated any interest in French bistro food, but Maison it was. Two-blocks from the Sheraton and no wait on a Friday night are good enough for me. I don't know what suits her taste because I rarely make it back to Portland and she's more likely to take a cruise to New Zealand then come here. (I really need to learn some lessons from Oregonians like how to live on social security and babysitting jobs yet travel regularly. I do think that living in RV's and mobile homes, as other immediate family members do, certainly sucks less of your income than renting in prime Brooklyn, no secret there.) She has only visited NYC once before, along with my mom and sister in 1998, the year I moved here. I recall a positive experience with Sixth Street Indian, grumblings over Zen Palate (my sister's influence) and me losing my shit because they went to Tavern on the Green without me and when I got off work to meet them, bought me a Subway sandwich and told me to put a sock in it. I didn't have the good dining sense to yet realize I may have been better off eating the damn footlong and shutting up.

Maison's charcuterie plate was better than a Subway Club® and the wooden plank overflowed with a larger selection of meat than I’d expected. It’s doubtful anything was cured or aged in house, but the smoked duck and pate wedges were particularly winsome.

I didn’t break any new ground and ordered the steak frites. Frankly, the best part was the fries…and the herb butter. The meat wasn't so flavorful. Sometimes I just should order a plate of fries if that's what I want. The leftovers did make a good breakfast steak sandwich the following day.

For the record, grandma ate penne with chicken and James had steak au poivre. I did not snap photos because I was trying to be restrained.

The service was surprisingly friendly and accommodating. I always assume that if you work in Times Square you must be cranky from dealing with tourists all day. Maybe I’m just projecting. No rushing, I was able to sip my second glass of Shiraz in peace. It’s also worth noting that Maison, like its relatives L’Express and French Roast, is open 24-hours in case you find yourself starving on Broadway and W. 54th in the middle of the night.

This might be what I look like in 38 years, though I don’t imagine my eyes will turn blue. Grandma also told me to give up my growing out my gray hair nonsense. No need to age yourself prematurely but I’m still continuing my experiment. I can’t stop yet.

Maison * 1700 Broadway, New York, NY

Jean Georges

1/2 There’s absolutely no rhyme or reason to Valentine’s Day restaurant choices in my household. Last year I was surprised with bizarre, unromantic, now-shuttered Crave while this year during widespread economic gloom and doom, I was treated to Jean Georges. No complaints, here. And knowing my aversion to gimmickry, reservations were made mid-week rather than the 14th proper.

We went all out (though not so with wine, an apply-pear-ish 2001 German Riesling that I did not pick out but enjoyed) and ordered the seven-course signature tasting menu. I’ve never eaten at Jean Georges before so sampling classics seemed like the way to go. Honestly, I would’ve been fine with the $98 three-course prix fixe (I was curious about the Jordan almond-crusted duck breast despite reading about the dish being too sweet in more than one source. I love candied savories, though.) but James seemed hell bent on the egg caviar, which came with a $25 supplement charge with the lower-priced option. In his mind, this was thriftier because you were getting more food and not paying for extras.

A shrimp egg roll and tiny Boston lettuce leaf, chicken broth spiked with meyer lemon and salmon with what I swear was said to be kumquat though I don’t recall tasting it and see no evidence of said fruit in this photo. This trio summed up what was to come: flavors that were sharp while remaining refined overall, heavy on the salt and acid with the occasional tiny nod to Asia.

Ah, the eggs topped with eggs. The insides are an insanely creamy blend of egg, vodka and crème fraiche while the saline caviar adds a nice popping texture to the smooth interior layer. I never would’ve ordered this a la carte but I now understand why it is a classic. Total food porn.

Sea Scallops with Caramelized Cauliflower and Caper-Raisin Emulsion was actually the first course I would’ve ordered off the prix fixe because I was picturing something delicate and sweet. Oddly, this wasn’t dried grape sugary in the least but tart with a sauce that tasted of curry and mustard (but very well may have contained neither).

Young Garlic Soup with Thyme and Sauteed Frog's Legs. I didn’t feel the urge to dip the crispy appendages into the vivid, strongly seasoned broth (that salt and acid I was talking about) with my hands as suggested but did appreciate the warm water finger bowls strewn with rose petals that followed.

Turbot with Chateau Chalon Sauce is another type of dish that would never occur to me to order. Just too simple. But of course that’s not true at all. The fish was poached to just-right firmness, the wine-based sauce was rich and buttery yet completely light and the miniature cubes of zucchini and tomato added fresh interest (despite not being quintessential February produce).

Lobster Tartine with Lemongrass and Fenugreek Broth and Pea Shoots might have been my favorite. Of course I was amused by the presence of fenugreek, now the official culprit of the NYC-area maple syrup smell. Here the subtle natural sweetness paired well with an equally restrained lemongrass flavor and enhanced the pure meaty hunk of lobster and claw. The orange sprinkles around the plate tasted like dried, pulverized shrimp though I imagine it was lobster-derived.

Our server sauced most of these dishes tableside, spooning mine from a silver vessel first. I did notice (as did James) that I tended to get more, which resulted in less for him. I received about 75% of this wonderful sauce and made sure not to waste any by using crusty rolls as edible sponge. James had white plate peeking through the bottom of his peach-colored pool.

Broiled Squab, Onion Compote, Corn Pancake with Foie Gras was the final savory course. Normally, at this point I might be feeling a bit overstuffed but the portions were sensible (the lunch at Robuchon a Galera nearly killed me and there were fewer courses) and I was still excited about what was yet to come. This was the richest dish of all, dark meat spruced up with five-spice, sliver of preserved Meyer lemon and a warm nugget of foie gras. What’s a tasting menu minus foie gras?

I didn’t realize there were two schools of thought on a squab’s degree of doneness until watching this week’s DVRd Top Chef (obviously, I couldn’t simultaneously watch while enjoying this meal). I would say that this version leaned more towards done than rare. Not that it was overcooked, no nitpicking from me if I were a TV cooking competition judge, I just don’t recall seeing much pinkness. It was also impossible to extract all of the meat from bones with a knife and fork. More finger food.

Desserts could be chosen from four themes: winter, apple, caramel or chocolate. Just the night before I proclaimed my love of all things caramelly over chocolate (just like with shoes, purses and babies, I don’t understand where chocolate’s stereotype as a lady obsession comes from) because I enjoy making pointless declarations aloud.

Obviously, I chose caramel. From the top left: Chocolate Pop, Coffee-Cardamom Ice Cream; Vanilla Soda, Liquid Caramel Sphere; Warm Caramel Tart, Crispy Olive-Hazelnut Praline, Caramelized Bacon; Caramel Curd, Dehydrated Sponge, Roasted Pineapple Sorbet. The gooey blob in the front was my favorite. Yes, you can still win me over with bacon, and the also savory olive component added extra intrigue.

This is a poorly photographed example of the winter dessert plate. All I remember is that there was a concord grape snow cone, a beignet and something meringue-marshmallowy and that this plate of treats looked more soft and comforting than mine.

I was just talking (ok, Twittering) with a friend who was impressed by someone she knew who’d recently received a dessert and candy course (at The London, it turned out). I, too, was wowed by such sweet overload at Robuchon a Galera, my first and recent encounter with this practice. You’re not going to find such overkill if you only ever go out for pizza and veggie burritos, I’m afraid.

I suppose technically these are mignardises not simply candies, but I’m American not French. The mini macarons didn’t taste terribly distinctive from each other. I think they might’ve been chocolate, strawberry and coffee. The gelees and chocolates were nice but the marshmallows—cranberry, vanilla and banana—were most impressive being cut with scissors from a coil tucked in a big glass jar wheeled out on a trolley.

There’s a place in hell for people who don’t eat their sweets. Is it just more refined to leave them on the plate like most of the diners finishing around the same time we did? I’m a freaking diabetic and I still ate mine (justified by only eating Wasa crackers, mushroom soup and oatmeal leading up to dinner, ugh, that sounds so beige and Eastern Bloc). I did manage to save the two take home gift chocolates until the following day.

Jean Georges * 1 Central Park West, New York, NY

Patois

After hearing that Patois, one of the Smith Street pioneers, was closing this weekend, James made reservations for Friday. Of course, now it seems that they will simply relocate across the street, but at least I had the opportunity to try one of the many eateries along South Brooklyn’s restaurant row that I normally walk past without a glance.

And Patois was very much what I expected: charming in a rustic cozy way (who can resist a roaring fireplace in the dead of winter?) with serviceable food. I can see why a French bistro would be something to celebrate in 1997. Now, there’s a lot of competition. Restaurants in this Gallic vein can be found all over Smith Street (Provence en Boite, Café Luluc, Robin du Bois, Bar Tabac) and environs (Jolie, Pit Stop, Quercy).

The slab of pate (on the right) was creamy, spreadable and more memorable than the coarser country-style slice beneath it. The accompaniments--cornichons, grainy mustard and tart vinaigrette--were all sharp, almost too much so. A stronger sweet component would’ve added balance. And now that I'm looking at the photo, I realize there are blobs of what must've been a fruity syrup yet I don't recall tasting it at all.

I loved the fries in my steak frites. The medium-rare beef was also well cooked. The only detraction was the cornstarch-thickened poivre sauce. We were sitting next to a drafty windowed door (completely my own choice. I initially liked the less hemmed in corner table. It wasn’t until we got settled that I realized how much of the frigid air was seeping through the wall behind me) so it didn’t take long for the thin peppery sauce to cool off, exposing a gluey consistency. Not that this deterred me from taking home leftovers.

The financier was larger than I had expected and not overly sweet. The insides were springy and studded with bits of melted chocolate, the outer edges golden and firm. What sold me was the scoop of coffee ice cream, though. I tend to choose based on extras not the feature.

Everything at Patois was perfunctory but lacking in small harmless ways. I left without a strong feeling one way or the other. I’ll be curious to see how the new location will differ, if at all, though I don’t know that I will return in the immediate future. It might be worth it for the mid-week prix fixe.

Patois * 255 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Robuchon a Galera

The first-ever Hong Kong and Macau Michelin guide was released the very week we were in those two places. It’s not as if I was going to rearrange my plans based on this new intel. As it turned out we already had reservations at two two-stars: Yung Kee and Hutong, and more felicitously, Robuchon a Galera, one of only two three-stars in the book (Lung King Heen, whose chef is profiled in this weekend’s Times is the other).

Do you think they’d doll up an entryway at a Parisian Robuchon in this manner? I did appreciate how seriously the Chinese took Christmas.

Anyone who knows anything about this oddly placed Robuchon in the gloriously overwrought, Liberache-style Hotel Lisboa knows that lunch is a staggering bargain. $200+ shark’s fin and abalone chef’s menus would be lost on me. The set lunch provides a sample of what the kitchen is capable of in five courses for a more palatable HK$ 538 ($69). Fewer courses are available for $42 and $54 but why limit yourself? We wanted the full appetizer, soup, fish, meat and dessert experience.

We also wanted the mildy seedy Hotel Lisboa experience, if only for one night, to soak in the ambience…and carcinogens. I would call bullshit on the Times’ currently popular third-hand smoke article, if it weren’t for the headache and chest pain-inducing properties of our room’s ashtray aroma. And then our first-hand smoking (I rarely smoke anymore, though just like not abiding dietary restrictions on vacation I also enjoy a cigarette or two when out of town) only upped the ante. My disappointment at not encountering any of the fabled Russian hookers hooker lingering in the lobbies and casinos was almost mitigated by the bedside wooden console that controlled the lights and played AM radio-quality Chinese stations.

The wine list was crazy. The hefty tome was bereft of bottles under three digits. No one around us even had alcoholic beverages, though. As we discovered on numerous dining occasions, Asians aren’t big drinkers. Even in casinos everyone sipped hot tea rather than booze. With Robuchon doing like the locals would’ve been a wise move. Two cocktails and two glasses of champagne nearly jacked our bill an extra $100 (and I naively said lunch would be my treat).

Apple granita amuse. Yes, that’s dry ice-induced smoke beneath the plate. Very dramatic.

Lightly smoked foie gras on top of marinated mushrooms with virgin olive oil. Though the thinly sliced fungus takes up more visual room than the curls of liver, the creamy foie gras, with yes, a hint of smoke, was the dominant ingredient.

Japanese egg yolk in herb ravioli, watercress and warm sea urchin in its own juice. This was not my appetizer, but I’m including alternating photos for variety’s sake.

Crab bisque spicy with Espelette pepper under aniseed emulsion. We both chose this saline soup and like pouring the smooth bisque over the foam ourselves. The crab meat-encrusted crackers were a nice accompaniment. I’m not sure what to make of the little blue gem on the tray, however.

Scallop, squid and shrimp in coral broth and flavored with basil. I do not know what they mean by coral. You don’t actually cook with those sea polyps, do you? I just realized that I chose two creamy seafood courses in a row. I can’t help liking that rich, delicate combination. Last night I had $16 lobster ravioli at Carrabba’s, which tasted like what you’d expect from an Italian chain restaurant. The truly amazing thing about this three-star seafood medley is that it only cost $14, technically.

Back of sea bass on crispy skin with braised fennel and beetroot jus.

Roasted lamb rack with oriental fragrance, with samosas medley and coriander pesto. This was actually a lot of food, not tiny portions. Normally, I can power through a tasting menu but this lamb was so unctuous and rich that I had to pass off a number of slices to James (no, I can’t just leave food on the plate). What they call “Oriental fragrance” is Indian spicing: garam masala, coriander and cumin. The mini samosas were filled with a cheese-spinach blend. The off-white blob on the left is the famous impossibly buttery Robuchon potatoes that James has tried recreating at home. He ordered the beef because it came with potatoes and he thought he would get these. Instead, our server came over with a big dish of them and doled out a small spoonful on my plate while he received a different style of potato, altogether.

Braised “Wagyu” beef cheek, aromatic pepper with Dauphine-style creamed potatoes. Despite coming in an individual cast iron crock like the mashed potatoes did in Vegas, these were more like scalloped potatoes. James described the meat as tasting like Salisbury steak. The horror. I think he meant the soft texture, which I would call closer to pot roast. That’s what a cheek is like.

Then came the big decision: dessert or cheese? I’d been savoried to death and we had been eyeballing the dessert trolley all afternoon.

I chose baba au rhum, caramel ice cream and a profiterole tower.

I knew there was an insane Willy Wonka-esque candy trolley in addition to the regular dessert cart and started fretting when I didn’t see it being rolled around. It was James who anxiously asked, “Isn’t there a candy trolley, too?” “Yes, it’s coming,” reassured our waitress, laughing a bit. We didn’t want to get short-changed on sugar. It didn’t go to every table, though, which made me wonder if you did have to ask for it. Or perhaps others had already had their fill and didn’t bother.

We shared marshmallows, nougat and a lollipop. The choices were so overwhelming that when it came down to it I didn’t know what to pick.

I thought the padded purse stool was the most unnecessary but appreciated amenity until I discovered the cache of plastic-wrapped hairbrushes offered in the bathroom. I had to grab one because how often do you get a free hairbrush? Now that's a souvenir. At least I didn’t stuff bread into my purse.

Robuchon a Galera * Hotel Lisboa, 3/F, Av. da Amizade, Macau

Korhogo 126

1/2 It must’ve been sometime around Labor Day that I decided to finally check out Korhogo 126. It had transformed from Bouillabaisse 126 quite some time ago but I’d never been compelled to pay a visit. I’m not sure why, it didn’t seem casual enough for a weeknight and it never crossed my mind on a weekend. Unfortunately, it was closed with only a handwritten sign about being on vacation. That seemed a bit suspicious since summer was over by most standards (not mine, but many).

Instead, I just went to Alma, acceptable Mexicanish food not worth writing about more than once, around the corner.

After hearing they were open again and with lower prices, I figured now was the time to return. That block of Union Street is a bit wonky with hours (House of Pizza and Calzone used to be closed randomly, Ferdinando’s also keeps weird hours and…well, not related to hours but is Calexico really that good? I’m glad that something’s going into the Schnack space but I’m not convinced that I will be crazy about these burritos, Vendy award winners or not) so I half expected Korhogo to be closed. But on a prime Friday night, Halloween, no less, lights were on and a decent amount of diners were scattered throughout the back patio than the main room. I prefer dining indoors during all seasons.

I recall there being a crab cake on the menu, which seemed to have been replaced with $6 cod fritters. And in addition to the sparse selections of wines by the glass hovering around $10, there was a $7 white and red on offer. I’ve already forgotten what the red was other than that it came from France, and I ordered it. But other than that, I couldn’t say how the prices and menu have changed.

We split the escargot kedjenou because how often do you get to try snails served atypically, sans garlic butter and parsley? From what I understand, kedjenou is a tomato-based Cote d’Ivoire stew that typically uses chicken. This dish exemplified chef Abdhul Traore’s style:  heavy on the French with small nods to Africa. At least I don’t think they’re using puff pastry, escargot and asparagus near the Gulf of Guinea. I immediately realized this was going to be refined food, nothing earthy and gritty (I don’t mind a little earth and grit).

The ratatouille-like sauce was subtly perfumed with licoricey star anise. The snails didn’t have a pronounced flavor and if no one told you what they were you might think the firm dark blobs were meaty mushrooms.

My lamb shank, a perfect mix of tender meat, cripsness and fat, owed more to Northern Africa. This was exactly what I had been wanting last month when I landed at Tanoreen with a lamb craving (and this one is $7 cheaper, I might add). Oddly, here too, the accompaniments were very western: super buttery mashed potatoes, green beans, carrots and squash. I tend to think hotel food when I see that combo, but I wasn’t bothered so much. I bet it would’ve been great with attieke, a false couscous made from cassava that I recently became acquainted with.

This was a flounder special, which I did not eat. The sides were similar to the lamb.

As we were finishing, a group of Nigerian women (and one male) showed up to celebrate a self-proclaimed girl’s night out. I wouldn’t have described the place as a destination restaurant but I’m glad that it is attracting clientele beyond Carroll Gardens.

Korhogo 126 * Union St., Brooklyn, NY

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

Saint Germain

I don’t brunch even in the most brunchy of neighborhoods so finding someplace inoffensive to eat a late breakfast/early lunch in Bay Ridge kind of threw me. No, it didn’t have to be Bay Ridge or nothing but I’d decided to take the exciting task of finding a new kitchen trashcan to Brooklyn’s Century 21. Why not combine such fun with a nearby meal?

We were quoted 45 minutes at Tanoreen, my first choice. And if I’ve learned anything about estimated waits it’s that they always exceed reality (except at chain restaurants where they’re eerily accurate). I got out of there pronto.

We naively crossed the street to check out some nondescript place across the street but had the crap scared out of us by a sea of neighborhood Mother’s Day prix-fixers. Without reservations we were offered a table through two dining rooms, in a tent on a heated patio. That was not going to work either.

After a drive and a walk we ended up at Saint Germain, a cute, well-intentioned café with good enough food and frighteningly scatterbrained service. As long as you’re not in a hurry it’s fine, and with only garbage can finding on my agenda, this was within the realm of acceptability.

This also appeared to be a Mother’s Day hotspot but we weren’t forced into any mandatory set menu. We did opt for the prix fixe, though, which includes eggy things and croque monsieurs, coffee, fresh-squeezed juice (at least I think) and a dessert from the glass case near the door. For $16.95 you might expect a morning eye-opener, but mimosas and the like (I don’t understand mojitos and caiparinhas at Frenchie bistros) were extra, and frankly, a drink was the last thing I needed.

I expected a dainty omelet but this was American in proportions. Really it was more egg than anything and not overstuffed in the least. Thinly sliced ham, melting brie and large tangles of spinach stayed tidy and tucked inside. The combination was pleasant but I regretted not ordering something with hollandaise. Since I never eat breakfast food I like doing it was gusto. The potatoes were surprisingly good and unmealy. In fact, they almost tasted deep-fried they were so crispy.

The post meal dessert seemed to be their calling card; everyone appeared genuinely excited to get up and peek in the case to make their big decision. The rational part of me wasn’t going to partake in that course but after seeing all of the little cakes and pastries I lost my nerve and joined in.

Hopelessly unnatural or not, I love the vivid fake greens used to signify pistachio. The marizipan-like goo’s sweetness was offset by the pears, which were more fruity texture than cloying. I think it was a good use of sugar, carbs and all that.

Because I know you’re wondering, Century 21 was a bust. You have no idea how difficult it is finding a simple Rubbermaid-like foot pedal garbage canister and not one of those $100+ stainless steel ones. Already on a ridiculous goose chase, we ended up at the polar opposite of Carroll Gardens: bizarre planned community Starrett City, home to the borough’s only Bed Bath & Beyond. Oh, and the only Tuscan-style Olive Garden I’ve ever seen in the city (yes, I'm obsessed with America's Tuscan obsession). It was worth the journey for a peep at that stone-clad monstrosity, alone.

Saint Germain * 8303 Third Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Le Train Bleu

I had no idea there was a restaurant on the sixth floor of Bloomingdale’s built to mimic a dining car. The rectangular room complete with overhead racks and pretend scenic windows is mildly fun in a stodgy way. I imagine this is the sort of place you’d take a hypothetical elderly aunt, but the only aunt I even vaguely see on a regular basis, which is almost never, is in her forties. Actually, that might be perfect; out-of-towners of all ages might relish eating on a fake train inside a department store.

It’s very possible that this fusty peculiarity is just an unknown to me because I’ve only shopped at Bloomingdale’s once in my life. When I worked in the neighborhood two jobs ago I briefly popped in looking for an interview suit so that I could move on to a different office-centric neighborhood. Unsurprisingly, I found what I needed at an Edison, New Jersey’s Macy’s after applying for a credit card to get the 20% discount (and after an I.Q. test and four interviews, I remained job offer-less).

As might be expected at certain old Manhattan lunchy-shoppy places, the food tends to be pricier than it needs to be, hardly exciting, though rarely wretched. Hotel-like fare that gets the job done and will fade from memory within weeks (ok, days, but I have an elephantine memory).

Sweet, rich and gamey are pluses to me so the pheasant pate containing pistachios and dates made for a decent sharable starter. You don’t expect Bar Boulud charcuterie wizardry. The Cumberland sauce (typically a tangy jellied affair based on red currents and orange zest) gave the potentially French dish a heavier Britishness.

A burger is a burger.

The togarashi-spiced tuna on soba was my attempt at something non-heavy. The noodles were a bit mealy and kind of overwhelming, but thankfully the tuna was kept rare and the wasabi aioli squiggles added a little punch. Plus, it’s not every meal that you get your lemon wedge wrapped in yellow seed-stopping mesh.

Read my balanced take at nymag.com

Le Train Bleu * 1000 Third Ave., 6th fl., New York, NY

beerbistro

Deciding last minute to head to Toronto for New Year’s Eve didn’t leave me with many dining options the night of the big event. Anything creative or talked about was already booked. Enough desperation set in that I was even willing to overpay as is practically mandated by holiday set menus.

Toronto’s big citiest aspect was restaurant pricing, which seemed more European in its painfully large numbers and with no favorable exchange rate to buffer the effect. I’ve heard people say that food is cheap in America, hence our horrible fatness but I do think our higher end restaurants provide relative value. Entrees that might be in the $30 range in NYC, swell into the $40s in Toronto. I just couldn’t buy into that.

I scoured Open Table for the least offensive option and came up with beerbistro, which sold me primarily on its location one block from our hotel. I’m no oenophile, but I did wonder if there was something inherently fratty about a menu paired with beer. On the other hand, I'm not a beer afficionado either so I won't even attempt speaking to the food and beverage matches.

Well, at least it was something different, and the food was better and crowd hipper (well, minus the suave Ralph Lauren-ish guy who kept eyeballing me causing me wonder why the interest until I saw his date, a pretty blonde who happened to be rather big and tall, plus-size modelish. Great, I vow to lay off the pork belly in 2008) than I’d anticipated.

Duxelles in puff pasty and smoked salmon on blini and oyster were kind of like wedding appetizers from a non-bad caterer. Paired with DeKoninck.

Wild mushroom soup with X.O and black truffle cream. I never order soup anywhere. I would’ve chosen the foie gras and pate option but I’d already indulged in cretons that afternoon. Initially, I was swayed by the truffly odor wafting from the bowl at our neighbor’s table. Paired with Innis & Gunn Limited Edition ’06.

Berkshire bacon wrapped partridge stuffed with B.C. chanterelles, braised pork belly, savoy cabbage polenta and nut brown jus. The mains were all fairly hearty. I was tempted by the beef tenderloin that James ultimately ordered because the mashed potatoes contained cambozola, one of my soft blue cheese obsessions, but bacon won out.

The partridge was just the type of thing I enjoy, rich on top of richness. Austere food has its place but not on a holiday. I could’ve sworn the polenta contained cheese, though. Paired with Christoffel Blond.

Desserts were desserts. Raspberry sorbet and chocolate cake were as might be expected. The crème brûlée appeared to be spiked with alcohol of some sort, not beer, thank goodness. The sweet trio got ignored by many since midnight was creeping up and everyone was getting their confetti shooters ready. Paired with Rochefort.

The biggest question I'm left with is how to categorize cuisine in Toronto. Bistro implies French, but this wasn't heavily so. In the U.S. most food that isn't distinctly any nationality can roughly be classified as American. But Canadian? I can’t help but think of caribou, nuts and berries. What is Canadian food, anyway?

beerbistro * 18 King St., Toronto, Canada

Artisanal

The first and last time I visited Artisanal was Valentine's Day 2001. There's no particular reason why it took me nearly six years to return; it's just that it never occurred to me until last week when fondue seemed in order.

The melted cheese with crudites and air-dried beef was perfectly acceptable but I wasn't bowled over either. I do enjoy letting the thin coating of cheese on the bottom of the dish char into a frico disk.

Duck rillettes (they spell it with one L but that looks weird), on the other hand, were very satisfying and generously portioned. You can't let the layer of fat scare you. The fondue felt a bit skimpy, but maybe I'm just a cheese pig.

My goal was really to binge on cheese. We stayed away from bistro entrees and ordered a cheese and charcuterie plate, which made me want to forget proper dinners forever and just eat cheese, fruit and nuts every night. This was the best decision ever because one of the four cheeses presented to us, Cato Corner Farm Hooligan, made me insane (in a good way).

The next day I was obsessing at work over whether I'd have time at lunch to get to Murray's and back. I'm still thinking about it. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone carries it in Brooklyn except at the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket, which does me no good since it's Sunday.

This Hooligan is seriously awesome and I don't use that word willy-nilly. The oozy cheese is one of those classically smelly washed rind beasts that divide people. At a recent holiday party the hostess had to put the cheese plate in the fridge because people (well, her ex-boyfriend that she still lives with) were complaining about the stench. I was like bring that shit back out.

Left to right, the cheeses are Constant Bliss, Berkswell, Hooligan and Valdeon. (12/23/07)

Itzocan Bistro

Occasionally, I wonder why I rarely go uptown, and after four subways and over an hour standing, I remembered why. Bone-chilling weather and the F, J, 4 and 6 trains do somehow bolster the appetite.

And you could do worse than Mexican ingredients, French technique and Bryan Adams’s greatest hits (segueing into the best of Paula Abdul) serenading you while you eat. I started with a goat cheese flan with epazote and jalapeño. I had expected a more literal silky flan texture, but the queso de cabra disk was more crumbly like a cheesecake quiche hybrid. The crumbles were more suited to eating with toast and lettuce, anyway.

I really wanted the ancho crusted duck breast but I had convinced myself that seafood would be marginally healthier and suitable for the weather, so I chose the jalapeño and oregano dotted pozole with mussels, snapper and giant head on shrimp instead. It was certainly in a different class than a weekends-only, hominy-heavy soup you might find at a tacqueria.

Lately I’ve been austerely attempting wine or dessert not and but Itzocan’s sweets didn’t sound run of the mill and I was happy to see that they hadn’t gone molten on me. Thankfully, no soft-centered, Mexican chocolate, cinnamon spiced cakes were to be found. We did go the chocolate cake route, though, sampling a rich tequila flavored version with brown sugar ice cream. 

On the F ride back home I spied that recent Look Book guy with walrusy facial hair (I’m still not clear why he merited a meta second look elsewhere) doing a crossword from one of those paperback puzzle books. At least it wasn’t Sudoku, I guess. I hovered near his prime seat because I’d pegged him for someone who’d get off at Delancey and I was right. It’s one of the few skills I have, deducing who’ll get off sooner on the subway and positioning myself accordingly. I just hope I didn't pick up any bedbugs.

Itzocan Bistro * 1575 Lexington Ave., New York, NY

Bouchon

Unlike a good number of New Yorkers, I’m not opposed to buffets. They’re a rare breed here and I love me a little outer borough East Buffet every now and then. That’s why I was so excited to let my inner glutton loose while on mini-vacation. I’d heard about the decadence of the Bellagio’s brunch (and my mom raved about a seafood spread at Mandalay Bay) and was looking forward to it until the reality of Las Vegas set in. I didn’t have second thoughts about stuffing myself silly, but after surveying the scene in our hotel, impatience and xenophobia set it. There was no way I was going to be able to stomach waiting in one-hour-plus lines with 90% of these folks, bless their hearts.

I then remembered hearing about great breakfasts at Bouchon. It certainly sounded like a civilized option but making it to The Venetian before the 10:30am cut off was anything but. On Google Maps it only looked like three blocks from our hotel. We hadn’t walked the strip yet so we had no concept of distance and obstacles. It turned out that the supposed three blocks was going to take more than the twenty minutes we had remaining.

Illogically, the sidewalks are completely un-pedestrian-friendly—they’re congested as hell with slow moving bodies and touts and inexplicably detour and meander. It was like we were in theAmazing Race and we were in Bankgok, minus the sweltering heat, sputtering tuk tuks and stray dogs. We plodded on quickly as possible but I wasn’t wearing sensible shoes and human barricades kept blocking our way. I started feeling frazzled, desperate and insanely cranky. I started lagging and nay saying, James and I began yelling at each other, I was all, “just go on without me.” We would’ve gotten creamed on Amazing Race. But I wasn’t going to be kept from a meal filled with much needed serenity and fresh squeezed juice so I tried to stay positive and ignore the blisters forming on my pinkie toes.

After running through the mall, casino, then hotel like we were actually after a million dollar prize, we arrived disheveled at 10:35am and were informed that we’d be the last people seated for breakfast. Phew.

I’ve never eaten at the French Laundry or Per Se or have any particular Napa Valley fetish, and it’s not like Thomas Keller is shirring your eggs or whatever at this bistro offshoot but it did feel like a place to be if you’re in Las Vegas and even vaguely about food (the woman we were seated next to at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon later that evening had also been to Bouchon that same morning. It’s like some demented foodie trail. I do draw the line at photographing kitchens). It was a wise choice, though. After I settled down and our food arrived, I felt pretty good about our quality over quantity last minute move.

I always have trouble deciding between sweet or savory at breakfast. After some thought, I figured I didn’t have to pick one or the other and chose the french toast, which is a custardy, brioche bread pudding creation, with a side of bacon in an adorable baby cast iron skillet. I never order sides so this was a breakthrough (I shared the fried pork, ok?). I should've gone totally wild and gotten the french fries too--it seemed like everyone else was doing just that. James tried a crabmeat omelet special and also did the sweet-savory extra by getting a cheese Danish. Naively, I was imagining some sad Entenmann’s pastry but this was flaky and perfect.

Everything was spot-on, and why shouldn’t it have been? Not eating seconds or thirds for breakfast enabled me to think it was a good idea to go nuts with tacos just a few hours later. I couldn’t do away with unnecessary gorging, altogether.

Bouchon * 3355 Las Vegas Blvd S., Las Vegas, NV

L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon

KÀ, one of a gazillion Cirque de Soleil shows playing in Las Vegas, was a no go as all tickets had been sold. I was secretly relieved because, frankly, that overwrought French-Canadian shit scares me almost as much as Celine Dion. But the box office happened to be bizarrely next to the dueling Joël Robuchon restaurants, L’Atelier and The Mansion, so we decided to take our money elsewhere and try for same day reservations at his more casual but by no means thrifty option. Plus, it was in our hotel and it seemed crazy to ignore an acclaimed option practically staring in our faces. 9pm wasn’t a problem, though I felt kind of bad for having to cancel my plans at Lotus of Siam, Vegas’s acclaimed Thai restaurant (we’d already had lunch there the day before and ultimately had lunch again two days later on our way out of town).

It turned out that when we arrived later that evening, we had bar seating. Duh, I know that informal bar-style seating is their trademark, but our chairs faced the back of the room so we couldn’t see all the theatrical prep occurring in the heart of the room. We had a perfectly fine evening, regardless, but when you’re blowing $400+ on a meal, it’s something to think about.

The bar seats three so we were placed next to this single, empowered female HBO exec who was nice enough (I was surprised when James struck up a conversation with her. He can be totally anti-social and Asperger’s at times so I’m kind of awed when he’s convincingly warm and animated. I get reminded of my first chatty--and unfortunately, gay--impression over eight years ago) and became chattier as her bottle of wine emptied.  She was pamper-crazed, eager-to-impress, very L.A. I overheard (it’s not really eavesdropping when only a few feet from someone—it’s nearly impossible to not have shared conversations) our server telling her that he thought you should really be told when you’re reserving that you’ll be seated at the bar, so clearly she had the same issue we did. I’m not smooth at handling these service-quirk situations—how do the seasoned command primo seats without resorting to this type of food blog nonsense?

When wonderful sounding dishes are described as being a few bites yet cost $29 (I don’t think that acclaimed eel dish was on the Vegas menu) the $135 tasting menu seems like a wise choice. I enjoy the fanfare and procession that comes with this style of dining anyway. There’s nothing workaday about it. Our fellow diner was one step ahead of us so we got previews of everything about fifteen minutes before it was our turn.

Boning up on wine knowledge (along with eating more Japanese food—which reminds me, there were quite a few Japanese diners in the place, one family with two young children, one a boy who needed his pricey steak cut for him. Those were some lucky well-behaved brats. If my family brought me to Vegas as a wee one, which they wouldn’t have, Denny’s most certainly would’ve been as good as it got) is one of my New Year’s resolutions. I’m no oenophile. So we had an unremarkable Sauvignon Blanc that likely pegged us as amateurish but there’s something about Vegas that doesn’t compel you to follow the rules like ordering an expensive bottle of wine to accompany a tasting menu. Our server was talking about how not all of the high rollers who dominate at The Mansion next door like having $5,000 bottles of wine pushed on them. Many settle for vintages in the $3,500 range. Fuck that, I wasn’t going to feel chintzy about our $65 choice.

On to the food. I’m including their literal menu descriptions for the sake of accuracy. Thank god for the internet because there’s no way I’d remember it all, even with photos for memory-jogging.

L’AMUSE-BOUCHE: Le concombre en gelée, à l’estragon et son yaourt au cumin. Cucumber gelée tarragon cream, cumin yogurt.

Very cumin-y with a distinct hint of licorice. As good as anything to start with but not mind-blowing.

LE THON ROUGE: Cru mariné à l’huile tomatée et à la fleur de sel. Bluefin tuna with tomato infused olive oil.

Nice seems like a cop out adjective but raw bluefin tuna is incredibly nice and soft. The tomato essence was sweet and akin to sun-dried tomatoes. I made mine last five bites. You have to pace yourself with these things, though it would be kind of hilarious to scarf everything down as fast as it comes, then declare that you’re still starving.

LA SAINT-JACQUES: La noix cuite en coquille au beurre d’algues acidulé. Fresh scallops cooked in the shell with seaweed infused butter.

Unlike our lady friend next to us, we’re not carb-phobic. If there was ever a substance crying out for a bread basket, it was the leftover pool of butter in the perfect scallop shell.

L’ŒUF: Cocotte et sa crème légère de champignons. Egg cocotte topped with a light mushroom cream.

This colorful concoction doesn’t translate in my picture. The bottom layer was a vivid color crayon green. You’re instructed to mix everything together and that’s when you realize there’s also a near neon, sunshine-orange orb floating in the glass. It ends up looking as rainbow pretty as it tastes.

LA CHATAIGNE: En fin velouté au fumet de céleri et au lard croustillant. Light chestnut velouté with caramelized foie gras and crispy bacon.

One of the best dishes in the bunch. Richness paired with more richness, all sweet, salty and fatty.

LE SAUMON: Mi-fumé aux croustilles de pommes de terre et pousses de cresson. Slightly smoked salmon served warm confit potatoes.

I never thought I’d say this, but this dish actually seemed too large. I was tired of the smoked flavors before getting to the end. I’m sure it was an amazing cut of salmon but it was filling.

LA CAILLE: Farcie de foie gras et caramélisée, purée de ratte truffée. Free-range quail stuffed with foie gras and served with truffled-mashed potatoes.

There were two entrees (yes, this was the main dish, so to speak) to choose from. James and I ordered different ones for variety. He had the hanger steak, which came with the most insane mashed potatoes ever. I don’t think there was any secret ingredient other than like nine parts butter to one part spud. Our fellow diner left half of hers (and the meat) behind in one of those inexplicable “too good” moves. She explained that she’s recently lost 20 pounds doing this and told James that I’d understand. Believe me, I do all too well. Sadly, portion control is the only way to slim down, but I can’t be lumped into that category of feminine craziness. I’m eating every last bite of luxury on my artfully arranged plate. In my world, foie gras and truffles are not getting left behind.

Addendum: I posted this Christmas Eve and forced myself to wait until the morning of the 25th to open presents. My sister had sent me a copy of British food magazine, Olive, and it contained a bit on the new Joel Robuchon outpost in London and declared the puree de pommes de terre/mashed potatoes their signature dish. They reported that the recipe involves pushing boiled potatoes through a food mill, then adding about half a pound of chilled butter and half a pint of warm milk for every two pounds of potatoes. That mix gets finely sieved. But being English, the writer had to go and describe the end result in unappetizing terms and compares the finished appearance to the smoothness of mayonnaise. Ew.

If I had known that these potatoes were so talked about, I would've taken a photo.


 
LA MANDARINE: Sur un lait caillé de brebis, infusion à la bergamote. Sheep’s milk yogurt panna cotta, mandarin confit, bergamot tea infusion.

The tea was only in the background. Orange definitely dominated this refreshing dessert.

LA POIRE: En sorbet, chocolat velouté caramélisé à la cannelle. Pear sorbet, meringue glacée, chocolate-caramelized cinnamon cream.

I was actually thankful there wasn’t a substantial dessert like cake. It’s hard to appreciate decadent sweets after a succession of plates. Light chocolate, pear and cinnamon perk up rather than weigh down. It was a welcome ending.

I hadn’t originally scheduled any high end meals into our weekend getaway, primarily because so many of the choices in this category already have New York City locations. It seems kind of silly to travel 2,500 miles to eat food you could have in your home town. But I’m glad we tried L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon on a whim. I hadn’t had much inclination to buy into the recent hype here in the same way that I’ve been holding off on Gordon Ramsey at The London. I fear attitude that’s refreshingly lacking in Las Vegas. How pretentious can one be when dining in sight of burbling slot machines?

L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon * 3799 Las Vegas Blvd., Las Vegas, NV

Bistro du Vent

1/2  *They closed back in May of last year. Sometimes it takes me a while to remember these things. (1/07)

There's something about this newish Theater District restaurant that makes you feel like a tourist. Maybe its the location, maybe its the not-used-to-tight-spaces clientele bogged down with shopping bags and saggy-ass jeans. We walked in early a weeknight thinking it wouldn't be a problem. Apparently, thats what all he Times Square stragglers thought too. Luckily, we were offered a table at the bar that kept us out of the four-child families and souvenir oohing and ahhing fray.

I'd heard the food was perfectly fine bistro fare with no over reaching aspirations. This is exactly what it was, solid, no complaints. The frisee salad with lardons and poached egg was text book. My side of frites, both tender and crispy. Jamess steak frites were generous. Everything was more than edible, there was just something off about the atmosphere. The service, while adequate, seemed mechanical and distracted.

I just wanted to try something new before a Revenge of the Sith showing (no, I'm not a Star Wars freak, we waited a full week before venturing). Next time I'm in the area Ill likely check out Tommy Lukes down the street. Pork, provolone and broccoli rabe sandwiches are the best.

Bistro du Vent * W. 42^nd St., New York, NY

Bouillabaisse 126

Judging from the crowds jammed inside this tiny new bistro mid-blizzard, Bouillabaisse will have no trouble attracting business. It took us at least twenty minutes of trudging through fresh, powdery snow drifts (you really have to appreciate NYC storms quickly, as the scenery turns from pristine to putrid with each dirty footstep) to make the mere 7.5 block journey.

By the time I reached the restaurant, socks soaked and mascara streaked, I felt like I'd really earned a soothing dinner and glass of wine. (Luckily, we knew it was still BYOB. Unluckily, we only had one bottle in the apt. and liquor stores werent open. We had no one but ourselves to blame for the tasty, but probably incompatible Spanish red). The wintery landscape fostered by our adrenaline boosting journey made me a little giddy. This mightve been a case where atmosphere and circumstance make the meal. If had been any other Saturday night meal my impressions might have been duller.

James ordered the requisite bouillabaisse and I tried the seafood combo (which sounded like the exact same thing) for comparison. They both included lobster, crab, scallops, shrimp and mussels, but mine had a tomato parsley base while the bouillabaisse broth was lighter, perhaps tinged with white wine and saffron (I preferred the namesake dish over my choice). I think the traditional preparation is very particular about using fish, and certain kinds, but this loosey-goosey Brooklyn rendition suited me fine. We also had to try the “signature” dessert that I'd just seen disparagingly described as sour and crunchy. Well, it was sour and maybe more chewy than crunchy. But heck, we saved a few bucks not buying wine, a dud dessert was nothing to get worked up over.

Bouillabaisse 126 * 126 Union St., Brooklyn, NY

Tour de Ville

1/2 I don't know why revolving restaurants havent become trendy, retro, whatever (though I swear I recently read a tidbit about one being created in NYC). Theyre more about the atmosphere than the food, a timeless draw.

I probably wouldn't have gone out of my way to sample Tour de Villes fare, but we didnt have to—it was atop hotel we stayed at over last-minute-planned Labor Day weekend (it was the cheapest hotel we could find that seemed palatable). And I'm not one to say no to a Sunday buffet brunch.

And it was pretty impressive, though I'm not sure about the “California Cuisine” they were touting (I guess every month the restaurant has a theme, wed just missed a Taste of Quebec). I became enamored with hotel buffets in Thailand because they had to cater to Europeans and other Asians too, so congee, museli, dried fish, and Chinese sausage shared the stage with eggs benedict, bacon and hash browns. This wasn't so multi-cultural though they spanned meals. There was pasta, seafood, and roasted meats in addition to more standard morning offerings.

Ill admit being surprised at the lack of fat Canadians, especially since we share a border—does gluttony obey international lines? And I made a true American pig of myself at the multitudinous dessert display. No one had even touched a single pie, cake or pastry yet. Pristine, uncut and awaiting my arrival. A few families had also begun to wander over and were telling their children how they could choose one thing. Meanwhile, I was taking slices out of everything. Well, four things (not to mention the chocolate croissant I'd eaten earlier). All that slow spinning can really work up an appetite.

Tour de Ville * 77 Rue University, Montreal, Canada

Au Pied de Cochon

It's extremely rare that I have a dining experience so enervating that the quality of the food becomes almost irrelevant. In fact, I can only think of two other examples of restaurants not worth re-visiting because my first impression was too tarnished: Lupa and Chickenbone Café (which is gone anyway). 

I love the idea of meat in monstrous portions, using unusual parts, and high-low ingredient combinations (foie gras poutine?). Au Pied de Cochon struck me as potentially being Montreals St. John restaurant (which it isn't exactly—St. John is austere where APDC is convivial). And I wasn't disappointed by the food. James had the French onion soup, which he declared the best hed had, and the massive “Happy Pig Chop.” I went pork crazy and started with a plate of pates and sausages that wouldve been better suited for sharing with a table of diners. For a main, I had to try the namesake pied de cochon. I didn't realize a pigs foot was so large. It filled the plate, and contained all the best aspects of pork: crispy skin, gooey gelatinous fat and tender inner flesh. The foot sprawled on a puddle of mashed potatoes and creamy mustard sauce. A tart onion, tomato and parsley relish was scattered liberally over the top and helped balance the porcine richness. 

But--yes, theres a big but—the dining experience as a whole felt abusive. Initially, it was just off, the vibe was wrong, nothing specific. You'd think as New Yorkers wed be used to cramped spaces and long waits, so that wasn't quite it. But it did seem that no matter where we stood we were in the way. Before even being seated we felt a touch beat-up and jostled, like how a bad subway ride can ruin a day before you even get to work. After eventually getting our table, we were promptly ignored. After nearly 15 minutes it started feeling intentional. Customers seated after us already had food and drinks, and we couldn't even get eye contact with a server. It seemed like everyone knew each other. Maybe that was it, we weren't regulars? Was it because we were speaking English? I don't think so, there were plenty of non-French conversations in the air. We finally ordered drinks, then lost our waiter for about another 10-15 minutes. Things started getting odd when we noted our waiter and a cohort motioning to our table, speaking in hushed tones, then laughing. I was like what the fuck? Paranoia set in, we didn't say anything weird, I don't think we ordered poorly, I like to believe were at least moderately attractive—what was the deal?

By the time our food arrived, I was totally turned off to eating. No matter how much I scooted my chair and our entire table forward, the guy behind me would inch closer. After the millionth time he leaned back enough that the backs of our heads were touching, I started to lose my shit. Did I mention this was our fifth (dating) anniversary? If this meal was any indication of the future of our relationship, we were in serious trouble. It was just plain non-good and creepily ominous. I'd had high expectations for our dinner, and all I could think about was dining and dashing (I never even did that as a teen, but its never too late to start). 

The clincher came when James chomped down on something hard in his onions, and pulled out a big fat metal screw. Yeah, a screw. Was this some sort of messed up message? A not so subtle screw you. Honestly, I didn't think so, but we weren't even able to point out the little screw up (ha) because not once did anyone stop to ask us how we were doing. At this point we were invisible, we couldn't have flagged down a waiter if wed tried. So, we just sat and waited, both our entrees barely touched. To be fair, the staff seemed genuinely concerned after politely being shown the screw. We didn't make a fuss at all, I'm never one to cause problems at restaurants, in fact, I'm probably overly passive when it comes to bizarre customer service. Thankfully, the Happy Pig Chop wasn't included on our bill (they offered to make another one, like we wanted to sit in this hell hole any longer). 

The whole evening was so horrendously bad that all I could do was laugh. I mean, it was kind of comical. We imagined an Au Pied de Cochon review being written in a New York Post-ian style. The headline would invariably say something about the staff having a screw loose. It would be a hoot to read. But then, maybe I'm the only one gets a kick out of the Post.

Au Pied de Cochon * 536 Rue Duluth E., Montreal , Canada

Lemeac

Wed narrowed down our Friday night choices to two contenders: Lemeac and L'Express. Primarily because we wanted bistro food at a late hour. L'Express had been compared to Balthazaar; crowds and less than desirable staff had been described (we decided to save that kind of traumatic atmosphere for Saturday night at Au Pied de Cochon). Leanings went towards Lemeac, plus it appeared they had an appetizer and entre set for $20 (Canadian) after 10pm, which was an added plus though I hadnt intended a penny-pinching vacation.

As it turned out, after settling into the hotel, getting ready, checking the internet and all that, by the time we finally traipsed into the city, we arrived at Lemeac at 10pm on the nose. And that just seemed tacky, like you were there only out of miserliness. I'm overly weird about perceptions of others and appearances so we killed a little time walking around the neighborhood in surprisingly chilly weather. Despite the brisk autumn breezes and threat of rain, we still opted to sit on the outdoor terrace.

My time paranoia didnt even end up mattering because the $20 special didnt appear in the menu anyway. Humiliation averted. It wasn't until tried to order that we were told they had a prix fixe deal thats only in the French language menu, which the waitress kindly brought over. At least she was courteous enough to notice our English menus missing piece (though it does make one wonder why they don't just put the same things in both menus--I had a mild phobia of anti-American bias. It does exist and is considerably more retarded than if you were in Europe since practically every Montrealer speaks perfect English. French-Canadians have issues).

So, my bargain meal consisted of a raw milk cheddar and vegetable tart to start and duck leg confit with fingerling potatoes and salad for a main. I love a nice frisee salad doused by duck fat and escaped juices. The potatoes were perfectly crisp and salty. It's the kind of food that comes across as simple and straightforward, but that I would never make at home. Doing basics just right is harder than it seems.

Lemeac* 1045 Laurier W, Montreal, Canada

Cafe Centro

Slightly scary power lunch place that I'd probably never go to on my own accord. See my Time Out NY Eating & Drinking Guide review.

Cafe Centro * 200 Park Ave., New York, NY

Bar Tabac

I felt like we were ordering more food than the people around us, but that was probably just because it was past prime dining time. James and I split a reasonably priced bottle of wine, a plate of grilled sardines, and I had a charcuterie and cheese plate with little olives, cornichons and onions. Not a bad place, it'll be one to add to the open-when-I feel-like-dining restaurants in the new neighborhood. After 10pm, you're pretty screwed. (11/7/03)

Weeknight, after 10pm dining in the neighborhood has always been a bit tricky. Even more so when a vegetarian tows along. After a cheap seat showing of Sideways (which I'd already seen, but Life Aquatic was a mob scene) we were ravenous for food and wine. By process of elimination we ended up at Bar Tabac, me with a duck salad, Jessica and I sharing mussels, fries and a bottle of something red that slips my mind but definitely wasn't merlot. I always forget about Bar Tabac, not that its forgettable or anything. (12/28/04)

There's nothing terribly compelling about Bar Tabac, and there's something bizarre about their name post-smoking ban, but it is one of the few late night dining options nearby. The food is what youd expect from a bistro and reasonably priced—I cant complain about my $12.50 moules frites. (10/8/05)

Bar Tabac * 128 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Cocotte

Duck confit, frisee and fries certainly don't feel like diet food, but then, I don't really profess to be on one (I'm a very covert calorie counter…duh, if I'm eating fat like it's going out of style). But eating a little French food every now and then certainly won't kill you. I haven't really patronized the seeming glut of new-ish bistros popping up in Park Slope, so I can't compare (though I've heard disparaging things about a few others). But the mood at Cocotte is relaxed, the food is good and the prices were fair. I can't complain.

Cocotte * 337 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Les Halles

Duck leg confit and crispy potatoes coupled with a side order of fries. I swear I didn't know I was ordering double fries (the menu didn't mention potatoes with the confit). It seemed like an acceptable indulgence, considering it was to be my last pre-weight watchers brunch. Gluttony was the least of my sins that morning. James chided me for talking about nurses raping patients at the breakfast table. I was only discussing the previous night's bit of arts and entertainment, Talk to Her. Jeez, people just need to keep their eyes on their own plates. I was disgusted with the nearby Midwesterners with moustaches' mundane conversation, but I kept my ugly expressions to myself. It's all about composure, see?

LesHalles * 411 Park Ave. S., New York,NY

La Bonne Soupe

Perhaps my last night of carbohydrate freedom shouldn't have been devoted to French food and loads of cheese, but a fondue craving's a craving.

I'd always meant to make it to Rotelle A.G., but it went out of business before I had the chance. Artisanal is nice, but I wanted something more downscale. La Bonne Soupe is a slice of '70s, midtown New York that I never experience. It's sort of shabby (not shabby chic) in a red checked table cloth, woody, rustic chalet way, and on a random street I swear I've never walked down in my 4.5 years living here.

It was the 25th hour in there. You'd think I'd be gorging myself on dumplings, cake, pasta, pork buns, fried rice and the like, but no, I went for the Atkin's friendly pot of cheese and pate plate. Oh well. If I had a time machine I might rectify the situation. (1/5/03)

See my Time Out NY Eating & Drinking Guide review

Yikes, despite the cramped, harried, faded nature of this narrow Gallic holdout, I'd enjoyed my previous three meals there. It's the go to place for no frills fondue, an anti-Artisanal. But my recent visit was just a mess. I had decided to check out the MoMA store because they were having a 20% off day for members and corporate affiliates. I have some deal through work, as well as half the city, apparently. I didnt end up buying anything since the only thing I kind of wanted were these acrylic rings and I didnt know my size and didnt want to wait in the snaking line for a $10 purchase. I figured fondue two blocks north would be a nice treat since the sale was sort of a bust.

But its tricky because is fondue a meal? Is it an appetizer? I felt like we should order something not terribly huge for each of us in addition to the pot of melted cheese. James got one of those chopped hamburgers and I opted for a charcuterie plate with salad. But I got my food instantly and then that was it. I was trying to pick at my food until Jamess arrived. It never did. We finally flagged down our waiter (who was getting it from all sides because either no one was getting their food, getting their orders taken, getting their water glasses filled or were missing items are given the wrong dishes) and asked where the rest of our meal was, and apparently, hed been waiting for me to finish. So, I guess that answered my question--charcuterie is considered appetizer and fondue and hamburger is entrée.

Now James had food and I was finished and trying not to hog all the fondue while he attempted eating two things at once. And the fondue was grainy like it had been sitting around cooling to room temperature, separating. The whole thing raised my blood pressure and lowered my appetite. I havent tried Mont Blanc yet, maybe Ill head there for my next fondue fix. Or not…$39 for fondue? Artisanal is only $24. Unfortunately, La Bonne Soupes is still the cheapest at $17, but I'm not sure thats necessarily a bargain. (11/3/05)
La Bonne Soupe * 48 W. 55th St., New York, NY

Les Halles Downtown

All that a bistro should be, at least it feels that way. I went all classic and ordered the hanger steak with frites and a frisee salad with lardons and blue cheese. Meals like this make me think the Atkins Diet might actually be doable. But can man live on meat and fat alone? (11/9/02)

Oh, this place always makes me go overboard on fat. The lardon filled frisee salad with blue cheese heaped crouton-bruschetta would be a sufficient meal, but I went nuts and also ordered the duck confit with truffled potatoes. You know, I think I mightve ordered that exact same combo the last time I visited Les Halles, which wasn't recently at all.

The food is always satisfying, but the service tends to mystify. Waiters change throughout the meal, drinks are screwed up and then you are never asked the rest of the evening if youd like another or even how your food is. There's nothing maliciously poor about any of it, but you get the sense that no one knows what theyre doing.

I was internally making fun of the young obvious out-of-towners a table down from us because they wanted vegan items and then the guy just ordered and ate while his girlfriend watched (I guess she was the no animal product person). Why would anyone think French food would lend itself to this style of eating? But then the tables were turned (almost literally) when I tried to squeeze out of our two-seater without pulling out the table and my tipsy (I eventually was able to flag down more wine) fat ass barely fit between ours and the next and I almost fell on my head. Though I still think trying to order vegan fare in a bistro is more foolish than forcing a large body into a small space. (6/30/05)

LesHalles Downtown * John St., New York,NY

Chez Alexandre

We thought we were being smart, taking our extended Columbus Day weekend in Canada. But Monday morning I suspected something was up when there were too many people out and about and it looked like lots of businesses were closed. We had wanted to try the steak frites at L'entrecoute St. Jacques, but the place was shuttered-up at prime lunch time. It wasn't until I read the Thanksgiving closure notice on a bank door that any of it made sense.

Still in search of steak frites, we settled for Chez Alexandre, down the street. I fear that neighborhood is the Times Square of Montreal (minus the Disney Store and black muslims). The menu didn't seem so remarkable, but the prices indicated as much. Who were we to argue? Choices were scarce and we were in a hurry to get on the road.

The most interesting part of the meal was spying on the middle-aged gentleman in the corner who ordered what appeared to be a gin and tonic, then would periodically hide his glass with his newspaper and pour in smuggled gin from one of those mini airplane bottles. He even had the audacity to ask for more ice at one point, just to top it off with his own spirits. I couldn't begrudge him, he was alone on a holiday (maybe he couldn't wait to get away from the family) and the drinks were probably expensive. I wonder if one gets into some sort of trouble if found out by the waitstaff?

Chez Alexandre * 1454 Peel St., Montreal, Canada

Fonduementale

I'm keen on the standard cheese fondue, James prefers the chocolate version, neither of us had tried the shabu shabu ("Chinese," as they call it) style, so we opted for "The Romantic" sampler. Fondue three ways may be more over the top than romantic, but to each their own. The whole shebang included an appetizer of pink peppercorn cheese fondue (or traditional fondue or soup of the day), beef and chicken Chinese fondue with shrimp, salmon and calamari, and chocolate (or maple syrup) fondue. The mish mash of influences seemed rightly French-Canadian, though if we had wanted to really go completely Canuck, we could've opted for wild game like wild boar in apple oil, caribou in cedar extract or deer with juniper berries.

Fonduementale* 4325 Rue St. Denis, Montreal, Canada

L'avenue

We couldn't find Beauty's for the life of us, then were talked out of the place by a young coffee shop guy (who spoke perfectly accentless English to us, then French to his friend on the phone. It just doesn't seem right, this French-Canadian act. Everyone's all particular about speaking French, signage being in French, but they all understand and speak English as well as the rest of Canada and all of the United States can) who in so many words said it was overhyped. That, I understand. I don't want to get stuck at like the Carnegie Deli of Montreal.

L'Avenue was very popular with the locals, and just about everyone else in town. People seem to love lining up at restaurants and bars in Montreal. Are there too many people or not enough places to go? The menu was entirely in French, but I was able to deduce the eggs benedict. Good: you could smoke all over the place. Bad: the enormous "fruit" salads that came with everything. Why fruit means 90% melon, I'll never understand.

L'Avenue* 922 Mont-Royal Ave. E., Montreal, Canada

Crepe Place

It was a wedding rehearsal dinner. What more need I say? We were offered a choice of three crepes, including the amusing Alexander the Crepe (the Crepe Gatsby, was unfortunately not on our list, though it's on the regular menu). Oh boy, who could resist. All the 25+ people at the dinner received full crepes while James and I only got half portions. If I wasn't so tipsy, I would've been really pissed. Obviously two other people did half orders and didn't bother to claim them. Were these health-conscious Californians trying to tell us gluttonous New Yorkers something?

The Crepe Place * 1134 Soquel Ave., Santa Cruz,CA

Florent

It was another one of those cranky, can't-get-it-together Friday nights. This time it was James' company Christmas party that put me in a mood. I don't know why things always have to be a trauma. Instead of the usual venue, their easily accessible Wall St. office, the party had been moved uptown to the Children's Museum. Post-dinner festivities were to be held at some frat bar called the Gin Mill.

My plan was just to show up at the bar for the free drinks part. But I've never been up to the 80s and tried some random B train that never came and. By the time I eventually made it uptown, it was midnight, 1 1/2 hours later, just in time to miss the free drink cut off and be a part of the lame 12:30 last call. I hadn't eaten dinner either, hoping there's be snacks at least. And believe you me late night dining in this area was a joke. You don't even want to know how I mad I was.

James tried to save the day by getting his car (the parking lot is relatively near the neighborhood) and driving me to Florent for mussels and fries. They did perk me up a bit. I've always been partial to the Belgian combo at Diner, but Florent's are pretty darn good too. It all depends upon what borough you're in when the mood strikes. The evening was semi-salvaged. And like they say you shouldn't go to bed angry, so I didn't. (12/14/01)

Florent * 69 Gansevoort St. New York, NY

Cafe DeVille

Word to the wise: Don't attempt a nice dinner/date when you're trying to quit smoking. This mysterious bistro opened catty-corner from James' block last spring. I say mysterious because it seemed to be open for ages, hosting private parties with icky attendees and mobster-esque bouncers guarding the door like hawks. It appeared more like an out-of-place private club than a real local restaurant. Well, it eventually opened and by then I'd lost interest. The place seems to be doing decent business with a late 20s to early 30s crowd (me) who fancy themselves as cultured/trendy (not me). In a nutshell: lots of blonde stringy hair and khakis, yes khakis. (Well with one exception. The peculiar group sitting next to us had my mind reeling all night. There were two scraggly gentlemen in at least their mid-40s with a teenage boy and girl. They all seemed very un-Manhattan [not that I am either] but in a dirt-road, middle American sort of way. You'd think father/child at first, but fathers I know don't rub their 14 yr. old daughters thighs and tongue them in restaurants [hey, that's what the bedroom's for]. What was their deal, and why on earth did they choose Cafe DeVille as a rendezvous?)

It was a random Friday night that James suggested checking the place out. The reason I'd always shied away was the prices. They're not outrageous or anything, entrees are in the teens to twenties range, but that's more than I like to pay for a casual meal (I'm cheap, ok?). It's unspoken, but when we go out on a weekend and eat at a place that's not in Chinatown or doesn't serve nachos, James tends to pay. It's not a rule, and I'd like to say I don't expect it, but to some degree I do. When we order appetizers, drinks and mains over $12, I semi-expect the credit card to be whipped out at the end of the evening. Call me old fashioned, but this is how our relationship has evolved.

I liked the food well enough, my only complaint, well comment is that it's all presented in this components on a plate fashion. I never know the appropriate way to meld the flavors. Our appetizer consisted of asparagus, a Basque Serrano-type ham, walnuts, and...oh jeez I'm already forgetting the one or two other items, but that was OK as it was a starter and it's fine to pick at. I had the duck confit and frisee salad, which was overwhelming in its pieciness. Lettuce all over, a duck leg, a little cup created from endive, more walnuts, dried cherries and an unidentifiable vegetable(?) that was green, sort of almond-shaped and seemed like an olive, sort of tasted like an olive, but had no pit, and instead was filled with tiny seeds. Not like I'm a produce expert, but I was still baffled. All that cutting, scooping and combining in order to get the optimum flavor combo on one forkful can be tough.

So, after a substantial meal, a bottle of wine and some lack of nicotine bickering, the bill comes and James tells me to put in half. To many that would be acceptable, to me it was plain passive aggressive, especially since he knows good and well my checking account is barely on the plus side. I threw all the money in my wallet at him, about $35, certainly not enough to cover my half and stormed off in a huff. What a bust. I feel no desire to return to Cafe DeVille, despite its sharing a name with my favorite Poison guitarist, C.C.

Cafe DeVille * 103 Third Ave., New York, NY

Vaux

I've started hitting the Fifth Ave. strip in Park Slope lately, and it scares me a bit. It's hard to help since it's the closest neighborhood to me (I don't really live in a neighborhood--just lots of fast food, gas stations, car washes and porn shops). I don't know, it's just very adult, and not necessarily in a good way. The new Blue Ribbon had just opened next door to Vaux, and I was into trying it, but just not this particular evening.

My shared seafood sausage was alright. My pork loin with mashed potatoes and haricot vert was also OK. Everything was adequate. No more, no less. I guess that's Park Slope for you.

Vaux * 278 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Belmondo

I don't have a strong opinion on Belmondo one way or the other. It was sparsely populated for a Friday night in the East Village, but that could've had something to do with their lack of air conditioning. It was just someplace new to try. It's bistro food, but somehow I felt like I shouldn't be eating, and especially not eating the steak frites (though I ordered them anyway). Maybe it's just the East Village syndrome (which isn't as bad as Williamsburg as far as androgyny goes). I'm not always in the mood to be surrounded by girls (women?) with little boy bodies who couldn't possibly be eating red meat or fried potatoes to maintain that appearance. Just order mojitos if you want to fit in. Or get really radical and eat something. It's up to you.(6/29/01)

Belmondo * 98 Avenue B, New York, NY

The Crepe Factory

1/2 Closed: The crepes are gone and Cafe Dore, a Caribbean joint, has surfaced. (4/6/02)

I don't make a practice out of hanging out in the family-ish parts of Brooklyn (or any city for that matter), but I'd forgotten my bag at work Friday night since I was in such a hurry to leave. Saturday I had to go back for it, and since I was in a real car instead of my usual subway car, I thought it'd be fun to see neighborhoods I never see. This brought me to Cobble Hill, Carroll Gardens and The Crepe Factory.

I'd really been dying for a crepe for ages, so this was a golden opportunity. I really should've gotten a sweet one, but since this would be my first meal of the day at 4pm, I opted for a savory ham and gruyere delight. It hit the spot, and then some. It was a bit excessive and I can be a big eater. Not that I'm complaining about large portions. Actually, my only complaint would be the table of completely ill-behaved, ruckus-making, precocious little kids with the oblivious liberal mom. But, I guess it was my own fault for spending a Sat. afternoon in Carroll Gardens, right?

The Crepe Factory * 270 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY