Goodies First

Eaten, Barely Blogged: 11211

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monte's

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marea

Write about a restaurant within one month of opening and it’s too soon, full of kinks, unfair. Wait more than a year and it’s irrelevant. All the initial wows will either be forgotten or discovered to be not quite as amazing as originally thought. Who knows whether the food has actually gone downhill or if everyone has simply lost interest and moved onto newer thrills.

(And then there are the true jaded cynics. I’ve joked about finally going to San Sebastian now that Scandinavia is the culinary hotness, but it’s still a big deal for me. Last night I was reading a message board where a poster basically posited that all of the Michelin-starry Basque restaurants are now crap, empty during the week and subsist on drooling camera-wielding late-to-the-game food bloggers and that yes, those who think they’re tastemakers are being shepherded to Denmark and environs. Even a total naysayer, dream-crusher like myself felt bummed, after that. I may as well stick to Dallas BBQ.)

Early last year the chatter was all “crab and uni spaghetti,” “octopus and bone marrow.” This year, everyone is taken by nuovo red sauce (no matter how many times I hear raves about Torrisi and Rubirosa, I remain thick-headed and unconvinced) so obviously it was time to try Marea, my idea of a birthday dinner treat for a boyfriend. La Grenouille almost won out for untrendy as possible pick, but that will have to wait until another occasion.

My concern about choosing a wine (Italian styles aren’t my strength) was allayed when a bottle of champagne was sent to our table by my company’s COO, who happened to be dining nearby the same evening. Fortuitous, though not unlike running into your teacher at the grocery store when you're a kid.

Choosing one crudo was impossible so I upped the prix fixe ante $6 for a selection of three.  Left to right are razor clams with fennel and peperoncino, geoduck draped with mini rings of hearts of palm and also spiced up with a touch of chiles and Spanish mackerel—my favorite because the slices were substantial enough to really experience the fish’s texture—hit with tangerine, almonds and tarragon.

The tangled ropes of fusilli changed my usual indifference to pasta. Chewy in the best substantial way and similar to the curled octopus legs, they hid nuggets of bone marrow that added unctuousness to the already concentrated tomato sauce. Toasted breadcrumbs mixed with garlic and parsley lent crunch. The portion was just right with the other courses, though I would’ve been happy with an Olive Garden-sized serving and a square of focaccia.

Maybe I was influenced by what I’d read, but I came in thinking the secondi di pesce would be lackluster and true enough, I wasn’t jumping to order any of my choices. Neither fish nor scallops were what I wanted and James was ordering the seafood soup ($8 supplement). Ok, why not the cuttlefish? How would they handle the potentially tough little bodies?

When I asked for the seppia, our server remarked, “You know that’s squid?” Er, generally I read the menu before ordering an item…so yeah. I wasn’t questioned on the geoduck, which would seem like the more unfamiliar sea dweller.

Two plump chargrilled creatures, resembling cartoon ghosts (Japanese, not American) rested atop escarole and a brothy livornese sauce of crushed tomatoes, petite olives and more prominent oregano than basil. A blast of summer in March. I almost wanted to eat a few bites, freak out and then ask my server why I’d been brought cuttlefish.

Even though rationally, I knew the green gelee sitting inside of the nocciola pralinato, a firm ring of chocolate mousse, was going to be minty, I kept waiting to taste bell pepper on my tongue. Though I can’t remember where, I’m certain I have experienced a green pepper dessert even though the greeness wasn't overt. Oh, at Sergi Arola Gastro.

Mignardises. I don’t even remember which ones I ate—it must’ve been that dessert glass of manzanilla.

Marea * 240 Central Park S., New York, NY

Barbuto

Do you care what I ate for Christmas? No, I didn’t think so. (Minimizing the number of photo-centric this-is-what-I-ate posts is a goal for 2011) But I’m bored and house-bound; cut me some slack.

Normally, I cook over the holidays even if it’s only for a small number of people. This year I just wasn’t feeling it, next year I need to get out of the city.

What prix fixes were to be had? Many seemed perfectly nice, but dull and like hotel dining (not these hotel restaurants, of course). Maialino was on my radar, especially once I learned they were serving egg nog (why so scarce?) but they were fully booked. Barbuto didn’t seem like a bad second choice. The $65 family-style meal turned out to provide variety (I thought you’d get to pick from each course, but you got everything) and generous portions. Rustic and hearty makes sense on Christmas.

Antipasti included toasted bread with sheep’s milk ricotta and pannetone with chicken liver pate. The sweet slices combined with the rich spread was perfect. I also like using pannetone to make mustardy ham and swiss sandwiches that evoke cubanos.

After the salads of chickpea and Maine shrimp and beets and burrata (I don’t think I’ve ever eaten the soft oozy cheese twice in one month—then again, I rarely eat Italian food) I was already getting dangerously full.

I preferred the linguine with bay scallops, chiles and Meyer lemon over the black-truffled risotto, if only because I like strong flavors and more texture. I feel the same way about rice pudding and especially pudding puddings.

I know Jonathan Waxman is known for his roast chicken, and this crispy version with salsa verde was great. How do you compete with porchetta, though? Roast pork and polenta will always win. The only way the tender meat could’ve been any better would be if pieces of crackly skin were included. Mashed pumpkin, cauliflower with anchovies and a potato gratin were on the side.

Ok, I just said that pudding is boring, but serve it with whipped cream and biscotti and call it a budino and I’ll shut up.

Barbuto * 755 Washington St., New York, NY

Incanto

It was pure coincidence that I was asked to write about food cooked with blood the week after I ate pig’s blood pappardelle in San Francisco. I’ve not found anything in NYC that really approaches that level of creativity; most preparations here are traditional, whether French or Filipino.

The chewy, crimson pappardelle strewn with trotter meat, hunks of foie gras and homemade raisins that were closer to grapes is hard to describe without sounding obscene. The few times I’ve brought it up, I’ve had to temper my words with, “No, it’s really good.” I’m not sure if it’s the blood or the multi-levels of decadence that’s off-putting to the uninitiated. This smaller portion we shared as a second course—many dishes are available in two sizes—was beyond rich, a glorious appetite-squelcher.

Really. We ended up taking most of the following course, pork belly with heirloom tomatoes and yellow and red watermelon to go (yes, I’m normally melon-averse but I discovered that the pork tempers the fruit’s cloying nature when I a tried a funkier take on this combo at Fatty Crab). It wasn’t half-bad room temperature for breakfast.

Our starter, while also meaty, was the lightest of the bunch. Just a little spicy lamb’s heart and shallots.

Incanto * 1550 Church St., San Francisco, CA

'inoteca

The first time I visited 'inoteca, Frances McDormand was sitting across from me. The last time I dined at 'inoteca, it was wine and crostini with librarians. This weekend I was accompanying Hagan Blount of 93 Plates on his mission to eat three meals a day for a month with food bloggers.

I think he was surprised that I wasn’t Asian. (I was surprised that I agreed to be on video.) There's no use questioning why Asian ladies dominate at photographing and writing about what they eat;  it's a given like how there will never be a Staten Island food blog (ok, there is one).

Hagan insisted he saw Glenn Beck pass by, Mike Bloomberg out the window and Dash from The Incredibles sitting at the head of the large wooden table next to us. Ok, the guy nearby did have the in-motion blonde hairstyle down pat. Maybe if you drink enough Aglianico del Taburno dubious celebrities will appear.

Shaved Brussels sprouts, the vegetable of the moment, with walnuts, a funky crumbled fiore sardo and pomegranate seeds started things right. This sweet and salty salad was one of the highlights along with the octopus below.

The scent of truffle oil is impossible to miss when the fancified Italian Popeye sprinkled with bottarga is placed in front you. Oozing yolk and warm fontina melded into a thick slab of chewy bread would be fitting brunch snack. But as soon as the square turns room temperature, all the components stiffen up. It's not for leisurely nibbling—just tear into the thing.

The shapely octopus leg--from the curled charred tip to the meaty end fat as a bratwurst--wasn't just a conversation piece, it was also the hit of the night. The Meyer lemon and olives lent a Greek flavor while the escarole stayed in Italy. Cooking cephalopods with corks to ensure a tender final product always seemed like an old wives' tale to me, but we were told that was the exact method used by the chef.

More of those runny yolks, this time adorning polenta along with hen of the woods mushrooms.

One goat cheese, a sheep's milk and one blend. I preferred the soft runny goat variety that I think was Brunet. It was even better spread on warm toasted flat bread.

Cheese and dessert is really a bit much. Consequently the budino (not pictured—I’m fairly certain this was the affogato, though I don’t recall anyone ordering it) was neglected. And maybe our senses were dulled at this point because the alleged pumpkin flavor was nearly undetectable. Just stick with the cheese unless you can’t stand ending a meal on a savory note.

'inoteca * 98 Rivington St., New York, NY

O'Hare Macaroni Grill

According to Fortune, airport restaurants have been benefiting from longer waits and delayed flights. Bored passengers have been looking to time-killing activities like eating.

I know this first hand because just last Sunday I found myself at Macaroni Grill, a chain I’ve never frequented, inside O’Hare. Our airport van got us there way early and our flight was pushed back nearly an hour. The food court was packed solid and that wasn’t going to cut it anyway. I demanded a drink and er, atmosphere.

I loved the faux alfresco concourse view; if you have enough house chianti and squint you might imagine you’re glimpsing ruins of The Appian Way (which I just knew would have to be the name of a chain restaurant).

Behold the Sicilian: pepperoni, sausage, fontina and mozzarella. It wasn’t half-bad for an airport food diversion.

Romano’s Macaroni Grill * O’Hare Airport, Chicago, IL

Convivio

No more Convivio or Alto. (3/4/2011)

One-day's notice won't have you dining at Marea or Scarpetta earlier than 10pm while Convivio will grant you 1,000 Open Table points during all hours not just at geriatric 6:45pm, the exact time I willingly paid a visit to the Tudor City restaurant, glowing warmly from afar on a snowy, otherwise lifeless block. The only other time I've been that far east on 42nd Street was to meet with a library recruiter (they exist) in the lobby of her coop. It’s that kind of neighborhood.

Beyond salumi, sharp cheese, crostini maybe with chicken liver or fava puree and little dishes of marinated vegetables eaten with inexpensive red wine, I never initiate an Italian meal. Something about the holidays and drop in temperature, though, demanded not just pasta but hearty Southern Italian, the same cuisine I avoid like landmines near my apartment.

The $62 prix fixe (two sfizi or one antipasti, pasta, meat or fish and dessert) is really a good deal and a substantial amount of food (which didn't hit me until I stood up and had to think twice about eggnog at The Campbell Apartment. It turned out that don’t serve it anyway so my system was spared the creamy beverage…temporarily. A glass of eggnog did end up in my hand at Waterfront Ale House later) and the wine list was also friendly to those with little interest in pricy mature reds. I chose a bottle of Occhipinti SP68, a Sicilian Nero D’Avola/Frappato blend ($55).

polipo/grilled octopus, chickpea panissa, olives, red peppers

Both the chickpea cake and octopus legs were light; the cephalopod with just enough chew and the panissa especially flaky. I could see this being done with polenta, but that would bog the whole thing down.

rigatoni/marsala braised tripe, cannellini beans, spinach, pecorino grand cru

Rarely a pasta-craver, rigatoni would never be an obvious choice to me because the fat tubes are a lot of noodle. It’s always about the accompaniments, though, and I’m glad that I didn’t shy away from what appeared to be the humblest of the ten available pastas offered. Gelatinous rectangles of honeycomb tripe—a cut I associate strictly with menudo or dim sum—definitely held up to the rigatoni. There was a lot of crunch from miniature cubes of celery and carrot, which worked against the softness of the cannellini beans.

scottadito di agnello/grilled lamb chops, salsa verde, escarole, beans

It’s hard not to love a medium-rare lamb chop ringed with a few bites of charred fat. The vinegary salsa verde cut a bit of the richness. Ack, but those cannellinis again. (Nothing against the beans—I just used them tonight along with canned tomatoes and frozen fish in a lowerbrow version of Eric Ripert's roasted cod with white beans, tomato and truffle oil. It was the best I could come up with since I haven't gone grocery shopping since before Christmas.) I mean, it did say beans in the description, I was just imagining a different legume from the rigatoni. And while I am loathe to admit food aversions (it makes you look narrow minded) cooked tomatoes, the main reason why I'm prejudiced against Italian-American food, ever excite me. I feel the same about Provençal dishes like ratatouille. I wouldn’t even see the movie with the same name. Ok, I’m a fussbudget.

So, the lamb was near perfect and the side and sauce were dull according to my biases. If you love tomato sauce and don’t order a starter with cannellinis, you’ll probably enjoy this greatly.

tartaletta di caramelle/valhrona chocolate ganache, salted caramel, vanilla gelato

I was swayed by the salt and caramel, but this firm little tart was also very much about the thick chocolate layer. The gelato added an overall creaminess but the vanilla flavor was a little quiet. Would caramel gelato be overkill?

Chef Julian Medina was seated with a group in a nearby curved banquette and was the only person who seemed to notice when my camera came out (never with flash and always lightning fast—no attempts at professional quality are made). A mildly consternated expression crossed his face insinuating, "Eh, bloggers." I am the enemy.

Convivio * 45 Tudor City Pl., New York, NY

Casa Mario Lombardo

1/2 Oaxaca was freeing. I could indulge in Hawaiian pizza, the love that dare not speak its name in New York City, with no shame. Ham and pineapple is revered, ok, enjoyed by Mexicans in a way that is not allowed in the Northeast but likely still holds traction in many parts of the United States (growing up a half pepperoni/half Hawaiian was a standard family-pleasing order).

My theory is only bolstered by evidence found in the freezer case at Soriana.

Domino’s are not foreign to Oaxacans. In fact, I was kind of excited to see their delivery ad showcasing Hawaiian pizza propped up on the television in the Hotel Aitana, my second of three lodgings. This one was geared toward middle class Mexican travelers, a little pricey and no concessions made to English-speakers.

When you get the swan towel treatment you know you’ve made it.

That didn’t mean I was going to order Domino’s, though. Casa Maria Lombardo, an Italian restaurant featuring dishes cooked in the wood-burning oven seemed like a more serious option. When I stopped in after Spanish class everyone was eating pizza and I was initially surprised at the lack of tourists, considering every relatively nice place--wines served, quirky décor like cheese grater lamps, stand-up metal purse hooks--I’d been to up until this point were inhabited by Americans.

So, Hawaiian it was. Size chico. The sweet-salty combination neither Italian, Mexican nor Hawaiian was transformed even further by the two condiments presented to all diners: salsa and ketchup. Clearly, there is an audience for the ketchup though the only people I’ve ever known to add the sweet tomato sauce to their pizza were Filipinos. Salsa made perfect sense, however, I always drizzle a little Sriracha on my slices. This was just a chunkier, fresher rendition. And the style at Casa Maria Lombardo was very sparing with the tomato sauce foundation. A little extra spicy tomato-based moisture didn’t hurt.

The crust had even scattered leopard spots charred on the bottom  but this is not the thin bubbly Neapolitan style appreciated in NYC. This was fork and knife pizza with enough structure to allow easy cutting. I don’t only enjoy pineapple on my pizza, I also refuse to fold, always going for the knife and fork even when plastic. Yes, I liked Mexican pizza.

Solo dining, I was generally invisible to all but bauble hawkers (who oddly never made an appearance in this restaurant) so I was surprised that a gentleman, one of two businessmen drinking lots of wine by the glass (they really should’ve just ordered a bottle) at the table next to me offered to take my photo. I think he felt bad seeing me by myself snapping shots of my food. Then I felt weird and explained that I actually like taking photos of my food and didn’t need a photo of myself then relented at the last minute because it might be the only one I’d have from this vacation. Unfortunately, it’s a blurry unflattering photo. He didn’t know how to use the camera and the flash was off and I have horrible blobby posture and was sunburnt. Even so, if I am to only have one photographic reminder of my Mexican vacation it should really involve Hawaiian pizza.

Casa Maria Lombardo * Abasolo 314, Oaxaca, Mexico

Motorino

Motorino was one of the two new wave pizzerias that made The Village Voice blog’s (not sure why I can’t just say Fork in the Road but it doesn’t sound right) recent top ten list. I can see why. I’d swap it for Lucali, mere blocks from my apartment, if such feats were possible. With its overly eager patrons huddled outside, that Henry Street star has completely discouraged me from paying a visit for quite some time. Now, I assume all well-regarded pizza places will be equally prohibitive. Not so, Motorino. On a Wednesday evening there were plenty of free tables, no problems, no nonsense.

If you ever read lame diet advice for fun (I’m still not cool with epicurious recommending only eating three bites of your food to lose weight. Yes, duh, but really?) you’ll be familiar with all the menu descriptors that signal you should stay away from an item—obvious stuff like crispy, smothered, breaded, etc. I’m certain that bacon-wrapped would make such a list but everyone knows that phrase usually signals deliciousness. This creamy, salty and gooey appetizer was a promising start. Hmm, and realistically these figs enrobed in smoked porky strips dotted with crumbly goat cheese fit the three-bite restriction if divvied up amongst three diners like I had at my table. We followed up the tiny decadence with a simple arugula salad.

I do like that both purist and non-traditional pies are available because I lean more toward the latter. Of course, I can also appreciate the simplicity of a margherita, and we opted for the version with flor di latte rather than mozzarella di bufala. The proportions of ingredients seemed just right with nothing dominating. I guess the crust was a little puffy (I happened to be with a crust avoider and didn’t think about this until I saw the uneaten remnants sitting on his plate) and took up space that could’ve been devoted to more toppings. The pizza was overwhelming good, despite a bit of sog in the middle of the pie. The flimsiness didn’t even detract. And I certainly ate more than three bites.

The soppressata piccante also used cow’s milk mozzarella, as well as spicy sausage, garlic and chile oil. The little charred rounds of soppressata added character you don’t get from pepperoni and the spiked oil added a layer of fresh hotness that complemented the sausage. When we asked for crushed pepper we didn’t only receive a small dish of flakes but also extra slivered red chiles in oil.

I would like to try the cured meats and cheeses so another visit is definitely in order. I left feeling happy (though that could’ve had something to do with the $5 glasses of pinot noir), happy enough to check out goth night at Legion up the street. I’m still coming to terms with 40-something men in full-on make up, teased hair and brooches spinning Siouxsie and the Banshees for 22-year-old guys in denim shortalls and espadrilles.

Motorino * 319 Graham Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Marco Polo Ristorante

It’s hard to believe that I’ve lived in Carroll Gardens for five years. That’s a mighty long time for a neighborhood you’re not in love with. One of the first places I noticed after settling in was Marco Polo. Brick-clad, with white stone accents and a sunroom on the side, the corner building seemed styled from an undecipherable era. They also touted valet parking, an unusual touch around these parts. The multi-story restaurant never seemed full yet appeared to be thriving. It scared me a bit, not so much for the mobby vibes emanating (lest you dub me a baseless stereotyper—there was truth in this presumption) but because rampant red saucing makes me want to sob and it would be hard to even justify the novelty factor with entrees in the $20s. I clearly wasn’t their target market.

For at least the past six months while attempting shoulder presses on the second floor of the gym directly across the street, I’ve been regaled with a banner strewn across their façade declaring a 25th anniversary special for 25 days. I don’t think it’s ever coming down. Maybe they’re like me where five years passes like nothing. Twenty-five days could easily turn into 365.

But I have been intrigued, I’ll admit. I’m also curious about the wine bar currently under construction two storefronts down, next to Marco Polo To Go, that still bears Joe’s Restaurant signage in the Marco Polo To Go space.  Not that Carroll Gardens is suffering from a lack of small plates.

I wasn’t doing anything remarkable on Easter, no plans to speak of until around 5pm when it was decided that something festive needed to be done for dinner. James suggested Chestnut. Wildly, Marco Polo popped out of my mouth. I didn’t need to say that twice since I’ve been putting the kibosh on his urge to try the place for practically half a decade. He was instantly on the phone making reservations against my better judgment (seriously, it wasn’t going to be packed and certainly not at 8pm on a Sunday). 

There were a few other tables finishing up their $34.95 prix fixes as we arrived. I went in cautiously, not expecting anything remarkable. And no, the food isn’t memorable but I would recommend going once just for the experience. Um, and for the murals (detail above). Isn’t supporting a local business supposed to be better than patronizing an Olive Garden (not that such a chain would stand a chance in South Brooklyn)?  

First course of warm antipasto was certainly a bready, saucy hodgepodge. There appeared to be shrimp, baked clams, stuffed mushrooms, eggplant rollatini and a fat triangle of mozzarella that looked like French toast. Ok, I do love fried cheese. 

The lamb chops (at least I thought those were chops but it looks like ribs and who knows what else on that plate) were generously portioned and I was glad that the potatoes had a little color around the edges instead of simply being boiled. The meat might’ve been too fatty for some tastes, but I wasn’t put off. 

For dessert I chose a cannoli, a perfectly nice specimen. Despite rarely eating them, desserts based on sweetened ricotta never let me down. 

There are what feels like millions (maybe only really a handful) of Italian-American restaurants cut from a similar red-and-white checked tablecloth (ok, these were white) still thriving in the neighborhood. Maybe I’ll get around to trying a few of them eventually, too.

Marco Polo Ristorante * 345 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Carrabba's

If you're like me, you pass by roadside beacons like Carrabba's, Bertucci's and Macaroni Grill and despite your indifference to Italian-American food (I hear the entire February issue of Gourmet is devoted to the cuisine though I've yet to receive my copy in the mail and am in no hurry to), wonder what they're like because you can't resist the allure of a chain, any chain. I mean, aren't they all kind of Olive Gardens at their core?

I was in the wilds of East Brunswick, testing out the new GPS I bought (as a gift) for Christmas to see if it could find Hong Kong Supermarket (a point of interest according to the GPS) and afterwards, Makkoli, a Japanese buffet (not found by name in the GPS). Before I could reach my all-you-can-eat sashimi goal, I was lured by the starchy promises of Carrabba's.

"It's more upscale than Olive Garden," James promised, apparently an old pro from dinners with his parents in Northern Virginia. That's not saying much, though I get what he meant. No photos on the menu or zingy folded cardboard promotions on the table, and no free salads and breadsticks. Everything's a la carte and a few bucks more than a suburban OG (though not necessarily a Manhattan one). I ended up with a $10 glass of wine at the bar, which seemed steep by chain standards, though it's not like anyone forced me to order the Coppola claret. I switched to the $9 quartino of chianti special with dinner. Oh, but it's classy because they pour the wine into an individual glass carafe for you dole out as you like.

At the ungodly hour of 6pm on a Saturday it was family central. I knew what I was getting into. However, I'm still not sure why parents bring kids little enough to need distractions out to eat at places where sitting relatively still is required (maybe I'm just jealous because we rarely went to sit down restaurants when I was a child. And other than maybe Sizzler, fast casual chains didn't exist yet. We would occasionally go to Heidi's, a local favorite with a Swiss-themed gift shop and dazzling pastry case). The toddler with a DVD player at eye level on the table disturbed me much more than the girl walking her plush pony up the mini blinds near to us. At least physical toys require some degree of imagination.

The food was standard issue and plated in sparse lonely ways. Crab cakes seemed awkwardly shoved to one side with an awful lot of real estate devoted to the sauce.

My lobster ravioli looked like I'd heated up a frozen pack from Trader Joe's and tossed it on a plate, more in a hurry to catch 24 (sure, I'll still watch Jack Bauer torturing people) even though I'm DVRing it. Ok, there were some herb bits scattered on top, which is more garnish than dole out at home.

Carrabba's has totally tapped into the mini dessert trend, offering $2.50 "bacino," which translates to creamy parfaits in glorified shot glasses. I wasn't biting as can be seen in this photo of the Chocolate Dream, a bit of fluffy overkill by way of Kahlua brownie with chocolate mousse and syrup. I could've sworn there was ice cream in there. It definitely needed ice cream.

I hate macaroni, which will prevent me from trying a Macaroni Grill maybe ever (I can only picture noodles dripping with Velveeta over flames). Bertucci's, I might give a chance. Though the chain I've always meant to visit but haven't is P.F. Chang's. Looks like the closest one in the strangely named town of West New York, NJ,. Maybe I'll put the GPS to use this weekend.

One thing Carrabba's has over Olive Garden is that if you mention them on Twitter they'll start following you. Brands connecting through tweets is one thing, but when Damages' Patty Hewes started following me I got kind of scared.

Carrabba's * 335 Rt.18, New Brunswick, NJ

Vesta Trattoria

We have a zillion Italian-American, Italian-Italian, wine bars, pizzerias and small plates joints in Carroll Gardens and environs so maybe I’m blasé. I wouldn’t think twice about Vesta Trattoria if it were on Smith Street.

But Astoria is a different matter. That part of Queens has never been my stomping grounds, so I’m not a good judge of the neighborhood. But from what I can tell, there doesn’t seem to be much going on way west on 20th Street. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why the brand new restaurant was filled beyond capacity on Saturday.

At least they understand the power of softening an hour wait with a free drink. I don’t know how many places, particularly small places catering to locals, seem hospitality deficient. You think that would be especially vital in the first few weeks when opinions are being formed.

The menu isn’t wide-ranging. There are a handful of starters, three pizzas, four pastas and on my visit, three entrees. I wasn’t taken by the standard sounding chicken, salmon or steak. Maybe they were prepared wonderfully, warm lentils and prune reduction doesn’t sound half bad, but they didn’t entice me with their simplicity.

Instead, I shared a lemony cracked wheat salad. I don’t always want something delicate and leafy when it’s freezing out so this fit the still light but more substantial bill. This is the type of thing that would be horribly dull if I made it myself, probably because I always underdress salads.

Pizzas are very crackery, which I like, though I know not all do. The margherita was a little tomato and basil sweet and not terribly cheesey.

Pastas come in cute individual casseroles, which struck me as something Gordon Ramsey would suggest to perk up business on Kitchen Nightmares. Not that any nightmares occurred here (well, sort of, if you consider being smooshed next to a furiously groping couple who insist on sitting side-by-side on a shared banquette, horrifying. I particularly liked it when James inadvertently got brushed by the grabbing hands an inch from his body).

Gnocchi with oyster mushrooms in a cream sauce more than compensated for the oddly light starters. This was hearty, though not relentlessly dense. The parmesan crumbs and meaty fungi kept the dish interesting.

“Sunday dinner style” lasagna, whatever that means. I did not sample this, and worried for a second, considering it was Saturday’s dinner.

I’m not clear what atmosphere they’re trying to cultivate, maybe it’s evolving. The Scorpions and Poison that were initially playing seemed a little off but I kind of got it and didn’t think it was completely ironic as the crowd leaned middle of the road. As the night wore on Vampire Weekend came on, as if one of the waiters had finally got a chance to play his mix.

This is the strange little artwork that I looked at during most of my meal. For no particular reason, it made me think of the “The Nightman Cometh” musical from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia’s season finale. I suppose that’s a good thing, not sure if it’s appetite stimulating, though.

If you feel compelled to pay a visit and intend to drive, beware the folly of Google maps. Type in 20-02 30th Ave. and it gives you 80-02. Drive there and you’ll end up in a residential neighborhood near La Guardia trying to figure out where you went wrong.

Vesta Trattoria * 21-02 30th Ave., Astoria, NY

Frankies 457

Just yesterday I was talking with coworkers about my dislike of Italian-American food. I don’t even know how we got on the topic (oh, yes I do—July is national hot dog month and well, hot dogs are one of the only things in the world I don’t like to eat, along with melon and Italian-American food) but I don’t want to be known as a food snob so I was trying to temper my words. I had no idea that eight hours later I would be sitting down to a plate of pasta. Eating my words, literally.

It’s the heavy starch, cloying tomato sauce and glut of cheese that bothers me. Ground beef rolled into balls doesn’t help matters. As long as these components remain absent, I’m fine.

My friend Jessica had just started taking Spanish classes around the corner from my apartment (I should really get a referral bonus—this is the second pal who has taken up lessons) so I had a new Friday night dining companion. The thing is that I don’t eat much in my immediate neighborhood (though it would seem so based on recent write ups). I drew a blank on vegetarian-friendly venues.

I wondered if Frankies was still a pain to get into. I hadn’t been back since they opened in 2004, mostly because I’m bothered by crowds. Time has passed, and it turns out that you’ll still be quoted a 30-40 minute wait at 10:30 pm on a Friday. There were empty tables, too. We tried not to take it personally and enjoyed a glass of Torrontes at the backyard bar/waiting area they’ve set up on a driveway.

Normally, I would’ve picked out salumi but it’s not right eating a plate a cured meat by yourself. Instead, we chose three cheeses to share: a dry Pecorino, Pepato, a semi-soft sheep’s milk cheese studded with whole peppercorns and a creamy Tallegio. The walnuts and honey were a nice touch.

When I said I hated pasta that didn’t necessarily mean light handmade pasta, the airy kind that almost falls apart when bitten. I was going to take half of the cavatelli and hot sausage home, but next thing I knew 75% was already gone. It’s the sage butter that drew me in. I do have to say that the cavatelli kind of resembled sago worms, the kind of grub that takes some getting used to. (6/27/08)

Centro Vinoteca

I’ve decided that Wednesday nights right after work are perfect for dining out and that there’s no shame in being a mid-week early bird. Last Wednesday I was on an inexplicable burger rampage and this Wednesday one my irrationally un-favorite cuisines, Italian (I think I’m turned off by the blind American fetishizing of Tuscany. You can’t turn on a home and garden channel without getting the crap scared out of you by a hideous Olive Garden-inspired kitchen oozing travertine, marble, granite and horrific grape and/or wine motifs. And you can only watch so many leathery divorcees looking at brokedown yet charming Tuscan villas on House Hunters International) began to seem alluring for no reason at all.

This is not Centro Vinoteca

You have to go with these gut feelings. I considered newish, nearby, weirdly located Bar Tano, but ultimately nixed Brooklyn. I wasn’t up for anyplace super new either. Centro Vinoteca is one of those places I was never inclined to visit when it opened, so why not now. It is a handsome little space: clean, modern and thoroughly non-Tuscan.

We chose one item from the list of piccolini, which are more like bar snacks than small plates, though you could certainly cobble together a meal from them. The off-white sauce tasted almost like pure garlic, and it sort of was; agliata is no more than garlic, bread crumbs and vinegar. Our cauliflower fritters had a parmesan zing but could’ve used a little more salt and this comes from a chronic under-salter. If I think something’s under seasoned, it’s seriously in need of saline.

   

The grilled shrimp with panelle was a smart choice. I’m not sure if it was an herb or a  dressing component, but something lemony lifted up the whole dish while the light chickpea wedges were earthy and Indian-feeling, possibly from cumin, not like the Sicilian versions I’ve had before.

I didn’t take pictures of food that wasn’t mine but an appetizer special of soft-shell crab and favas with an aioli looked amazing. I don’t like ordering the same dishes as fellow diners so I was polite and conceded this super spring-like pairing to James.

I’ve never been into pasta (though I love Asian noodles) and am presently starch-limiting, but figured pastas were a strength and were unlikely to be massively portioned. No, they weren’t gut-bustingly huge, but mine was heavy and wintery considering the weather (this was the day my office decided to prematurely turn on the air conditioning). It was a strange warm day for rich boar ragu, hefty gnocchi and fried onions. Abstractly, I enjoyed the deep, bittersweet flavors but I was burning up; the sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows overheated the small space like an oven. There’s a good reason to only dine after sundown.

I got into the quartino in lieu of single glasses of wine, which yields about a glass and a half per serving. I tried two wines from Alto Adige, a rose first and a pinot noir with the ragu. The boar could’ve handled a bigger red, but I’m not a genius at pairing.

Off the subject, but I really liked the woman who cleared plates and that might’ve been a server (I don’t understand front of the house restaurant dynamics). All the others were perfectly professional young, metro/homo sexual men, ours possessed a vague Karim Rashid look. But the lone female could’ve come straight from a New Jersey diner or possibly a woman’s prison. She was a little rough around the edges, kind of wild-eyed, tattooed, middle aged (or maybe just a candidate for 10 Years Younger) and said things that a poised male staff member couldn’t get away with. Upon asking us how we liked our food, to which we enthusiastically replied “oh, we liked it.” she glanced down at our just-shy-of-clean plates and kind of huskily cackled, “I can tell.” A West Village guy can’t tell you that you’ve been a pig without being rude.

Also, I don’t understand young women who go out to a relatively nice restaurant with tons of creative options and order a salad, pasta and tap water. I would just as well stay home with a nice aluminum tin of Pasta Hut or actually partake in Carroll Gardens’s fine Italian offerings.

Centro Vinoteca * 74 Seventh Ave. S., New York, NY

Anchor Bar

1/2 Due to its personal timeliness, I decided to kick off my impossible 1,049 words in three weeks task with Calvin Trillin’s “An Attempt to Compile the Short History of the Buffalo Wing.” It was insightful to get a 1980 perspective on a then relatively recent invention, kind of the equivalent of researching foodstuffs from ’91 today.

Hmm, how about pesto-sauced pizza with artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes? I sure thought that was the ultimate edible at the time. I’m guessing the popularization of “gourmet” pizzas can be credited to Wolfgang Puck…in 1982. Ok, culinary trends took their time meandering up to the Northwest.

Oddly, around 1991 a college friend’s boyfriend came to visit from Rochester during the Super Bowl and insisted we eat buffalo wings to celebrate. I didn’t even know what they were (and had never watched a football game in my life). And he couldn’t find the ready-chopped drumettes in the grocery store. We made do with poultry parts of some sort. What I recall most is drinking so much that I had to call in sick to my movie theater job that evening. Wings didn’t wow me.

However, I’d forgotten that I’d already read this chicken wing essay a few years ago. And to compound my fears of age-onset dementia, if it weren’t for these two sentences I would’ve also forgotten just about everything about ever being at the Anchor Bar in 2000. Wings still didn’t wow me a decade later.

My first meal of 2008 proved more memorable but unfortunately brief. A snowstorm hit Toronto on January 1, which made the drive to Buffalo slow going. But being a fanatical planner, we made it to town just on schedule with an hour to wing it up before needing to head to the airport (the nice thing about small cities is that you can cut it close; returning and rental car, checking in and getting through security can all practically be done in 20 minutes). I was nervous that they wouldn’t be open on the pseudo-holiday because no one answered when I called. But as I was reminded upon entering, the phone number is a pay phone that seems to get answered on whim.

I never thought of Buffalo as much of a tourist destination but it seemed obvious that a majority of the diners were not locals. Everyone, including us, were getting the friendly “where are you from” interrogation from our waitress.

There was no time for small talk. Time was ticking away. I started sweating it when our Sam Adams (no Genesee for us) arrived and twenty minutes later we were still wingless.

I eat slower than a snail (ok, they move slowly—who knows how they eat) so I did my best to get as many wings down as possible when they eventually arrived. We must’ve eaten like maniacs because we surprised our waitress with one remaining wing when checked on to see if we needed a to go container. We ended up with an 8/12 split, I with the lesser number since my wing fanaticism isn’t as strong. I get bogged down by the acidic vinegariness of the neon orange sauce.

In fact, earlier this week I posited the unthinkable.

“What if we made different kinds of wings for Super Bowl?” (ducks)

“What?! Let me guess, some Asian style?”

“Well, duh.”

James knows too well my desire to sneak fish sauce, shrimp paste or sambal into all items possible. And in fact my inaugural issue of Food & Wine, which I’d forgotten I’d subscribed to (see, the memory again) has a recipe Spicy Sriracha Chicken Wings courtesy of Michael Symon.

Hot isn’t that hot but suicidal, the next and last notch up, seemed too macabre. I’m not the wing-maker in my household so I can’t say what makes ours so kicky. A few extra shakes of cayenne, I imagine.

The thing that makes a superior wing is the crispiness of the skin. That’s kind of the point, right? The tiny pieces ensure a good skin to meat ratio and if the outside doesn’t contrast with the meaty interior then it’s a waste of calories. Anchor Bar has the texture down pat. These wings could stand to be left sauced on the plate for some time before giving in to sogginess.

One thing to note is the absence of carrots at Anchor Bar. It’s a celery-only joint, and I kind of like that despite normally being depressed by celery. You need a palate cleanser and something bland to benefit from the fattiness of the blue cheese dressing. Oh,  the dressing should be thick and chunky, almost like spackle so that a celery stick could stand upright if stuck into the plastic container, if you felt like doing such a thing.

We finished just in time for Toronto’s southward-moving snow to descend on Buffalo. Flurries were swirling as we left the restaurant, though not enough to disrupt our take off time by much. And thankfully, we were fortified with enough Tabasco sauce and fried chicken to make it through the bumpy 50-minute journey back to the city. A few sick bags were employed on the short ride and not by me.

Anchor Bar * 1047 Main St., Buffalo, NY

Bacaro

Apparently, sales people don’t eat sardines, chicken liver or octopus, or at least that’s what I was led to believe by my coworker who planned our holiday party at newish, strange-for-the-neighborhood Bacaro. I didn’t want to believe the meat and potatoes of it but I’m afraid it might be true.

As I grow more entrenched in market research surveys, I see people in percentages. I’d love to find a study on eating habits by job function, which would probably correlate to personality types. My half-baked theory is that extroverts are conservative eaters and introverts more culinarily adventurous.

At lot of food went to waste and that concerned the spend thrift in me. Even though I did try everything except the dessert (tiramisu, panna cotta and possibly cheesecake) I had to remind myself that just because the catacombs (yes, the subterranean dining rooms are tricked out with stone walls, wooden beams and lots of candlelit nooks and crannies) were teeming with plates of pasta and antipasti it wasn’t my duty to eat everything in front of me like my sweet but obese cat would.

Really, holiday parties are more about drinking and socializing; good food is just a fringe benefit. Normally, I’d be all for unlimited alcohol but I was still feeling the disastrous effects from the previous night’s holiday party (the best part of James’s company’s fete was the free photo booth. I was too scared of the caricature artist and most definitely avoided the face painting station. I’m not sure if I loved or hated the DJ playing Bell Biv DeVoe and Journey) so I stuck with a reasonable number of glasses (uh, five instead of 8+) of fizzy, fun, low-alcohol Lambrusco.

It’s hard to fairly assess catered food since it’s served in bulk and tends to sit out. And I have no idea what the portions and pricing are like when ordered a la carte. Though we were offered most of the cicchetti on the menu so at least I’m now familiar with the majority of what Bacaro does. There weren’t really any misfires and I would have no problem returning for snacks and wine, though if I’m ever near the East Broadway F stop I’m more inclined to think Chinese.

The dreaded sarde in saor . There was lots of grumbling about these poor pine nut, raisin, onion and olive oil dressed fish. I love that Moorish combination of ingredients. One of my favorite tapas ever uses similar flavors with chickpeas and morcilla, but there would’ve been a mutiny if blood sausage made an appearance at the party. My only complaint was that this was difficult to eat standing up with a drink in hand.

Meats and cheeses seemed benign enough, but numerous people expressed dismay/confusion/fear at the dark red folded slices. I’m fairly certain it was bresaola. I was like “it’s beef.” Don’t all non-vegetarians like beef? Air-dried beef isn’t scary and everyone seemed to dig it once they took a bite. The rest of the tray contained prosciutto, salami, mortadella, parmesan and mozzarella.

I also assumed crostini would be inoffensive. I liked the chicken liver spread best. The dark ones were kind of dull and mushroom based. The light ones might’ve been salt cod.

Gnocchi con funghi was a hit. I forget how likeable gnocchi is because I never eat Italian food. These potato blobs were unusually large and pleasantly chewy. I’d like to say toothsome but people hate that word. I might say pillowy instead and that would still set off some florid prose meters. Personally, I like cliches.

 

The second pasta, risotto al nero di seppia, also had a lot of takers despite its squid inky color. I did hear someone say, “What’s that? Dip?”

I didn’t eat much of the frito misto. It seemed to be a mix of octopus and vegetables, heavy on the octopus.

Insalata polpi. I guess you either love or hate octopus. This was a simple salad with tiny wedges of potato and slivers of celery. Fresh though not wildly exciting.

Polpette. That’s a spicy meatball. No really, they were. Even these straightforward little orbs gave people pause because they didn’t know what kind of meat they were made from. I’m guessing pork but it could’ve been a combo with beef or veal and I wouldn’t have known the difference.

Bacaro * 136 Division St., New York, NY

Bocca Lupo

Strangely, I don’t feel like I have much of anything to say about Bocca Lupo because it’s solid, reasonable restaurant that needs no comment from me. (If I were to say anything it would only be relevant to me. And that is that whenever I have the urge to go out to eat, I should wait an extra 30 minutes. You know, kind of like that taking one accessory off before leaving the house trick. Unless visiting a restaurant that’s outer outer borough, it’s guaranteed that I will end up waiting half an hour to be seated, and as soon as I sit down half the room clears out. Bocca Lupo 10pm on a Friday=crowded, Bocca Lupo 10:30pm on a Friday=lots of open tables.)

Bocca Lupo’s on Henry St., I live on Henry St. They serve non-marinara drenched Italian food and stay open until 2am on weekends, both good things. You can order little snacks or more substantial dishes--it’s crazy like that. They’ve been open for almost exactly one year and I have no idea why it took me this long to pay a visit.

Unfortunately, thanks to three glasses of random Sangiovese, and their lack of an online menu, I can’t even cobble together basic details of what I ordered.


Salumi
Why do I only remember the mortadella?


Cheese
Once again, I only remember one specific: the gorgonzola. The unknown soft cheese was my favorite and the candied pecans were a nice touch. 


Bruschetta
Sweet peas don’t seem very October but whatever. The green puree was topped with prosciutto. The brown mass on the other bread slices was sausage draped with mild chiles. 

Bocca Lupo * 391 Henry St., Brooklyn, NY

Olive Garden

The Never Ending Pasta Bow(e)l should really have an extra E because there were some never ending bathroom trips the following day (it was probably my jungle curry lunch, but I don’t want to say anything bad about Chao Thai). Who knew? Even more disturbing is that this was my fourth visit to the Chelsea Olive Garden and I don’t even like (Italian-American) pasta. But all you can eat for $8.95 demanded investigation.

They’re very sneaky with this promotion; despite being advertised on TV continuously, there’s no signage, menu inserts or little cardboard foldovers on any of the tables. It’s all very hush hush and I’m not assertive so I started getting a little nervous. Thankfully, a dining companion who tipped me off in the first place had no qualms about piping up for cheap pasta.

Phew, paying Manhattan chain restaurant prices for mushy alfredo would be harsh (I’m still steaming how once I inexplicably spent close to $50 on a cheeseburger and two margaritas at a Times Square T.G.I. Friday’s. It’s the price you pay for suburban simulacra). I had no idea how the whole thing worked, it’s much more customizable than I’d anticipated. I figured you’d get spaghetti and a couple sauce options, but there were approximately six choices for each.

I have to admit that my linguine with smoked mozzarella and breadcrumbs was satisfying in a creamy starchy way. And I would’ve been fine with the one bowl—pasta is one of the few foodstuffs that never spurs a desire for seconds—but it’s never ending so you have to play along.

 

Penne with five cheese marina came next, and amusingly, in a bowl half the size as the first. Would the third come in a teacup, we wondered aloud. “People don’t finish their second,” we were bluntly told. I wasn’t complaining because entrée number two had no flavor, like I imagine hospital food would taste. Under-salting is one of my many cooking crimes, I never touch a shaker in restaurants, but this blob was crying out for sodium. Maybe they do it on purpose to quell appetites. Like many a diner before me, I didn’t finish my second bowl.

The upside of such a bargain (don’t forget the salad and breadsticks) is that you’ll have plenty of money left over to get sloshed on inexpensive Shiraz. (9/20/07)

Ferdinando's Focacceria

In the three years I’ve lived seven blocks from Ferdinando’s, I’ve never paid a visit. Part of that was oversight, though to a small degree it was intentional. I like that cuspy little area west of the BQE that’s mostly Carroll Gardens and a little bit Red Hook. I have tried Bouillabaisse 126, Schnack and House of Pizza and Calzone, all on the same Union Street block as Ferdinando’s so it was time to be all inclusive.

I was always a smidgen intimidated by the place, the peculiar hours (which also used to be the case with HOPAC’s previous incarnation), the old-schoolness, and never mind the fact that I almost never ever eat Italian food. Brooklyn Sicilian sounded ominous in a no outsiders way. I don’t mean that as a cultural stereotype. But occasionally you get whiffs of local/townie animosity in NYC. P.J. Hanley’s, also in the neighborhood, certainly had/has that reputation.

No biggie because I don’t feel like I fit into any particular neighborhood anyway (though I do feel an inexplicable kinship with the M train). I’ve never understood transplants who come to New York City and feel an epiphanous energy and comfort like there’s no place else they could imagine themselves. I can think of plenty of other cities I’d rather live in, though none are in the U.S. (I was recently informed that Beijing might seriously become a potential work-related relocation [not my work] and I’m completely open to that idea though I would be surprised if it came to fruition.)

Change is so rapid lately, that I figured I’d better hurry and give Ferdinando’s a try before it turned into a condo, mediocre Thai restaurant or an Alan Harding venture.

The menu had more variety than I’d expected. Since they close so early (7pm Monday through Thursday) I thought it would be more lunchy. I’m not crazy about heavy tomato sauce and they had plenty of enticing alternatives like pasta con sarde (sardines, wild fennel, pignoli) and panelle served four different ways: panelle, panelle sandwich, panelle special and panelle and potato special. Starch and starch is my way so a chickpea fritter sandwich is definitely in my future.

I knew what I had to order though, vastedda, the peculiar and lauded spleen sandwich. I imagined spleen might be like liver or sweetbreads and would be breaded and shallow fried. Not so, the organ is thinly sliced, nakedly gray-brown and wispy like the gills of a mushroom. There was something vaguely portabella-ish about it. The offal is served on a roll with a healthy dollop of ricotta, grated parmesan and baked.

The bread, both rolls and heroes, were remarkably good, not too crusty and very substantial. No fluff. The last time I had a foreign-to-me sandwich on a real homemade roll was just last month at Chilean San Antonio Bakery. I’m lucky to have so many sandwiches to choose from.

James ordered a hulking sausage parm hero that caused our waitress to ask if we were sharing it when it arrived. Only a few other tables were occupied during late afternoon on a Saturday so I eavesdropped on the staff talking about Grindhouse and the Yankees, which came in snippets. Every so often someone would switch to Italian and throw me off.

The only tragedy of the meal was that I’m pretty sure I left my camera sock behind. I’m concerned about scratching up my new camera but I hate all the cases I’ve seen so I started carrying it around in a sock that had been sitting in my drawer. Green argyle hearts are perfection to me so it’s a mystery how they went unworn. But I noticed it was missing when I got home and my camera was bare. The beauty of socks is that they’re a pair and I still have one left. I considered calling up Ferdinando’s and asking if they’d found my footie but if I was already concerned about their impression of the neighborhood’s gentrifying inhabitants, this wouldn’t help relations any.

Ferdinando's Focacceria * 151 Union St., Brooklyn, NY

Fragole

It's the former Max Court space, which I never really got to know. There's so much Italian food in the neighborhood and I'm rarely inspired to sample any of it, but we were suffering car withdrawal due to it being stuck drifts of ice and wanted someplace close and walkable. Thats Fragole (I've never heard it pronounced aloud, but I cant help but think of it sounding like Fraggle, as in “Fraggle Rock”). But the experience started off poorly when we were seated at a table a half inch from loud party of three when there were other available tables. They totally dampened our spirits, and the mood suddenly turned sour, which seems to happen every now and then at restaurants and the food is unable to rescue an initial bad impression. Atmosphere is important. So, we only had one thing each, no appetizer, no dessert. My porcini ravioli was perfectly fine. We had much more fun at Juniors, where we trudged for dessert afterward. Bolstered by a shared bottle of wine, the chilly trek was like nothing.

Fragole * 394 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Acqua Santa

Christmas Eve was the perfect night for a Dyker Heights festive lights excursion. Under the circumstances Italian food made sense, but I was kind of hoping for Bensonhurst style L&B Spumoni Gardens, not Williamsburg fare. But thats how things turned out. Fornino, the new brick oven place, wouldve been my first choice, but pickings are slim the night before big holidays and they were closing up shop right as we approached the door. This scheduling issue was mildly compounded by my dining companions dietary restrictions. I totally wanted to try Spike Hill across the street, but I feared theyd make me go to Pita Power if my eyes even wandered that direction. Aqua Santa, around the corner, was the compromise.

All I had was quesadilla type pizza stuffed with robiola, prosciutto and red onions and what seemed like an abnormal amount of malbec for splitting a bottle of wine, so I didnt sample a wide swath of the menu. No complaints, honestly, though its doubtful I'd return unless in the company of Williamsburg vegetarians.

Acqua Santa * 556 Driggs St., Brooklyn, NY

Savoia

Savoia has reasonable prices, better than average pizza, and is a little more inventive than many of the Carroll Gardens (or is this Cobble Hill? I get the borders confused) red sauce restaurants I like to avoid, but its probably not a draw if you live outside the neighborhood. Smith St. is pretty blah despite everyone seeming to bestow it restaurant row status. We were going to try the new, probably mediocre Cuban place, but it was full as new restaurants often are. Savoia, with free tables and a warm glow, beckoned from across the street.

I had reservations about ordering the fattoressa pizza (spinach, gorgonzola, sausage, mozzarella), not because it didnt sound enticing, but because somehow saying the word fat might make me seem fatter myself (this is the sort of bizzarro self-consciousness that a skinny individual would never even consider). Though I've ordered lardo without giving a thought to being viewed as a lard ass. So, the fattoressa was fine, if not a touch over-charred around the edges (I know, wood-burning ovens and all that).

With the number of yet untried restaurants clogging Smith St., it'll probably be a while before I return. Thats the problem with these types of establishments. I've never had a horrible meal in the neighborhood, but I've also never been revved to revisit a place.

Savoia* 227 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

'inoteca

I'd just gotten over a week-long severe stomach illness and was ravenous, and strangely my normal food cravings were totally absent. Not wanting any form of Asian food isn't like me. I feared my body had gone through some bizarre realignment after barely eating for seven days when I found myself wanting either German, English or Italian cuisine. I think it was their perceived heartiness that was appealing.

I love the idea of lots of little things, but invariably small plates leave me eating leftover Thanksgiving turkey a couple hours later. We should've ordered at least four things, but I felt like we were being capped at three, like that's when the waitress seemed satisfied with our choices. But then, I'm self-conscious about things like eating alone in public (which I wasn't) and looking gluttonous (which I am), so maybe I was being hypersensitive.

I'm bad with Italian food, seriously, pardon my ingredient ignorance, but I'm going with English terms. The first thing that came from the kitchen was a warm brussels sprout salad with pancetta, a soft white cheese shaved into squiggles, and a balanced vinaigrette (I'm not a fan of severe tanginess). We also shared a special of lamb that came sliced and was surrounded with a sweet/savory chutney, and prawns wrapped in prosciutto. The prawns might've been my favorite, though all of it was quite tasty. I just could've eaten more, that's all. An accompanying polenta might've rounded out the meal.

I never see celebrities, I'm not sure if its because I don't pay attention to my surroundings or that I don't frequent their lairs. And oddly, whenever I do spot one there's a Coen brother connection. Not too long ago Tim Blake Nelson sat next to us at Lombardis. This evening Frances McDormand and two gentlemen were seated at the table across from us. They came after us and left before we did, so obviously they were fine with eating even less food than we did, or else they're really fast eaters.

'inoteca* 98 Rivington St., New York, NY

Remi

I normally wouldn’t eat at someplace like this. But it was assigned to and it was one block from my internship. Who could argue? The food was better than I’d anticipated, too. See my Time Out NY Eating & Drinking Guide review.

Panino'teca

I'm crazy for a pressed sandwich, and who isn't these days? All the delis in town now have those glossy mass produced signs advertising them. Bye bye wraps. So, it's weird that I've been in Carroll Gardens for a while and hadn't visited Panino'teca yet. I took the opportunity on a rare visit from a friend and Williamsburger (you know how hard it is to convince them to leave "the shire" She's only branching out because she's in a mini-spat with a mutual friend who also lives in her nabe. Yes, I just said nabe.) to check this little cafe out.

James ordered a glorified BLT (hardwood smoked bacon, tomato, red onion, arugula and mayonnaise), and I opted for the capacolla, peperanota, provolone with red chili mustard. Sweet, meaty, spicy and tangy at the same time. Nice. The bruschetta, salads, and cheese and meat plates all sounded worth trying. So many of the family-filled restaurants in the neighborhood just plain depress me, but not this one.

Panino'teca * 275 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Basta Pasta

1/2 This is a crazy Japanese Japanese-Italian place that you could walk by a million times and not really notice. Ingredients tend towards luxe (lobster and foie gras) and portions are small (definitely a nod to the Japanese rather than Italian side). Normally, I might shy away but it wasn't on my dime. I will admit dining is much more enjoyable when cost isnt a major issue. See my Time Out NY Eating & Drinking Guide review.

Basta Pasta * 37 W 17th St., New York, NY

Caserta Vecchia

I'm so not into the whole Carroll Gardens Italian thing. How I ended up here on a Friday night is a bit of a mystery, especially since I was in the mood for a suburban style buffet and James had emailed me earlier in the day wanting to find a sit-down Pizza Hut for that evening's entertainment. Caserta is neither Pizza Hut-like nor a buffet. It's just real average Italian-American type food. My brick oven quattro formaggia pizza was alright, the antipasto was adequate, James thought his fettucine with ham was blah. It's just what it was. And then we got into a fight because I wanted to throw James a birthday party and he didn't want one. How ridiculous a fight is that? Now Caserta is imprinted in my mind as a conflict-inducing spot with ok, but uninspiring food.

Caserta Vecchia * 221 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Max

1/2 This was my way of easing into the new neighborhood. Not a huge fan of Italian food, I figured I'd venture Max since I was familiar with the East Village outpost, and it's pretty darn close to the apt. I'm mixing all my tenses here. It's because we ate at Max before actually moving into the apt. proper, it's been a month since and I haven't had time to write up mini review capsules and now the restaurant has already gone out of business, replaced by something called Fragole (which reminds me too much of Fraggle as in Fraggle Rock. That's not appetizing). I hope this isn't a curse. Since moving into the new apt. I also noticed that Red Rail up the street has gone belly up.

So, now it seems pointless to talk about Max's food, as the menu now belongs to Fragole, which is Italian but not quite the same. I would've preferred the space to have turned into a good Vietnamese (for banh mi) or Mexican (for tacos and tortas) place, but then that would be my neighborhood and what would be the point of a new neighborhood environment?

MaxCourt * 394 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Bella Roma

Pizza seems so wrong for the tropics, but when in Rome, as they say. Due to the inexplicable volume of pizza places in Hua Hin, our curiosity got the better of us. There were a bunch of similar seeming pizza joints in the touristy area, if one was better than another we couldn't tell. We were seated in an air-conditioned room with British (or possibly Australian--I'm bad at deciphering eavesdropped accents) families who seemed to be having a good time. Not that I take that as an accurate judgment of the food. We split a Hawaiian, I mean if you're going to do pizza in such an unorthodox setting you may as well go blasphemous with the toppings (at least pineapple is a crime in pizza-centric NYC). I can't say the pizza was anything to write home about (literally) but the experience definitely was. Novelty goes a long way with me. Used to big city portions, we were still totally hungry after eating our not so large, large pie. We headed out for equally misguided (yet beguiling) buffalo wings at a nearby bar.

Bella Roma * Hua Hin, Thailand

Otto

Enoteca Pizzeria whatever. I'd been wary of the place. The reviews weren't so hot (something about crust like a cracker) and the crowds allegedly monumental. Maybe it was the gloomy weather, or maybe it was the 4pm in-between mealtime arrival, but on Mother's Day, the celebrity pizza and wine bar was nearly empty. We had lemony, spicy fried chickpeas, and I had to have the lardo pizza. The toppings were sparse, with just the right flavor of rosemary, nutmeg and wonderful pork fat. If you got a good bite that was drenched with olive oil and also contained a bit of lardo, it created this great slick, salty sensation in your mouth and throat like when you get a big mouthful of movie theater popcorn from the top where all the fake butter has pooled. What a great fatty feeling.

Otto* 1 Fifth Ave., New York, NY

John's

Ack, red sauce. I'm weird about Italian-American food, but every now and then I'll concede. Plus, it was a rainy, lazy Friday night and John's is mere blocks from James's.

With a few of the specials it appeared the chef was attempting to branch out in odd ways. The bruschetta used guacamole as a base (and was surprisingly good) and a miso halibut was also offered (didn't take the bait). The trouble with avoiding red sauce, is that you're generally faced with lots of white, creamy and fatty alternatives (which I like a little too much). Regardless, I went the high calorie route. The chicken stuffed with cheese in a sauce of champagne-glazed mushrooms was downright tasty. I intended to eat half and save the rest to give my arteries a break, but darn it if I didn't down the whole portion.

John's Restaurant * 302 E. 12th St., New York, NY

Aunt Suzie's

No fan of spaghetti and meatballs, I gave Aunt Suzie's a whirl anyway. This big portions, small pricetag red sauce joint straddles the line between old-school and tongue in cheek. Lovers of standards like chicken parmigiana, fried eggplant and baked ziti won't be disappointed. Everyone else should prepare to bust a gut.

Aunt Suzie's * 247 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Miss Williamsburg

I really shouldn't be writing about this restaurant because anything I say will be clouded by the all-around bad night I was having the evening I dined there. I had too much to drink before showing up at 11pm (an hour before closing) and got into some heavy relationship talk (which I never do) and was irritated by the pretentiousness of putting on the menu how you couldn't have extra parmesan or lemon in your espresso (not that I would ask for either, but the fact that they were so overly bold their attempts at authenticity like some hipster Mario Batalis). I barely tasted my food--a shared mussel appetizer, farfalle with artichokes and part of a panna cotta, ended up bawling for no good reason, then getting a $75 bill (which at least I didn't pay for). All in all, a night to forget. (2/17/01)

Miss Williamsburg Diner * 206 Kent Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Cafe Centosette

I've probably walked past this place a million times on the way from the 3rd Ave. L stop to James's. Yet strangely, we've only eaten there once and that was for brunch.

I was feeling lazy last weekend, so much so, that our fri. evening consisted of eating at this place less than a full block away and drinks at the (newly) Irish bar across the street. The food sort of fits that criteria, as it's nothing you'd travel a long distance for, but a meal is far from disappointing. The odds are anything you'd order would be better than what you could whip up yourself--and for about the same money you'd spend buying the ingredients at Food Emporium a block up the street. I had fettucine alla vodka with ham and shrimp, a glass of house red wine, and a cannoli and it while it didn't put stars in my eyes, it put more of a smile on my face than Pizzeria Uno, or most of the other restaurants in a two-block or less radius, would have. (2/9/01)

Not bad, but never amazing. I was feeling lazy, ordered fettucine alla vodka and a glass of house wine, then just realized that's exactly what I had last time. Oh well. It'll probaby happen again some time in '03. (3/1/02)

They moved somewhere on Second Ave. (04)

Cafe Centosette * 107 Third Ave., New York, NY

Lupa

1/2 First off, the food was amazing. For the meal alone, I'd give four shovels, but the service left a little to be desired. I was looking forward to my meal all week and it just so happened that that week's "Time Out NY" featured the tartufo as a critic's pick, so I was expecting greatness. I know this is a popular place and Mario Batali is a TV chef and all, but this isn't Babbo. I thought Lupa was supposed to be easier to deal with, both price-wise and pretention-wise.

We'd made reservations for 9:45 on a Friday, which was sort of late, but it was short notice and I rarely end up eating before 10:00 on weekends anyway. The place was jam-packed when we got there, the bar area was overflowing into the front seats (which I thought were for walk-ins) and we were given no indication as to when we'd be seated. It ended up being over an hour wait and we were seated in the front room at the same time as people who'd walked in sans reservations only minutes before. I was always under the impression that people with reservations were supposed to get to sit in the "nicer" back dining room while the crowded wooden tables in front were for people who showed up and wanted to wait. It made me wonder what the point of a reservation was.

I can't say that the long wait put me in a very good mood and by 11:00 my stomach was starting to eat its own lining. However, we ended up doing the tasting menu, which consisted of an antipasti with various meats and salami and citrus-cured sardines with a cracked wheat salad, a pasta, which I think was called bucatini all'amatriciana, a seafood stew with squid, mussels, chickpeas and other assorted goodies (the server kept ladling and ladling more soup into my bowl to the point where it was comedic and then James just got the remains, which is still peeving him. I don't know if the guy sized us up and was like, "that girl likes to eat" or what), a main course of which James had the saltimbocca, which is a veal dish and I ordered the oxtail since I'd heard amazing things about it, but they ended up bringing us both veal and tried to make it seem like they couldn't do the oxtail and normally I'm a pushover who never pipes up, but after that insane wait, there was no way I was going to let them get out of giving me what I'd ordered. The finishing touch was the tartufo, a big ball of hazelnut ice cream with biscotti chunks and a rich chocolate covering and a cherry in the middle. For the quality and amount of food, the $42 tasting menu was well worth the price.

The food completely lived up to all the hype I'd heard. Almost everything had a diverse range of flavors combined into one. Like the Four S's of S.E. Asian food that always keep me happy: sour, salty, sweet and spicy. Ingredients like sweet onions, raisins, fennel, cracked pepper and lemon fusing into a memorable mouthful. And this is coming from the girl who's never been impressed with Italian food. I'd like to go back, but I don't know if that'll be any time soon.

Lupa * 170 Thompson St., New York, NY

Frank

It may sound blasphemous, but if there were one cuisine I'd have to give up for life it'd probably be Italian food. I know, I know, everyone likes Italian food, right? There's nothing wrong with it; it's just never on the top of my list when the subject of eating out comes up. And yes, I realize that not all Italian cooking is based on the meatballs and spaghetti covered in red sauce formula, but I'm still not a convert.

I'd heard mixed stuff about the place, but thought I'd see for myself. If the length of the wait to be seated were an indication as to the quality, then Frank would be a four star restaurant. The thing is, it's just a small place. They don't take reservations and at 8 pm on a Thursday, I ended up waiting for about an hour. (They do offer to call you when your table's ready in case you want to take off, but being the last person on earth without a cell phone, this didn't do me much good.) Fortunately, I wasn't fazed by the wait. I was in a good mood since I thought I was just meeting a boyfriend for a run-of-the-mill dinner and instead he showed up with flowers, elevating the event to a "date."

On to the meal...I'm not even close to being a wine expert so I ordered some $10 glass of red wine that I don't even remember the name of. Whatever it was, my beverage suited the appetizer of mussels in a spicy, garlicky tomato broth and roasted garlic bread. For the main course I tried the ravioli of the day, which was porcini and potato. Now that I think about it, the dish had all the makings of a pierogi, albeit in a cream sauce rather than dipped in sour cream. Maybe the ravioli was successful in my eyes since it was moving in a Polish direction rather than being quintessentially Italian. The meal was wrapped up with tiramisu, which was pretty tiramisu-ish.

Everything tasted how you thought it would from looking at it. Nothing was bad, but nothing was spectacular either. I just crave a little more oomph to my food than Frank delivered. I won't write off an entire cuisine, of course. I'm still on the lookout for that Italian meal that makes me sit up and take notice.

Frank* 88 Second Ave., New York, NY