Goodies First

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.

Fushimi

Yeah, yeah, Fushimi is garish, and I guess it's out of place in that section of Williamsburg (though not-in-my-backyard pioneers SEA and Tacu Tacu are only six blocks away) but it's hardly the sensibility-offender it's been made out to be. Anyone freaking has clearly never been to Vegas.

And just like Vegas, the customers aren't likely to be locals. With Bay Ridge and Staten Island already covered by the sushi chainlet, there is now a place for Brooklynites from all points north to enjoy glowing neon theatrics while "Big Long Dick" (I couldn't get Shazaam to work, but that's a pretty easy chorus to remember) bounces off the spot-lit walls and metallic chandeliers.

When Fushimi first opened, a friend who lives nearby suggested that we take mushrooms and check it out. I was tempered by no more than a coconut mojito on this visit, though I would not rule out the possibility of a psychedelic future excursion.

There is a Sexy Lady's Night, each Thursday, after all.

The food? Well, it's superfluous. If you frequently eat lunch-deal sashimi at uncelebrated Japanese restaurants like I do, you won't have a problem with the quality. You will be upset if Yasuda, Azabu or 15 East are in your regular rotation. The sushi and sashimi for two wouldn't have been able to compete with the decor if LED lights were not embedded in the ice.

A fried soft-shell crab with sweet-spicy Thai sauce was a perfectly fine appetizer.

I like fake crab so the kani salad filled that void with a slick of "spicy aioli," a.k.a. Sriracha-spiked thousand island dressing dotted with tobiko. Look at those little purple leaves, though. A touch that shows they're trying, right? Same with the sparse microgreens on the soft-shell crab.

The path to the bathroom feels like you're on a spaceship--if Liberace owned such a craft.  I was disappointed that the lights didn't change colors, but remained electric blue.

Fushimi * 475 Driggs Ave., Brooklyn, NY

The Blues at B Flat

I’m fairly certain that blue cocktails are gauche. (I know because I spent a few years in the ‘90s drinking MD 20/20 Hawaiian Blue by choice. The more coconut-flavored Windex-y malt liquor that washed through your system, the more you could envision yourself lazily swimming to the shoreline pictured on the bottle’s label. “I’m half-way there…yep, reaching the sand…Zzzz.”) Unrespectable or not, this pale lagoon of a drink that blends prosecco, yuzu juice and Calpico with a few dashes of blue curacao that looks like a secret elixir when stored in a small, transparent metal-spouted bottle, keeps it classy. The bartender at Japanese, jazzy B Flat was shaking up a number of these seemingly nameless cocktails, one for a beefy man in khakis. No one can resist the aqua liquid once they’ve laid eyes on it.

Late to the game, I was given a standard champagne flute. It looked more special when served in the taller, narrow, straight-walled glass that the earlier patrons received. The basement lounge is busy with good reason; happy hour, featuring $6 cocktails, two signatures per the standard spirits, lasts until 8pm.

I tried a Sazarac and a Manhattan, both whiskey choices (hey, I was celebrating some good fortune—I don’t know if I’ll be able to take 2011 if it all turns out as well as the first two weeks of January) and couldn’t resist also trying the baby blue drink before rushing off to Sushi Azabu--it was a Japanese subterranean kind of night. The cocktail tastes like fizzy, sweetened grapefruit juice—if asked to describe its color based on taste alone, I would say orange—and was a nice send off after the two prior stiff brown beverages.

B Flat * 277 Church St., New York, NY

Makkoli

1/2 Makkoli’s fluorescent glare, strip mall location and impervious daycare flooring suited for a carpet sweeper, do not mask an hidden suburban jewel. This all-you-can-eat Japanese buffet is exactly what you would expect for unlimited $20.99 sushi. Perhaps strangest of all, this is not a chain.

I was hoping for a Minado (whatever happened to the proposed Edison location?) but this canary yellow room with only The Weather Channel on mute for distraction, didn’t quite make up for the disappointment of being quoted an hour-plus waiting time at Bonefish Grill one parking lot over, my original plan. 

That’s not to say that throughout my stint there weren't waits for seats; long tables were filled with Asian-American families with New Jersey accents, Chinese-Chinese whose only English consisted of “Pepsi,” a gaggle of bikers staking out the corner and more than a few middle aged, date night couples with bottles of wine.

Alcohol did not appear to be on the menu, there is no menu, so the wine confused me. It never would’ve occurred to me to bring wine into a buffet, though it would certainly elevate the experience. I would’ve gladly downed a few glasses of Charles Shaw.

The seaweed, octopus and jellyfish salads were fine. The sashimi was mushy and they oysters weren’t chilled sufficiently.

This is a small sampling of the cooked food row, which contained more Chinese dishes like prawns with walnuts and mayonnaise, scallion pancakes and dumplings. I picked up shrimp tempura, a rib, a breaded, fried crab chunk (I never understand coating on top of a shell) and a grilled prawn. The hit of any buffet is always the king crab legs; people will shove for them. I just can’t get excited about cracking and picking.

Sushi round. The variety and flavor is better than what you’d find in most NYC refrigerated cases. Ok, that’s not saying much, but if grab-and-go lunchtime rolls are your benchmark you’ll be fine with Makkoli.

I didn’t photograph my dessert plate. You can choose from Jello, those unsatisfying but pretty chiffon cakes you find in Asian bakeries and scoop-your-own-ice cream (I’d never seen green tea that brightly colored before) that created a traffic jam in the dessert section. Don't they know that buffets need soft serve machines?

More interesting to me were the Phil-Am (fortuitous, because I needed bagoong for a kare kare recipe the next day) and closed Russian Restaurant (I’ve never encountered Russian food in such a setting) in the same mall complex.

Makkoli * 415 Rt. 18, East Brunswick, NJ

MOS Burger

MOS Burger is so civilized. Sane portions, sodas served in real glasses with coasters, food brought to your table, spotless. I didn’t feel guilty or dinner-wrecking by stopping in for a late afternoon combo.

I’m not terribly adventurous because the first and last time I tried MOS in Singapore, I ordered the same thing: the spicy cheeseburger. Strange, because it’s mayonnaisey and that’s not a condiment I normally tolerate. The burger is so foreign that I just have to suspend my prejudices and enjoy the small patty doused in mild chopped onion chile sauce, and bolstered by cheese, a fat tomato slice and yes, that mayonnaise.

If I ever find myself near a MOS Burger again, I will try one of the rice burgers using pressed rice spheres for buns. Ebi or unagi?

About Chains of Love

MOS Burger * CentralWorld, Bangkok, Thailand

Sakae Sushi

Kaiten, a.k.a. conveyor belt sushi, was oddly popular in the malls of both Penang and Bangkok. The glory didn’t belong to a single chain either; competitors resided on the same floors or one above the other like Sushi King and Sakae Sushi in Gurney Plaza.

We chose Sakae Sushi, a Singaporean chain, which I’m now seeing has/had (the URL is dead) a midtown and West Village location. I had no idea. I would not be surprised if this hyped in 2008 restaurant was already kaput because the food isn’t anything special once you get past the novelty.

But if I’m in a foreign country for at least five days, I feel ok with branching out into other cuisines than what’s native. We’d crammed in so much laksa, rojak, satay and char kway teow into our first few days in Penang that I was ready for something lighter, maybe Japanese. Inevitably we ended up with lots of ricey/fried dishes so my original intent was lost.

I was a little excited about the touch screens at each table so you could order with zero human interaction, but we got the loser space for two with a broken monitor. This was a strange aspect of Penang—we always got horrible seats. Others had huge booths for small groups while we got a cramped tiny table hidden in the back. Being the only Westerner in a place can go two ways—either you get uncomfortable, over-the-top service or the staff gets weirded out and tries not to interact with you. This was the latter.

You pay by the plate, which are color coded. On the low end a green plate of simple vegetarian sushi might cost 60 cents and a special black plate prawn concoction with kimchi and tomatoes might cost $3.75. Nothing is outrageously priced, which is why we were surprised that we managed to spend $45 (tax and 10% service charge included—to tip or not to tip always posed such a dilemma), our most expensive meal in Malaysia at that point. A couple Tiger beers were also involved.

Eel-wrapped something or another.

Some cheapo crab stick, omelet sushi.

Soft shell crab tempura with ponzu dipping sauce off the menu.

Sashimi, also off the menu. They go for practicality over presentation, leaving the icepack beneath the raw seafood.

Fried chicken nuggets. I grabbed the plate because of the fish cake sails.

I just like the fried fish head popping out of the roll.

Tempura’d sushi.

About Chains of Love

Sakae Sushi * Gurney Plaza 170-03-87/88/89, Penang, Malaysia

Matsugen

1/2 So many recession specials, so little time. Maybe a year ago I would’ve felt self-conscious ordering the $35 menu in a pricy restaurant, but not so much right now. Well, maybe a little bit since I didn’t notice anyone else choosing the budget options. Then again, I wouldn’t really lump myself in with the overly perfumed satin-frocked girls’ night out crews nor the large parties of Japanese businessmen, anyway.

During the afternoon I was having an unusual craving for Brazilian churrascarria, but it turned out that James was still doing that Friday Lent thing that I find highly confusing (because why would any religion’s god not want you to enjoy like every cut of meat known to man?). Seafood and noodles, it was then.

We waited in the bar for only about 10 minutes until a proper two-seater opened up (I harbor no inner commie; sharing tables just isn’t convivial to me). In the meantime, I sipped a refreshing shiso cocktail in a tumbler that was possibly meant to serve as a Japanese mojito even though seemed more like a vodka tonic. Whatever it was, the beverage was a step up from the pricier than expected Yuengling pints at Nancy Whiskey Pub a few blocks north. Six dollars for pre-7pm cheap beer in those divey (yes soothing) surroundings?

The six-course omakase is a good value, it turns out, and no the wasabi nuts don’t count as one of that sextet. The only caveat is not to expect a leisurely meal. Pacing was rapid and plates were brought well before previous dishes were finished. Maybe that’s the price you pay for being frugal.

 Both tofu and miso soup are so delicate in general, I barely have an opinion about them. This could be an exemplar version and it might be lost on me.

The kampachi sashimi was hotter and tarter than expected despite the “spicy ponzu” giveaway in the dish’s name. As you can see, said sauce was thick and more like a coarse dressing and really adhered to thin pinkish slices of fish. I would gladly eat a larger portion of this.

The crimson hue of these shrimp makes them look potentially spicy but really the flavor came from the crispy and well-salted exterior only. You can nibble the shishito pepper for heat, if you like. A similar rosy shade tints the mayonnaise dollop evoking Thousand Island dressing, though I’m sure the condiment was not courtesy of Kraft.

Sushi time. No outsized bulging monsters here. Just fresh salmon and tuna with optimum ratio of fish to rice. It goes without saying that I could’ve eaten a few more pieces.

Soba is the only decision to be made. Mushroom or duck. Here is the meatless version served like a soup. Both sobas are warm.

The duck version is for dipping. I don’t know that it’s for eating. I mean, they don’t give you a spoon with this. I had noticed some of those Japanese businessmen holding bowls up to their mouths so assumed it wasn’t wildly uncouth but the broth was very intense and soy saucey and probably not intended for drinking neat. They do call it broth, though. It’s sauce. The seiro soba is light and a blank canvas for that that so-called broth.

Finally, the flan course or more precisely, vanilla caramel custard. I wasn’t expecting something so sweet but was happy it wasn’t black sesame sludge or green tea sorbet.

Ultimately, I wasn’t completely bowled over even though everything was well prepared. I only sampled an abbreviated menu, though. Matsugen is still worth recommending. You could expend way more energy and cash and have a much less satisfying experience.

The aspect I was most struck by had nothing to do with the food. It had to do with the service…specifically our runner. This was the third time in less than a year that I’d encountered this same guy, a soft-spoken E.A. with a high-timbered voice and accent of indeterminate origin. His presence seriously freaked the hell out of me. I first saw him at inoffensive Asiana in Kips Bay (so blah that I never wrote about it here and the review that I was sent there to write never got published). Shortly thereafter, I saw him at Cambodian Cuisine on the Upper East Side. And now at Tribeca’s Matsugen, a totally different beast in aspirations and location.

Just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating, I asked if he used to work at Cambodian Cuisine and he then said he’d seen me before but thought it was from a previous Matsugen visit. Bizarre. James says he’s a Richard Alpert-style Other, never aging, passing through time. Me, I think he’s a part of The Pattern a la Fringe. And no, I don’t think he’s a Terminator, Hero or Cylon.

Matsugen * 241 Church St., New York, NY

MOS Burger

I’ve said it before but I’m no burger aficionado, either I like one or I don’t. MOS was more important to me for the foreign chain unavailable in the U.S. factor.  It’s the type of place that will randomly show up in NYC some day and there will be guaranteed lines out the door.

Maybe I should’ve gone for one of the burgers that replaces the bun with rice patties but I was lured by the Spicy MOS Cheeseburger.

Initially, I freaked when I mistook the melty white cheese for mayonnaise (you never know with those Japanese). The spice comes from a mild sienna-hued sauce full of minced onion. There’s kind of a lot happening on this burger--look at that massive tomato slice--so much so that the meat barely registered. I’m just not a burger purist, I guess because it didn’t bother me.

It should be noted that this was very slow fast food. We waited about 15 minutes before having our food brought out (I do appreciate that fast food chains, Carl’s Jr. too, bring your order to you. They are also very obsessive about clearing tables and removing any loose napkins, fry bags and the like while you are still sitting). I don’t know if that’s part of the MOS concept or simply how things were done at Ngee Ann City in Singapore.

MOS Burger * Ngee Ann City, 391B Orchard Rd., Singapore

Lucky Mojo

3/4 Cajun, Tex-Mex, bbq and sushi? Sounds like kitchen nightmare waiting to happen. The cuisine at Lucky Mojo is about as convoluted as the restaurant’s history. This cavernous bi-level, barn-like space is the current incarnation of the now-shuttered Upper West Side Jacques-Imo’s, which was an offshoot of a popular New Orleans restaurant.

I liked my meal on a visit to Louisiana some time ago, never heard anything good about the NYC version and was even more scared of this Long Island City mishmash. It’s not the kind of place you go out of your way for, but if the urge for sushi and etoufee strikes while you’re at the Water Taxi Beach, Lucky Mojo is your place.

There’s a full on sushi bar upstairs, which churns out standard rolls in addition to specialties like this one using crawfish and Tabasco.

I was not weirded out by the shrimp and alligator cheesecake because it’s a Jacques-Imo’s signature that I’ve had before. It only sounds creepy because they call it a cheesecake, which it is--oh, and because alligator meat doesn’t sit well with some. The alligator is in sausage form and with all of the cream and spices you would have no idea you were eating a water reptile unless someone told you. No, this is not healthy food but split among four it was reasonable.

Bbq shrimp is another frighteningly rich New Orleans dish that has nothing to do with barbecue sauce or grilling. I’ve had a wonderful rendition of this buttery, Worcestershire and black pepper drenched treat, and this didn’t quite match. The rice was on the undercooked side, too. And they forgot my side of collard greens.

 

I did not taste this shrimp po boy.

Nor the catfish sandwich.

Vegetarian taco. What more needs to be said?

As we finished our meal, my dining companions and I began discussing a movie we were about to watch, The Great Happiness Space: Tale of an Osaka Love Thief, about gender reversal host bars where young Japanese women pay good money for the attention of hired men. The Japanese propensity for fantasy indulging and role-playing gave us a brilliant idea: Beta Kappa McPaddysteins.

This would be a faux frat house where Japanese girls would shell out big bucks for a simulated American-style date rape experience. Don’t worry, no sex would actually occur, this would be a professional establishment. First, our patrons would be serenaded by Dave Mathews and sloppily wooed by gentleman in cargo shorts, flip flops and baseball caps. Beer pong would be played and jello shots would be in abundance. Good clean fun, a little cosplay never hurt anyone.

Huh, and then our waiter broke up our genius business plan when he stopped by with a tray of shots. Did he overhear? Did he want in on the action? No way, mister, Beta Kappa McPaddysteins is all mine.

Read my less date rapey take on Lucky Mojo for Nymag.com

Lucky Mojo * Long Island City, NY

Hibino

1/2  Hibino and Bocca Lupo always get lumped together in my mind. They both kind of popped up out of nowhere, glowing behind lots of windows on quiet Henry Street corners. Now, I’ve forgotten what previously filled those spaces.

I live on Henry Street so you might think I’d be excited by these options, but I never give them a second thought because I reside along that last little bit of Carroll Gardens that’s still on the east side of the BQE entrance.

I have been to Bocca Lupo twice now (once last month, but in a fit of reserve I didn’t write it up). Hibino, and Japanese food in general, is almost always charming yet it’s never what I’m craving. Subtle is a difficult concept for me.

It wasn’t until this weekend after watching The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (I was most struck by how attractive [in a natural way—not my usual taste—again with the subtle] all of the actresses were and yet not one was under 35. There’s no way they’d make the movie here without throwing in at least one young starlet to play baby mama, mistress, nurse, speech therapist or eye-blink transcriber) at Brooklyn Heights Cinema, my favorite never-full movie venue, that I gave in to Hibino.

There was no way I was eating in the immediate neighborhood. I don’t think I’ve ever dined in Brooklyn Heights, unless you count the north side of Atlantic Avenue and include Chip Shop or Waterfront Ale House, which technically fall into that zone. One block south of Atlantic is safe, though, and there’s friendly Hibino.

I felt I’d be remiss if I didn’t try any tofu since it’s made in house. I can’t speak to the wonderfulness or miserableness of their bean curd because I just can’t tell. Well, obviously it didn’t suck. I was impressed with the barely (in the past year I’ve noticed so many abuses of the bear/bare homonym—one during a subtitled trailer for The Band’s Visit before the Diving Bell and the Butterfly—that I’ve started questioning my sanity. But I do know there’s no way that a crust can be bearly there) there lightness of the coating. You could hardly even call it tempura.

But the squares were surrounded by dashi, once again presenting me with the tempura in soup conundrum: why it’s agreeable to put crispy into wet. If you don’t immediately dig in, there’s trouble; the coating flakes off, sinks into the liquid and turns to fluffy mush. I don’t see how it couldn’t. And this seemed like a high quality preparation. Three shishito peppers and a few shiitake mushroom caps also sat in the bowl lending spice and texture.

Mayonnaise, even sweetened Japanese style, has always been a creepy condiment but I can deal with drizzles on onomiyaki. It’s not the flavor that’s offensive because if you close your eyes and nibbled everything would blend, crispy with creamy, hot and cold. This pancake with octopus, cabbage and other bits, was a little thicker than I’m accustomed to. And I’m not convinced that the center was fully set. This was a dangerous move for someone who’s supposed to be avoiding starch, but I couldn’t help myself.

I did eschew all the meaty entrees over rice and sushi for unadulterated fish slices. Octopus never tastes like much even though it looks interesting (I first discovered this at an early-‘80s luau thrown by Hawaiian church friends of my parents. Church friends were always meh, but I did relish trying the “gross” stuff like octopus legs covered in tentacles and poi. I also used to be known for eating pet food for shock value. In fact, I lived up to this when my sister was recently in town and she scrounged up a dog pepperoni stick from her coat pocket and dared me to eat it. Of course I took a bite. It was foul, bitter and waxy, nothing like the surprisingly benign Milk Bones I used to chomp for shits and giggles).

I like fat and oil so the mackerel (Spanish and non) and tuna were my favorites. And the dramatic yet practical on-ice presentation somehow made everything taste better.

Here’s the sushi plate, traditional, not “new style.”

Hibino * 333 Henry St., Brooklyn, NY

Sapporo

It’s interesting to see what dining choices will arise when a group of relatively like-minded (music vaguely being the common bond not food) people decide it’s time to eat after a few rounds of drinks.

Kate’s Joint, San Loco, sushi on St. Marks, ramen…no, hell no, maybe, sure. Ultimately, the gathering split into multiple directions based on culinary preferences. I won’t make a fuss if Japanese noodles are suggested, though I’m hardly a connoisseur. Not even close. All those northern Asian countries (ok, mostly Japan and Korea) are out of my typical scope. I’ve never been to heavy hitters like Setagaya or Minca.

Sapporo was just around the corner from Hi-Fi, our starting point. Not to be all old-timer but I do appreciate that chunks of the East Village have been resistant to change, and this popular no-frills joint with great prices feels grounded in a less flashy era.

 

Ultimately, I ended up with a bowl of udon, possibly because I’m still missing my chicken udon from Yagura even though I haven’t worked in the area for two years. My one mistake is always slurping too soon. It’s been forty-eight hours and my tongue still has all the taste burnt out of it.

I know I was recently bemoaning how battered fried seafood makes me hurl, but I do like shrimp tempura in small amounts. However, I’ve never quite understood why you would put something crispy into broth since all the deep fried goodness turns to immediate sog. I still like it, though.

 

Crispy oysters served with “sauce” a.k.a. Worcestershire and some other condiment that was thin and flavored with sesame oil. Lest you think I was tempting fate with all this fried food, these fritters were not mine.

 

I can’t remember which ramen this was; not miso or salt broth but the other one and topped with sliced pork and fish cakes. I would probably get this next time.

 

I get excited when I see the word tendon on a menu. Alas, this isn’t Chinese food and no chile oil and Sichuan peppercorns were put to use. It’s don as in over rice. I guess ten must have something to do with that irresistable shrimp tempura.

Despite no feeling in my tongue, I feel invigorated. The Japanese restaurant I’m really keen on trying is Hakata Tonton, which looks to have just fallen victim to the DOH. I need pigs’ feet so they had better get it together pronto.

Sapporo * 164 First Ave., New York, NY

BarFry

1/2 *wow, these closings are getting faster and faster (4/23/08)

As someone who has been known to throw B.Y.O.C (candy, duh) deep fry parties, I couldn’t really ignore BarFry, gimmicky concept or not (though I do think it’s odd to have barf in the name of your restaurant). I figured it would be a while before I got around to trying the restaurant, though.

One, I’m never in the neighborhood, and two, I hate crowds. But Saturday night I found myself attending a rooftop party in the West Village and discovered that a Times Under $25 review has less affect on diners than I’d assumed (even if a write up is so-so, I figure that jus the mention of a new venue might pike curiosity). While Bleecker Street was already kind of a mess at 8:30pm, BarFry was nearly empty. Ok, so neither New Yorkers nor tourists are sold on the concept of haute fritters.

It’s certainly not the type of meal you’d want on a regular basis, and as I’d anticipated, the prices quickly add up (though four drinks probably made up half the bill). Even if you could justify eating this battered, fried food daily, you might not be able to afford it. We were encouraged to order six-to-ten items for two, which I thought was a little excessive.

For the straight up tempura treatment, we went with pumpkin, shishito peppers, a crab cake and two pork dumplings. You’re given four dipping sauces: sweet miso, jalapeño soy, chile yuzu and wasabi remoulade. Soy, proving you can’t always fight tradition, worked the best. The batter was crispy, barely greasy and seemed like a fitting match for equally light items. The pork dumplings didn’t really need the coating, but I could’ve told you that before ordering them.

We split an oyster po boy, which was a bit heavy on the lettuce. I couldn’t even tell you what the oysters tasted like. As part of a sampling meal, the sandwich wasn’t a disaster but if it was the only thing you picked you might be disappointed.

Our only non-fried dish, a special of “noodles” made from cuttlefish, spiked with wasabi and I think shisho leaf, was a smart departure. If there were to be a next time, I would balance out the meal with more fresh items. But how many tempura-centric restaurants does one encounter in a lifetime? I didn’t go there to eat delicate Japanese-influenced raw dishes.

I’m not a chefy person but I did notice Zak Pelaccio wandering in and out the front door during our meal. Later, at the party where I didn’t know anyone because the common thread was Johns Hopkins and U. Penn, James made an offhand comment about how we’d just been at BarFry and saw Fatty Crab. I don’t assume that anyone knows anything about restaurants. I barely do, myself. But a younger, brownstone Brooklyn version of Susie Essman standing nearby barked, “I’m friends with his wife.”

Ok, lady, no disparaging was occurring (it’s not like I got into my irrational displeasure with the Times’s obsession with his parents’ Soho loft). I don’t think being called a fatty crab is so horrible. In fact, I’m a fatty crab personified.

Yum…crabs. BarFry should totally tempura soft shell crabs, assuming they’re still in business by the time they’re in season.

BarFry * 50 Carmine St., New York, NY

Natori

I eat Japanese food with little frequency. That’s why when someone in the know invites me out, I can’t resist. A friend, Nao, had an impromptu birthday dinner at Natori, an unassuming two-sided restaurant on St. Marks that you might walk past without really noticing. There’s nothing flashy about it, very homey yet somehow naturally hip. But one of the chefs was friends with the birthday celebrant so we were treated to an omakase of sorts.

We, the ten eaters, put in a few requests from the menu, but much of it was a surprise. And the parade of dishes seemed never ending. By the time the chocolate cupcakes (inspired by a recipe from a drunken late-night viewing of America’s Test Kitchen after my birthday party) were presented, I was bursting at the seams.

avocado tuna semi-salad

burdock and hijiki/I was told a story about how American prisoners of war were fed gobo (burdock) and once freed complained about being made to eat bark and a Japanese soldier was executed specifically for this transgression. Burdock is tasty. I'd prefer to the sort of gruel I imagine in a P.O.W. camp.

 
mackerel sushi/There were people not so into mackerel. I guess it's oily and particularly fishy but that's what I like about it. I think of it as being Spanish, not so much Japanese.

alligator/It didn't taste like chicken in the least, kind of gamey and naturally spicy. Or maybe the light coating was spiced.

ginger squid/this was fairly sweet and I was pleased that the rings weren't breaded and fried. Even though I'm the one who picked this dish I feared it would be more like fried calamari.

enoki noodles

 
bean curd filled with rice

soft shell crab sushi/It seems like you could eat a whole plate easily, but two pieces were filling. I think it's the tempura effect.

takoyaki okonomiyaki/I'm not sure why I'm often repulsed by mayonnaise but rarely bothered by its presence in Japanese preperations. The cheese was jumping around from the heat and made the whole octopus pancake seem alive.

 
mixed sushi/there were more rolls than these but I didn't take photos of everything.

steamed sea bass/I'd just eaten Chinese steamed sea bass a few week prior. I wonder if removing the head is standard? The fish almost seemed naked without it.

cupcakes! 

I take pictures of food, but rarely my dining companions. Here’s a short video, if you’re into that sort of thing. I’m only peripherally captured on it, but sadly my voice dominates the audio. Sometimes I forget how strongly my voice carries. Seriously, in grade school I was always the one made to go sit in the hall when I was part of a crew of disruptively gabby girls. Despite protesting, the teachers would tell me, “but you’re the one we hear.”

Natori * 58 St. Marks Pl., New York, NY

Snacky

1/2 I hadn’t planned on going out the eve before Christmas Eve but somehow ended up meeting a couple of friends in Williamsburg (like it or not, whenever I’m home alone during holidays I seem to end up in Williamsburg) for drinks. I was hoping that no one brought gifts because I’ve been bad since the early ‘00s and have bowed out of exchanges. But I was bestowed with a handmade stocking filled with a bottle of Poochi-Poochi, anyway. Appropriate for a sake bar. I ultimately ended up breezing through two medium servings of a sake whose poetic name I can’t even recall.

It’s kind of hard to not order at least one plate when a place is called Snacky. The menu is larger and wider ranging than what you’ll find from searching online. It might be over-ambitious for the tiny kitchen but we didn’t experience any mishaps. There was no way I could pass up the cheese wontons, a.k.a. crab rangoon, a particular obsession of mine. I will try this silly east-west masterpiece on any menu where I find it. I also tried the takoyaki, because why not? I kind of liked the mushy texture with octopussy bits hidden inside, but the raw ginger strips were a little too zingy for me. The mini Popsie burgers looked appealing and I’m intrigued rather than scared by the pizza with Chinese sausage. Dairy can definitely work with Asian food. Just think of those mayora going nuts...ok, mayonnaise isn't dairy, is it?

Deann got two orders of two different types of dumpling, which I thought was odd considering the numerous choices on the menu, but whatever. Everyone’s entitled their own eating ideas and I try not to impose my food beliefs on others (though I did have to pipe up with a resounding “no way” when she espoused the charms of nearby My Moon).

I noticed a friend of a friend at the bar and being full of the holiday spirit (as well as spirits of another nature) I said hi because he’s a food/music person with taste I generally agree with. I swear I’m not persnickety but I don’t always see eye to eye with others. Plus, I called him a foodie or some such horror earlier this year in a post about Belle and Sebastian of all things, and I can’t be known as a meanie even though I am 70% the time. I’m just wary of food-obsessed folks because they’re usually annoying and/or humorless. I’m not naming names but it’s fair to say I find few food blogs entertaining (this isn’t a food blog, so there).

I don’t know why I’ve never been to Snacky before. Ok, I know why, because I rarely eat in Williamsburg (I just looked it up and my last meal in the nabe, yeah nabe, was at bizarro Lazy Catfish way back in April. They did have crab rangoon, I must add) but it’s as cute and breezy as its name implies.

Snacky * 187 Grand St., Brooklyn, NY

Cube 63

It recently occurred to me that I never ever eat sushi for dinner. Yeah, I pick up deli (technically Sushi-Tei [they advertise this link, but this particular restaurant is nowhere to be seen on the website] which is no Café Zaiya or Yagura. I’m still mourning both after six months in my not-so-new-anymore job neighborhood) sushi a couple times a week for lunch, but that’s not like real. I know, purists get all grossed out by fast food sushi, but those midtown you pick, they toss, salads make me want to hurl. And fast food sushi is cheaper than a lot of midtown mediocrity.

I picked neighborhood Cube 63 for no reason in particular. I think Osaka is the local higher end fave and clearly Hana Sushi is just plain popular. While Cube 63 was nearly empty around 7:30 on a Saturday, Hana, one block over was stuffed to the gills. I would say that those diners must’ve known something we didn’t if it weren’t for the fact that I don’t trust the judgment of most people in Cobble Hill.

We were fairly restrained in ordering. I picked spicy tuna rolls, spider rolls and yellowtail sushi. James asked for scallop sashimi and the 63 roll (spicy tuna, avocado, lobster salad). Yeah, a bit tuna heavy. All in all it was an acceptable dinner, but there was something flat and perfunctory about the experience. Of course it was more enjoyable than deli sushi, which isn’t saying much.

Cube 63 * Court St., Brooklyn, NY

Taku

So, I've finally deduced that it takes me about six months to actually try a new restaurant. Well-intentioned or not, I never seem to get to all the places on my list, even when they're walking distance from my apartment. And in NYC, nobody cares about a restaurant after six months.

I recall good things being said about Taku when it opened this summer. I don't know if they've kept things up at the same caliber, but I was unexpectedly under whelmed. James flat out didn't like food, which surprised me since he's never extremely passionate about anything, let alone cuisine.

My sashimi trio included...um, I can't even say for sure because it wasn't explained well and I'm not a raw fish whiz, I think uni and two different white fleshed fish varieties, along with a couple different seaweed salad tufts. It was fresh and just toothsome enough to remind me that I should eat Japanese food more often.

James ordered the wings, which I was interested in too. The sambal coating and cucumber cream dip sounded like a fun riff on Buffalo wings. They were presented prettily on a long ceramic plate and wrapped with a thin leaf. Unfortunately, the meat wasn't fully cooked, once you bit off the saucy exterior, the flesh was raw. It's a good thing neither of us are panicky about avian flu, or more realistically salmonella. I guess we should've said something, but it didn't feel worth the bother. There was a weird dispiriting vibe in the room, despite the surface soothing tones and music. Nothing overt, but the service managed to feel spacey and clunky, like I didn't want to do anything to further interactions or conversations. So, we kept mum on the sashimi wings.

I enjoyed my Taku ramen, which was ideal for a pork fanatic like myself. The tonkatsu broth was laden with thin slices of Berkshire pork and a nice substantial piece of rasher style bacon. The weird thing is that I expected more flavor, the broth was oddly flat and even the tiniest bit bitter. I think my taste buds could be tainted by my almost daily bowl of cheap Yagura chicken udon. I'm sure the stuff is teeming with salt and msg, but it's insanely savory and addictive. Maybe it's dashi derived vs. pork bone broth? No expert in Japanese soups, I'd always imagined pork broth to be the stronger flavored of the two.

James envied my ramen and loathed his scallops so much that he actually went home and ate a bowl of instant tom yam noodles. I thought his entre looked fine, though I became scared to taste it when he began insisting it was laced with mayonnaise. I wouldn't be surprised, Japanese are a tad mayo crazy, but the emulsified condiment wasn't listed as an ingredient. I only recall apple puree (as a bed for the seared sesame crusted scallops), celery root (a few scattered slices) and holy basil (in the form of lightly drizzled oil) as components. The celery root did appear to be coated in a white creamy sauce. I don't think the quality was poor, it just wasn't what he had had in mind.

Despite being offered a new job mere hours before this meal, we couldn't agree on whether this was a celebratory dinner or not. I said no at the end because it didn't go well and I wasn't feeling elated like I should've been. James said yes, since it ended up being more than we'd (ok, he'd) normally spend on food for a casual weeknight ($81). I don't care what he says, it didn't count--I'm getting another dinner.

Taku * 116 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

Megu

This was a bit of a surprise Valentines choice. We eat a lot of Asian food, but never Japanese. I havent tried any of the ten million new trendy Japanese restaurants that seem to have sprouted everywhere below 14^th Street. Mostly because I'm miserly and not fond of obnoxious scenes, but there are exceptions to every rule.

Megu ended up being surprisingly fun--maybe thats just the alcohol talking—somehow meals always become more fun in proportion to the amount of imbibing that occurs. Yes, the food was tiny and expensive, but it was creative and mostly satisfying. The service was gracious and completely unpretentious. As might be expected there were plenty of white guy/Asian girl and wizened male/nubile females combos dotted throughout the starkly plush room (yeah, its possible to be simultaneously minimalist yet decadent). The tables and white leather banquettes were pleasantly spaced and intimate, which lent to the luxurious feeling. Arm room and the ability to hold private dinner conversations are not inalienable rights in NYC. A gargantuan iron bell hangs from the ceiling, hovering over a large ice carved Buddha, but somehow it seems Ok, despite verging excessive.

We were seated near the sushi bar, which frankly made for a better view than looking out over a sea of lovers. Raw fish beats painful attempts at impressing dates, any day. We opted for the prix fixe, of which many of the dishes and their proper names have vanished from my memory, not that they were unmemorable. These things just tend to blur, particularly when preparations have lots of little components. And hey, Megu is known for its thirteen-page tome of a menu, they don't make it easy. We started with a glass of complimentary Veuve Clicquot (which I couldnt turn down because, well, its alcohol, but I'm so grossed out by all the recent press given to their CEO the sepulchral author of French Women Dont Get Fat).

Things progressed from there with an amuse of custard in an eggshell that was flavored with the ol one-two punch of black truffles and foie gras. Then came a champagne risotto dusted with gold leaf, a lobster ravioli, kobe beef with six ground peppers (this was the funny part because while normally non-questioning diners, we inquired about the differences between the miniscule pillars of pepper positioned at the edge of the plate. The waitress laughed, then admitted she didnt know and had to pull out her notes. I don't know if that was unprofessional, but it made her seem more human than many waitress-bots these places often employ), yellowtail sushi, a rock shrimp tempura, I think, an edamame soup, perhaps another course was in there. Like I said, it was a whirlwind and the sake and cocktails didnt do much for bolstering brainpower.

There sort of were two desserts. I say sort of because I'm not sure that “slightly sweet egg” counts or not. It came precariously presented in this whimsical dish/cup combo that magnetically held the shell at a 45-degree angle. While trying to crack the top to get to the tofu custard I managed to drop the egg onto my lap and then the floor. The staff was totally eagle-eyed because I thought I'd rectified the mishap before anyone noticed, but a waiter immediately came over to replace my oddball treat. A “real” dessert crafted into a heart and made of a chocolate crme caramel covered in spun sugar followed it. I was also given a small box of chocolates at dinners end, then managed to unexpectedly score a second box while at the coat check. It's the little things, you know.

* 62 Thomas St., New York, NY

Yagura

1/2 Sometimes addictions creep up on you. I was initially attracted to Cafe Zaiya as a lunchtime destination at my new midtown job. It's bright, shiny, bustling, and heck there's a Beard Papa stand inside. But a few storefronts closer to me is no frills Yagura. There's a small Japanese grocery store in back, sparse, elevated seating to your immediate right, then the main event to your left, a bustling counter with perpetual lines.

Katsu, teriyaki, noodle soups...I'm not sure what the main draw is, but I always stick with the $4.50 chicken udon and have never been disappointed. Initially, it seemed straightforward, nothing special, but now I'll find myself thinking about it and looking forward to running across the street for a fix. The broth helps, it's very rich and flavorful (is that dashi?) and the noodles are thick and perfectly chewy. The chicken, usually five large chunks or so, has the skin on, making the whole bowl of soup tasty and probably too fatty for some. The best is when you get pieces where the skin is still crispy, the meat seems more fried or broiled than stewed, and maybe that's the secret.

Yagura* 41st St., New York, 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

Minado

1/2 Minado is clearly the Japanese version of East Buffet. And if you're familiar with East Buffet, I barely need elaborate. It's an over-the-top, horn-of-plenty feeding frenzy. The dcor is definitely more restrained than it's similar Chinese all-you-can-eat, but being in a Long Island strip mall, you could hardly call it tasteful. It's not someplace I'd normally frequent, but it's near the Hicksville Ikea and a person can only take so much meatballs and lingonberry after a hard day's shopping.

Of course, there's a sushi bar with all sorts of varieties including one baffler with pink rice. There are also standards such as teriyaki, wakame, and edamame. But like any good "ethnic" buffet, there must be American banquet pleasers a la lobster thermador, and pasta. Being a lover of tiny not-quite-sweet-enough Asian desserts, I was happy with the rows of light layered sponge cakes flavored with mocha and green tea.

Load up, but don't waste (throwing out uneaten sushi will net you a 20% surcharge) and don't overstay the 1.5 hour limit. Ha, we always end up past the two-hour mark without even realizing it. It's not a matter of being piggish, it's just that normal, i.e. myself, people eat at a reasonable pace (you may be aware of my "shovel time" grade school lunch trauma). Everyone around us came and went, new crops filled the tables while we held our slow and steady ground. And slow and steady wins the race, right?

Minado* 219 Glen Cove Rd., Carle Place, NY

Rai Rai Ken

Who says the obnoxious practice of bombarding apartment buildings with take out menus doesn't work? I'd always meant to try Rai Rai Ken, but it's tiny and it just never seemed to be the right moment…until James had a menu slipped under his door. I'm not a huge ramen fan, and yes I know ramen is not all like Top Ramen, but this soup was on the tastier side. What was truly baffling were the list of extras: green onion and roast pork I understand, but butter?! I knew those Japanese had a fetish for mayonnaise, but apparently they're nutty for dairy in all its inappropriate forms.

RaiRai Ken * 214 E. 10th, New York, NY

Morimoto

With these name brand restaurants, I hem and haw over what to say, as if seriousness of mission is ever reflected in my recounting. Whatever. Morimoto was a spur of the moment birthday dinner choice. All I knew was that New York City was not the place to be for James's 33rd birthday. Not after the past few years of fiascos. I randomly made out of town reservations. Perhaps not the brightest financial move, but hey, what's a whole week's wages for a meal ($12/hour part time doesn't get you far when it comes to high end dining)? That's right, the world is this library clerk's oyster.

We ended up taking the middle ground, trying the $100 omakase (the others being $80 or $120) and probably ordered a bad wine, the waiter seemed curt and unimpressed with me. But that could've had more to do with how every time we go to a restaurant that serves a Willamette Valley wine James makes a big point of asking how to pronounce it because invariably they'll say Willa Met as he also incorrectly says it. It's Wil LAM ette, the correct way, my way. I'm from the Willamette Valley, for crying out loud. Anyway, the ruse always alienates staff and pisses me off.

It's definitely a thrill to see the plates coming out, not knowing what you'll get. The trouble is not having a menu to refer to, and only the verbal descriptions. I tend to forget subtle ingredients, nuances and feel self-conscious about scribbling in a notebook like an foodie who needs to be put in his place. The first course was toro tartare with caviar wasabi and what they called a Japanese peach (more like a pitted berry), then a palate cleanser of wasabi-yuzu sorbet with a beignet (not a pillowy New Orleans goodie, but a miniature, sweet breadstick), third was hamachi with microgreens and a yuzu vinaigrette, fourth halibut steamed with sake in a banana leaf, fifth Kobe beef with Japanese potatoes (sweet), and a final sushi course served on a board (I don't remember the individual varieties, there were about six in the style I think is called Nigiri-sushi). Dessert was a long thin strip of yam cake with a postage stamp-size square of lime gelatin, drizzles of balsamic vinegar and a thimble dollop of ice cream, the flavor I can't recall.

Morimoto wasn't in the house, but I'm not one of those folks who goes to celebrity-chef type restaurants looking for snapshots. I do fall for over-the-top dcor, however. Sure, all that Stephen Starr plastic, glowing, color-changing, space-age crap is gimmicky. But it works on me.

Morimoto* 723 Chestnut St., Philadelphia, PA

Shima

It was blistering hot, I was in the East Village, sushi seemed appropriate and Shima was there. I'm not a sushi expert by a long shot so in a neighborhood with practically one place on every block, you've got to dive in. I was perfectly content with my sushi for two and cold sake. I'm sure there are better places in the vicinity, but that's not something worth stressing over.

Shima* 188 Second Ave., New York, NY