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Oct 30

Royal Indian Oasis

*as per comments below, Royal Indian Oasis has kicked the bucket. (3/25/08)

I have no idea when Indian Oasis added Royal to their name because it’s not like I get out to subway-less Queens so often and it’s not the kind of breaking news bloggers go nuts over. The décor, prices and “Close Tuesday” misuse on the takeout menu are all the same as my last visit nearly two years ago but I imagine the Royal addition would be new management flair.

Indian_oasis_kung_pao_potatoes All I really need to say is that kung pao potatoes are a peerless fusion treat. Neither forced nor fussy, this genius Indian-Chinese invention (Taj Mahal? Great Wall of China? Feh) plays to both cuisines’ strengths without getting silly. (And no, kung pao isn’t completely made up American but it might go by gong bao ji ding in China). When fresh from the kitchen, the potatoes are sweet, slightly crisp and genuinely spicy. Crunchy water chestnut slices and peanuts add texture. Potatoes seem made for this combination. Halved dried chiles coupled with fresh diagonally sliced green ones, generate a heat that surrounds your tongue and sticks around for a good ten minutes.

Indian_oasis_drums_of_heaven We also had sliced lamb chilli, Hakka style, which was a strong choice–same for the lollipop chicken called drums of heaven (left). The Hakka noodles weren't anything special. There’s nothing mediocre about Royal Indian Oasis. The food is a shade better than both Tangra Masalas and they don’t go completely overboard with the corn starch thickeners.

I do worry that they aren’t drawing enough customers. There was only one other couple when we came in and only one small group appeared before we left. Perhaps 9:30pm isn’t prime dining time in suburban Queens, but the sushi place with Bennihanna table side cooking, a few doors over, was hopping.

Royal Indian Oasis * 184-22 Horace Harding Expressway, Fresh Meadows, NY

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Oct 28

See What I Mean?

Marysee_1 See's isn't exclusive. There's nothing Michel Cluizel or Fauchon about it. Old (long-dead) Mary See doesn't taunt you with one coveted U.S. flagship, her milk chocolate legacy can be found at practically any mall…as long as you're on the west coast. There's not really anything gourmet (or whatever that dated adjective implies anymore–I suppose artisanal or organic would be more a la minute) about See's candy but they're one of my favorite treats in the world.

And I do mean the world. I was almost crazed enough to cough up roughly $40 for a pound when I unexpectedly found a shop in a Kowloon mall. Being away from home, even for a short period, will do that to you. On my first visit to England eleven years ago all I could think about were those sugary, shortening-laden sheet cakes from any American grocery stores that usually have a lemon or raspberry jam stripe in the middle. I suspect I was having a reaction to the fruitcakey, marzipan topped wedding cake I'd been subjected to on this trip (here's a photo of such a beast from my sister's wedding #2–I obviously didn't "photoblog" the first). I might be one of the few freaks in the universe who actually likes fruitcake, but light and frivolous it is not.

Candy_2 I was thrilled to find a hand-picked box (as opposed to the standard assorted variety) in my mailbox (ok, on the little table that’s been put in the foyer because the mailman apparently thinks 11231 is still a ghetto zip code rather than half-gentrified and filled with merciless complainers who aren’t accustomed to shoddy service [seriously, I think we’re intentionally getting shit because tenants have told on this guy so many times] and throws 85% of our building’s mail on the ground rather than opening up the boxes) from my mom a few days ago. We occasionally received a box for Christmas as older kids (we got Whitman’s samplers when younger) but Halloween is new to me. It’s a tradition I could get behind, though.

The last See’s candy I was exposed to was a Christmas season two-pound gift box sitting on the table near my desk, two jobs ago (and I wonder why I’m having such a hard time getting past HR now. Three jobs in one year raises countless red flags). It was during the transit strike when I walked eight miles on top of taking the PATH to and from work, so I somehow justified eating Scotchmallows, Apricot Delights and Polar Bear Paws, throughout the day. Unfortunately, sitting around the house on a Saturday like today I have no excuse for that kind of gluttony.

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Oct 26

Going to the Bathroom Like Clockwork Good

Prune_1 Because I’m a sucker for gimmicks, I’ve been eating Activa yogurt since it was launched earlier this year. I’m not exactly wild about yogurt but it’s easy to transport to work, is low in fat and calories (well, that Greek stuff isn’t and that’s probably why it actually tastes good) and this particular product is supposedly filled with good bacteria that they’ve named Bifidus Regularis™ (honestly, I don’t know how you invent a bacteria). Over the years I’ve taken acidophilus (I always thought it was a yeast prevention, but my dad also took it for ages which is kind of strange now that I think about it because he was so not into vitamins or health in general), so I figured why not get more probiotics through food.

But I never gave much thought to the angle Activa was actually pushing until I saw a new flavor at Pathmark this weekend: prune. Prune? I’ve never encountered prune yogurt in my lifetime. Prunes are for pooping, duh. I should’ve looked more closely at their advertising claims bolstered by an illustration of a taut stomach with an arrow pointing downward, “helps naturally regulate your digestive system” and “helps reduce long intestinal transit time.” Ah yes, the dreaded long intestinal transit time (I actually discovered I suffered from such an affliction when I ate baked and ate blue velvet cake and my toilet water shockingly ended up turquoise a full three days later).

So, I’m mildly bothered by eating Metamucil in yogurt form but I’d much prefer this over anything hawked by those horrible Yoplait “getting a foot massage while shoe shopping for chocolate covered heels good” girls.

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Oct 24

Eating (Not So) Good in the Neighborhood

Applebees_1 Sometimes you must pay the piper for your shits and giggles, and Applebee’s recently got the better of me. I swear, eating at this particular chain twice in two weeks is not typical behavior. The NJ meal was just happenstance, no harm done. Last Wednesday, though, in a serious lapse of judgment I agreed to meet a former coworker at the Times Square location (I think the LeVar Burton-loving manager is finally on the outs. I like to believe that this turn of events coming a month after my departure is directly related to their inability to function without my presence) .

I know, I know, you get what’s coming to you by not only dining in the epicenter of Manhattan evil (no feeling eating good in this neighborhood) but choosing to do so at a tourist-gouging venue. I thought I was woman enough to handle it. And I did emotionally, but I paid a price, literally. (You thought I was cheap with my $5/day lunch budget before, but now I’m trying to cap it at three pathetic bucks. Lately, I’ve been subsisting Kashi TLC bars, green apples and baby carrots brought from home sometimes supplemented by $3.19 medium Au Bon Pain soup.)

What would you imagine one might pay for a cheeseburger and two margaritas at Applebee’s? If you guessed $47, then you’re a Rain Man and I'd like to punch you in your calculator craw.  And the cruel part is that you can view their menus by location on the website so it’s no secret that most Manhattan items are $6 more than their NJ versions. I would like to somehow hold Tyler Florence and his Huge Flavors responsible for this travesty.

I have a friend who was very disappointed that we never got to take advantage of Olive Garden’s $7.95 Never Ending Pasta Bowl promotion, which ended two Sundays ago and only lasted for about two weeks. Clearly, I was fool for passing up such well-priced carbs.

Photo of the other Times Square Applebee's (yes, there are two) from someone named Dawn Westlake.

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Oct 24

Mie Jakarta

There’s certainly crossover amongst Indonesian, Malaysian and Singaporean cuisine though I’ve only experienced the latter two on their home turf. (As to the countries themselves, our teenage waiter keenly summarized “I hear Singapore’s mad clean” while chatting with a customer waiting for take out.) I think that’s why Indonesian strikes me as more esoteric. There are a buttload of islands (I’d say 17,508 qualifies for buttload status) besides Bali, and regional specialties abound.

Mie_ayam Elmhurst is home to three restaurants: Upi Jaya and Minangasli are Padang in origin and Mie Jakarta, just a couple storefronts over from Minangasli, serves Sulawesi-style noodles (read about their rivalry if you have Times Select). I’ve now tried all of the above and I have to say that I was least crazy about Mie Jakarta. But that’s not to say the food is poor in any way because I'm prejudiced against poor egg noodles (I also generally steer clear of goulash and Eastern European fare that might contain said starch strips). I do think their use is an interesting remnant from Dutch colonialism, but in that vein I’d prefer a Malaysian prawn paste tea sandwich.

Other items are on the small menu, but the focus is the handful of variations on chicken noodle soup, mie ayam, which comes broken into two components. The larger bowl is filled with curly yellow noodles, greens, mushrooms, chicken chunks and the smaller vessel contains the broth. If you order mie ayam bakso, meatballs come floating in the broth and if you try mie ayam pangsit like I did that means you have three chicken filled wontons tucked along side the main ingredients.

Before I realized everyone else was eating their noodles interspersed with spoonfuls of broth, I dumped my liquid on top all at once. I must be missing the subtlety of the chew and sip approach. Maybe you don’t want the noodles getting too soggy?

I enjoyed the chewy-crisp contrast in texture (James had a problem with the fishballs and mystery meatballs accompanying his soup. Personally, I like the springiness of those items but that’s not a universal sentiment) and mild flavors, but I do prefer spicier Southeast Asian ricey-saucey or stir-fried noodle dishes. CampurOf course, you can add chili sauce, which I did. Unfortunately, a previous diner didn’t screw on the cap and an orange stream splashed up James’s arm and caused him to declare that he didn’t like Mie Jakarta, which is pretty childish, if you ask me.

Despite our fall weather being completely incompatible with shaved ice dessert-drinks, I couldn’t resist ordering es campur. It wasn’t as brilliantly hued as some of these tropical concoctions but it did contain the requisite number of pleasingly disquieting tastes and mouth squishes that demand using both straw and spoon. There were chunks of jackfruit and various beans, peas, seeds, or who knows what, floating in the icy coconut milk. I noticed something made up sounding on the take out menu called es glamour, which I’m even more interested in after it failed to make an appearance on Google. 

Mie Jakarta * 86-20 Whitney Ave., Elmhurst, NY

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Oct 24

Sheep Station

I’m all for new restaurants brightening up bleak strips of Brooklyn. I fruitlessly waited for something cheerier than White Castle, KFC or Twin Lin’s Chinese take out to bless Fourth Avenue in the no-man’s-land 30s where I lived for three years. Not even mild gentrification brushed that anonymous swath of Sunset Park that’s increasingly referred to as Greenwood Heights.

MusselsUpper Fourth Avenue appears to be having more luck. Sheep Station is the latest in what appears to be an Australian-ish boomlet (Wombat has possibly opened in East Williamsburg, and Carroll Gardens West’s DUB Pies, East Village’s Tuck Shop and Lower East Side’s Bondi Road aren’t all that old). I use ish in this case because the food isn’t overwhelmingly Australian (I was tempted to earnestly ask for a Bloomin’ Onion and Kookabura Wings). The fish of the day was barramundi, a meat pie was on offer and the burger comes topped with beets, pineapple, and a fried egg (which I’m assuming is de rigueur down under and not simply bizarre without reason) but generally the cuisine feels pubby.

Sheepstation By 10pm, when we arrived, there was a decent crowd, mostly drinking not eating. We opted to sit in the eerily cavernous back room (I know, I complain about being cramped and then I freak when given too much space). Facing edges of the rustic fireplace-warmed brick and concrete space contain tables, and a birthday party brigade occupied the comfy looking corner nook. The empty middle of the room seemed like it needed something, either more tables or clumps of milling drinkers. By 11pm we had a private dining room.

I went generic and ordered mussels and fries, while James had the fish and chips. Both entrees were solid renditions and fairly priced around $12, as I recall. The menu isn’t huge, which furthers the impression that Sheep Station is more of a bar that serves food (it’s hasn’t been referred to as a gastropub for nothing) rather than a full blown dining destination. But it’s a worthy stop if you live in the vicinity (or have been suckered into staying at the lovely new Gowanus Holiday Inn).

Fishchips_1 The only weirdness occurred when we ordered off-tasting pints of Blue Point Toasted Lager. Despite hailing from the world’s microbrew capital, I’m no hops-crazed know-it-all. But I knew enough to detect that something was amiss with the flavor in my glass. I can’t put it into words but it was plastic-like, possibly chemical, definitely not natural. Maybe it was just soap. I loathe raising issues with food or drink (thank god I’m no longer vaguely in P.R. where making a fuss and sending things back seemed like standard practice during company lunches) but we had to say something or else we’d wonder about it all night. We were gladly given different beverages, Coopers Pale Ale in bottles, but I know we were then pegged as diners who couldn’t handle strong flavors, as it was explained to us that it was a fresh keg and the beer was “extra toasty.”  I know what toasted might taste like and that wasn’t it. Now, I feel compelled to track down a six-pack of Blue Point Toasted Lager to prove that I’m not needlessly high maintenance.

Sheep Station * 149 Fourth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Oct 24

Eating (Not So) Good in the Neighborhood

Applebees_1 Sometimes you must pay the piper for your shits and giggles, and Applebee’s recently got the better of me. I swear, eating at this particular chain twice in two weeks is not typical behavior. The NJ meal was just happenstance, no harm done. Last Wednesday, though, in a serious lapse of judgment I agreed to meet a former coworker at the Times Square location (I think the LeVar Burton-loving manager is finally on the outs. I like to believe that this turn of events coming a month after my departure is directly related to their inability to function without my presence) .

I know, I know, you get what’s coming to you by not only dining in the epicenter of Manhattan evil (no feeling eating good in this neighborhood) but choosing to do so at a tourist-gouging venue. I thought I was woman enough to handle it. And I did emotionally, but I paid a price, literally. (You thought I was cheap with my $5/day lunch budget before, but now I’m trying to cap it at three pathetic bucks. Lately, I’ve been subsisting Kashi TLC bars, green apples and baby carrots brought from home sometimes supplemented by $3.19 medium Au Bon Pain soup.)

What would you imagine one might pay for a cheeseburger and two margaritas at Applebee’s? If you guessed $47, then you’re a Rain Man and I'd like to punch you in your calculator craw.  And the cruel part is that you can view their menus by location on the website so it’s no secret that most Manhattan items are $6 more than their NJ versions. I would like to somehow hold Tyler Florence and his Huge Flavors responsible for this travesty.

I have a friend who was very disappointed that we never got to take advantage of Olive Garden’s $7.95 Never Ending Pasta Bowl promotion, which ended two Sundays ago and only lasted for about two weeks. Clearly, I was fool for passing up such well-priced carbs.

Photo of the other Times Square Applebee's (yes, there are two) from someone named Dawn Westlake.

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Oct 20

Scrape Books Sous Vide

1. (German Google) Life in the Paki shop/ What do you call an Indian with an apple on his head?……

Marc3_2 Um, I don't know. What do you call an Indian with an apple on his head? I tried coming up with a punch line before looking online (Fruit Salaam? William Tamil? Ok, those aren’t even close to sensible or clever) but I’m totally stumped. Oh wow, I was on the right track, it’s William Patel. Germans are a funny people, nein?

2. why does marc marrone wear turtlenecks?

Well, the obvious answer would be duh, because he loves animals and turtles are an animal. Turtlenecks fall into two camps: debonair and dorky. And we all know Marc doesn’t fall into the first group.

Marc1_1  Actually, the obsessive bird ladies on this Pionus Parrot message board emailed Marc and nice guy that he is, responded:

“I was savaged by a monkey many years ago that left me with a bad scar on my neck and that is why my neck is always covered-plus Harry is always on my shoulder so the turtleneck keeps all the microphone wires hidden from him-he has destroyed many expensive electronic pieces.”

There you go. A real answer, no joke.

3. shit sous vide

Marc4 So, that Cocina de Vanguardia craze has finally devolved to this? Talk about hot shit, maybe this is the sort of “molecular gastronomy” pretentious, wolverine-headed Marcel, Top Chef 2’s new villain, practices. I wouldn’t mind seeing a steamy poop amuse bouche with a little urine foam on the side make its way onto TV.

4. family  air loom receipt scrapbooks

Marcmarrone2 I only mention this query because while they mangled heirloom, at least they got scrapbook right. The other day at work some nut emailed a request (I’d intentionally forgotten how it was to work with the public) for a photo the paper had run of Janet Jackson in a bikini and hip high boots that he needed for his scrape book. I don’t want to enable anyone with celebrity scrape books. Now, if he said he needed the sexy pic for a family air loom, I might’ve complied.

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Oct 18

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Sunday Night Special: Pork & Shellfish

Mussels_with_serrano I used to harbor fantasies of eating hors d’oeuvres for dinner (yes, my imagination is that lame). The dainty notion seemed mildly exotic when I was younger but now they just call the concept tapas, Spanish or not. As an adult I’ve grown to realize that putting together lots of tiny bites can be fussy and time consuming; fun for a party, not so much for mid-week dinner. But this was Sunday so it was ok.

I’m not sure what possessed him, but James went through two of my food magazines sitting on the coffee table and marked all these recipes to make. I’ve never seen such cooking enthusiasm so I didn’t made any comments to deter his sudden interest even though I did think it was odd that he picked three Gourmet recipes all on the same page with the same pork and seafood theme and that he only picked Cooking Light dishes from the roasting feature, but whatever.

Bacon_wrapped_scallops Since it turned freezing this weekend (how can it be 80s and 40s within ten days of each other?) I was gung ho on pot roast. That was the original Sunday night plan. But after eating braised lamb shoulder the evening prior at Flatbush Farm, I was totally stewed-out. We’d already tried the Grilled Pork Chops with Clams and Chorizo earlier in the week so all that remained were the two other Jew unfriendly double whammies from Gourmet. Sea Scallops with Spiced Bacon and Mussels with Serrano Ham it would have to be.

Bacon_scallops_close_upHowever, these were hors d’oeuvres. No matter, I was able to live out my mini food dream (who says I never what I hope for?). And tiny doesn’t mean light in my world. Just because there were two of us rather than the 60 intended for the mussels and 28 for the scallops, didn’t mean we scaled down our operation. It simply meant we had a shit load of bite sized treats to gorge on (and I wonder why I can’t get my B.M.I. down one point into the merely overweight category). Who needs a $12 per bitsy portion gouging? You can be thrifty and gluttonous when you recreate the small plates experience in your own home.

In case you’re wondering, we didn’t actually eat the whole damn slew in one sitting. Luckily, I’m not averse to day-old seafood. All that spice and acid–cayenne, curry powder, sherry vinegar–must preserve to some degree, right?

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Oct 17

Flatbush Farm

1/2 Bar_1I’m so not into the whole urban “farm” trend. Terms like seasonal, organic or locally grown excite me slightly less than fritter, popper or bacon wrapped (I realize the two sets needn’t be mutually exclusive—now, that would be a restaurant concept I could support). But I can venture into this terrain if doesn’t entail straying too far from my apartment and Flatbush Farm, while not walkable, was close enough for at least one visit.

The restaurant, which is situated on that semi-Prospect Heights, kind of Park Slope, mini-strip of St. Mark’s between 6th Avenue and Flatbush that’s nearly the tip of a triangle, wasn’t terribly crowded at 9pm on a Saturday. Bad for them but a boon to me. There’s nothing convivial about being wedged into a squished row of two-seaters.

Lamb_2They had the atmosphere down pat, slightly woody and candlelit yet modern and enhanced by design-y hanging bulbs. A Mo’ Stomy, their minty take on a Dark ‘n Stormy, was the perfect warming beverage to sip while skimming the menu, which was spot on with the sudden drop in temperature. Braised, stewy dishes were exactly what I’d had in mind and that’s where they excelled. I had a lamb shoulder with bubble and squeak, as they said. That’s one British classic I’ve never actually tried so I cannot vouch for any authenticity. This rendition seemed to consist of pureed potatoes (possibly with cabbage mixed in) topped with chunks of meat and whittled carrots and turnips, all sauced. James had the pork goulash topped with a wad of hearty egg noodles.

Terrine The country farm terrine with pickled fruit and toast was kind of flat and flavorless. I want terrines to be unctuous and rich. The plums brightened up the dish a bit, but essentially this was a chilled slab of what seemed to be canned chicken. I don’t know that I’ve ever had canned chicken but I imagine it would be like this: dry, chunky, grocery store tuna style. Maybe there’s a poultry based Chicken of the Sea product, after all. And initially our waitress thought that they’d run out of this starter, so obviously we weren’t the only ones ordering it. I’d love to hear other takes on this because it takes a lot to induce finickiness in me.

Goulash We finished with a piece of gooey chocolate peanut butter pie, which probably wasn’t necessary but hard to say no to. The feeling was relaxed enough that I could’ve lingered around for one more drink. I could see Flatbush Farm as fitting for cocktails and bar snacks. That menu includes things like fries with herb mayonnaise, radish and butter baguettes and tempura onion rings.

Because that’s the way I am, I have to toss in one unsavory tidbit. James threw up around 3am the night we ate here, which is something I’ve never known him to do in the eight years we’ve been acquainted (though I did hear a story about puking up his mom’s home cooked hamburger in a Northern Virginian movie theater restroom during The Aviator) and I really don’t want to blame the faux farm food. He insists it was the beer later consumed at Moonshine but we only had a couple I.P.A.’s. Maybe all that hormoneless, antibiotic-free meat was too much for his system.

Flatbush Farm * 76 St. Marks Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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