Posts by krista

Feb 12

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

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Feb 11

The Red (Sauce) Badge of Courage

Pointlessly thinking about neighborhoods past is almost forcing me to give a nod to my current situation. Nice as it is, I rarely have anything (positive) to say about Carroll Gardens. Maybe the reason I feel knocked into silence is because it is so nice. Comfort is a snooze.

But I couldn’t ignore the little bit of local color reported on Time Out NY’s The Feed. It appears that the owner of local restaurant Marco Polo has been named as a defendant in the recent mafia brouhaha.

Not terribly shocking, no. But now I’m finally intrigued enough to pay Marco Polo a visit. James has been dying to try this restaurant since we moved here four years ago, and I’ve always been too spoilsporty. I do get a frequent eyeful of the white stones and brick arches from the elliptical trainers at my gym directly across the street. Perhaps the time has come for me to get over my fear of red saucey Italian-American food.

Rat On!

Rat_on
I’ve never eaten at a Qdoba even though they have begun invading Manhattan, but I am a sucker for quizzes so when I read about the What’s Your Q-dentity personality test this morning I couldn’t ignore the silly time-waster. It’s the best fast food advergame since White Castle’s Craverscope (um, five of the seven Google hits for that keyword are from me).

The thing is that the questions are ridiculous, the results dubious, but it’s not wholly made up like horoscopes. There is actual methodology given, which isn’t to say that Dr. Hirsch isn’t a quack.

As it turns out I’m a walking talking quesadilla. “A dependable and true friend, those who prefer quesadillas are content being one of the crowd; they are loyal followers more than leaders. At work they are the foot soldiers, task-oriented, functioning ideally in a group. They don’t require individual praise, but share their successes with those around them. They toil behind the scenes for others at work or in their family.” You know, like Bill Murray in What About Bob and Talia Shire as Adrianne in Rocky.

I don’t like that one bit. Foot soldier? Nuh-uh.

Instead, I’m claiming my rat-ness and today is my day. Pardon, this is my year. Rats aren’t followers and they don’t toil behind the scenes. Rats get shit done. I’ve waited over a decade for this moment.

Looking back, I guess 1996 must’ve been lame and un-ratty because I can’t remember a thing about it. I know that I was 24, dating someone twenty years my senior, shelved books part time for a living, went out and drank a lot, fell down stairs and broke my tail bone and that’s about it. I don’t understand urbane go-getter twenty-somethings who own real estate and have prestigious job titles, and I don’t care to.

But I do recall ’84 because one of the eighth graders in my English class (which I got to take as a sixth grader and got picked on a lot mostly because I was a teacher’s pet and kind of because I wore crap like purple polka dot knee highs and jellies and had bleached eye-covering waver bangs) who I’m pretty sure turned out gay, had a yellow sweatshirt that said in brushy calligraphy script, “Year of the Rat” superimposed over a red Japanese-looking orb even though it was referencing the Chinese zodiac.

In college, I brushed past this sweatshirt kid on the sidewalk downtown Portland during a rainstorm and he huffed, “Get some umbrella control!” That’s when I was like oh, he’s gay now because what kind of straight guy would say something bitchy like that and think it’s witty?

So, here’s to a more memorable 2008. The KFC rodents had their fun last year, now it’s time for the human rats to shine.

In rat news, I do appreciate that yesterday’s Wall Street Journal didn’t simply publish a gross-out story about Vietnamese rat eating (which has nothing to do with the Chinese new year). They actually give recipes…and rat steamed with lemongrass doesn’t sound half bad.

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Feb 6

Jose Tejas

I was under the impression that this nutty Tex-Mex Cajun restaurant along Route 1 was a rare independent venue. Maybe it didn’t look glossy enough or maybe I was won over by the enormous blue and white sign visible from a distance that simply reads EAT. But I was wrong; it is a chain and one that more commonly goes by Border Café. Actually, I wasn’t acquainted with Border Café either but now I know.

I can’t figure out why the receipt I received says Iselin yet their website says both Iselin and Woodbridge. New Jersey is annoying like that, every mile practically puts you in a different township and makes my pull down menu look like I’ve been all over the state when really I travel in a close radius around Middlesex and Union counties.

Speaking of the neighborhood, not too long ago a friend started dating a guy who lives about ten minutes from Jose Tejas. This is a very exciting development because New Jersey chain dining has always been a solitary activity. I mean, another and myself are involved but it’s not like we ever have company along (for good reason, certainly). Can you imagine anything sexier than a double date at Bonefish Grill? Unfortunately, I suspect a Valentine’s reservation has already been made somewhere and not likely in the garden state.

It hasn’t taken much for me to conclude that there just aren’t enough giant chain restaurants to satisfy the tri-state population (and what’s this I hear about the Cheesecake Factory being a freaking hotspot in Hartford, CT?). No matter where and when you go it’s a madhouse. And the unusually cheap prices at Jose Tejas—my $8.97 enchiladas were one of the more expensive items—certainly contribute to the popularity. But I cannot allow human obstacles to get in the way of my chain discovery missions.

We went between lunch and dinner on a Saturday and were quoted a 35-minute wait. Normally, I would’ve left but trying to get on the correct side of the highway and then finding parking had already wasted twenty minutes and I couldn’t fathom a plan B. Even the large bar area was jam-packed, and a nasty old lady tried picking a fight with us for blocking her way. I have zero patience with the nice elderly so I had to restrain myself from knocking her block off.

I don’t trust margaritas from machines, not so much out of hygiene or authenticity issues but because I fear a light hand with the alcohol. A bottle of Dos Equis and a requisite basket of corn chips with salsa suited me fine while waiting. And immediately two stools opened up. It was as if the hand of god, or possibly the ghost of Jose Tejas (assuming he's a real human being and that he's no longer living), reached down and cleared a space for us.

Eating lightly would’ve been smart in preparation for the next day’s inescapable Super Bowl gluttony. But how does one even accomplish such a thing at a restaurant with salads that come in those ‘80s fried tortilla bowls? No, we went all out and shared the chorizo flambado, which is essentially a shitload of melted cheese dotted with chorizo. I swear the chorizo was actually ground beef or Italian sausage but the grease and fat effect was still achieved. You eat this concoction with warm flour tortillas, creating scoopable quesadillas.

I wasn’t touching the Cajun side of the menu. That cuisine is hard to pull off properly even in its own element but in NYC it always tastes like dry, spiced mud. Actually, we joked that dirt might be a secret ingredient while in New Orleans a few years ago; the food all has this earthy flavor that seems to go beyond cumin and cayenne.

I usually order seafood burritos or enchiladas in these types of places, which doesn’t seem intuitive. It’s just that the chicken is always dry, the beef is ground (I don’t like ground beef outside of hamburgers) and pork is rarely on the menu period. I’m also not crazy about fish tacos because battered fried seafood makes me hurl (however, battered fried candy is A-OK). And my crawfish and shrimp stuffed tortillas came sauced to the nines. At least I diligently ate half of everything and saved the rest for a late night dinner. Since this was my first meal of the day, I didn’t feel so bad about the caloric value being spread out over twelve hours.

Jose Tejas * 700 Rt. 1 N., Iselin, NJ

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Feb 6

Sunday Night Special: Super Bowl Edition

Despite having next to no interest in sports whatsoever (I blame it on a Portland upbringing—the Trailblazers were the only pro team we had) our Super Bowl party always ends up being bigger than expected. Even with a healthy-sized apartment, thirty-plus guests can be a challenge.

The problem with hosting parties is that there’s little downtime; keeping the food non-fancy still ends up being a time suck. Buffalo wings have to be cooked in steady batches and even hands-off treats can be a distraction. But then, I’m easily distracted. I didn’t see much of the game or many of the commercials (I did watch the half-time show and was fully expecting "Don't Come Around Here no More") and only ate three measly wings (this was rectified last night when we fried up leftover chicken parts).

I’ve used the same tablecloth and dishware numerous times so if I was to compare Super Bowl parties past there would be uncanny similarities. Life is repetitive that way.

Nearly a quarter of the attendees were vegetarian so I couldn’t let them starve. Spanish-influenced empanadas with Manchego, spinach, almonds and raisins seemed un-boring.

We’ve been overwhelmed with dried goods after James ordered a Rancho Gordo sampler that arrived too late for his father’s Christmas present. I used the included cannellini beans for a healthy-ish bean dip that I livened up with white truffle oil and the recommended balsamic vinegar. I also added chopped sun-dried tomatoes even though the recipe only called for their oil, which apparently is very Mark Bittman. Carrot sticks, red pepper strips and these cheap bruschetta toasts I found at Western Beef went along with the mashed beans.

I’m generally biased against Food Network recipes but for something like hot jalapeno crab dip they seem right on. Do you want a highbrow crab dip?

Buying only two jars of dill pickles was a big mistake because the pickle chips disappeared within seconds. I never understood Costco’s giant condiment jars but now their purpose is perfectly clear. I used another Food TV recipe for the batter and Deann brought buttermilk dressing for dipping.

Cadbury Egg close up

Smooshed Kit Kat

Impromptu candy-frying erupted. That’s been known to happen when the deep fryer makes an appearance. Kit Kats, Snickers and crowd favorite Cadbury Eggs all got the hot oil treatment. We regretted not having cheesecake on hand since it makes a particularly decadent battered, fried treat. I think last year someone tried deep-frying a whole blackout cake, which is proof that drinking and frying are a dangerous combination.

After a handful of drinks, scary fratty cocktails start sounding good. James loves concocting an old ‘90s Baltimore classic, Surfing on Acid. Jagermeister, Malibu and pineapple sound absolutely wretched, though I have to admit the combo is more pleasing than the sum of the parts. Someone cracked open my blue wildberry cherries, and next thing I knew gummy bears were being added as garnish. These were my kind of people—no prompting from me was needed for such garish flourishes. And I wonder why I felt like death the next morning.

I thought this was a chocolate mousse cake and that it had been decimated. I got a tasty surprise last night when I found 3/4 of it in my freezer. Oh, and it's a chocolate banana tart.

I can't forget the store-bought goodies. Football themed cakes are a must.

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Feb 6

Roll With It

Blobs

I don’t know O’Charley’s, a seemingly Midwestern chain, firsthand but their promotional site features a heartwarming tale about a stellar roll that’s kind of the anti-Kogepan crossed with the Zoloft blob.

Now I’m craving warm bread.

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Feb 5

Roll with It

Blobs

Now I’m craving warm bread.

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Jan 31

Gatorade+Snapple+Alize=Awesome

Superbowldrinks

You know enough is enough when even Evite gets into the food blogging business. Um, but that doesn’t mean I won’t click on photos of bright red, white and blue cocktails. And sweet jesus, imagine my surprise when I found out the classy beverages didn’t just include Snapple, Gatorade and Alize, but Roland wildberry cherries, too.

Every time I’m at the Shop Rite in Linden, NJ (which is more often than I’d care to admit) I ogle all the neon hued jarred cherries above the ice cream freezer. Finally, I broke down a few months ago and bought the damn blue ones because I’m soft-minded when it comes to edibles in abnormal colors. It’s not like I’ve eaten any—they’re just sitting on a makeshift bar waiting for the opportunity.

I’ve been dying to try Rothman & Winter’s sort of recently released Crème de Violette, primarily so I can make an aviation and then sully the lavender beauty with a turquoise cherry. In the mean time I might have to settle for the Big Blue Buzz. Aw, who needs homemade sarsaparilla and artisanal tonic water, anyway? The whole neo-pre-prohibition era cocktail trend is so 2007. Evite knows 2008 is about food coloring and artificial flavors.

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Jan 30

IHOP

Suburban excursions are not always blissful. I couldn’t bear attempting a Swedish meatball combo plate at a busier-than-expected Ikea on Martin Luther King Day. I know better than to patronize the always under stocked Elizabeth, NJ location and don’t even want to ponder the potential beastliness of the soon-to-open walking distance Red Hook branch. Part of me even hopes the neighborhood Trader Joe’s never happens.

Breakfast for lunch (no, not brunch) at Staten Island’s IHOP (contrary to popular belief, there are IHOPS in NYC, six in total randomly scattered throughout four boroughs) was far less life changing than I’d hoped for.

The commercials always entice me with fluff, sweetness and starchy goodness but my stuffed french toast was a waste of fat and calories. The syrupy strawberries were sweet and that’s where all flavor ceased to exist. I don’t know how it’s possible to make grilled egg-coated bread and cream cheese filling taste like chewy nothingness but they did it. I requested no whipped cream and I don’t imagine the non-dairy spray topping could’ve helped matters any.

The eggs and bacon that made up the Stuffed French Toast Combo (I have enough making my mouth say Sammie—there’s no way I’m ordering the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n Fruity) were adequate (more like adequite, if you ask me) yet the hash browns fell into the potatoes stripped of all potato-ness category.

I was more interested in the disproportionately Italian desserts being advertised. I can’t imagine all menus in the U.S. have tartufo, spumoni, cannoli and neopolitan ice cream. There’s no mention of any of these treats on their website. I guess if Brooklyn Applebee’s can serve Cakeman Raven red velvet cake, the Staten Island IHOP shouldn’t shy away from micro-regional tastes either. I would definitely take the red velvet cake over any of IHOP’s goodies, though in my opinion blue velvet cake is prettier in its garishness.

IHOP * 935 Richmond Ave., Staten Island, NY

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Jan 30

Boqueria

As much as a complain about Manhattan, I do appreciate that it’s business as usual on Sunday nights. The last time I attempted going out after 9pm on a three-day weekend Sunday was in Toronto, and it was a complete ghost town. Boqueria (as well as Olive Garden) was almost at capacity the night before Martin Luther King Day.

I was determined to have creative Spanish food after getting hopped on Tapas: a Taste of Spain in America, but deciding where to go was no easy task. Spending more than you’d expect on small dishes was a given; value wasn’t my concern as much as agreeable food and atmosphere. I’d already been to Tia Pol (too far) Ostia (too average) and Pamplona (good but I wanted something new). Everything I read about Mercat said it was loud and oversalted, Casa Mono seemed tiny and irritating, ditto for Quinto Pino but probably not so irritating. I’d been to the old Suba a few times and wasn’t inspired to try the newest incarnation. Boqueria was all that was left.

I hate to admit that my photos are even more off than usual. I was playing around with the white balance trying to counteract the dreaded candlelight and not only made everything washed out and fuzzy but somehow changed the height/width ratio. I don’t even know if I should be allowed to have a camera.

This was regular jamon Serrano, not the fabled Iberico ham. Nonetheless, it was still handsome and meaty. I hadn’t expected the jamon to come atop pa amb tomaquet, pan con tomate, Catalan, Spanish…however you like. I’m always surprised how tomato guts on toast can be so appealing.

“Why are there so many eggs on the menu?” asked the girl half of the couple next to us. I honestly hadn’t noticed the overabundance but yes, there is a soft-boiled one in this dish. She ordered it too. I love anything with chickpeas and morcilla. Garbanzos al Pinotxo are in the style of Barcelona’s Bar Pinotxo. I was very bummed that all the food biggies, including this stand in the Boqueria market, were closed the week I was there last summer.

Any iteration of dates, bacon and cheese (and sometimes almond) are a must. In this instance the cheese was valdeon, a blue. I’ve made these with manchego and think they would be perfect for a Super Bowl snack even though they seem kind of froufrou. I couldn't even snap this shot before one date went missing from the skewer.

Brandade is kind of like shrimp toast. Maybe the whipped salt cod and potatoes on bread were grilled not fried; they still had that oily unctuousness that goes down well but might cause trouble later.

As Americans we would’ve eaten cheese with everything else, but we obeyed its place on the desert menu. Idizabal came cubed and tossed with olives and the rosemary manchego was surrounded a few tiny squares of membrillo and filberts (wow, I tried to not say hazelnut but filbert just sounds backwoods even though that’s what I grew up with and oddly what I saw used in Toronto. Did you know that Oregon is the nation’s largest hazelnut producer?). Our two choices were enjoyed with a rose cava that James thought was like a wine cooler.

Boqueria * 53 W. 19th St., New York, NY

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Posts by krista

Sapporo

The Red (Sauce) Badge of Courage

Rat On!

Jose Tejas

Sunday Night Special: Super Bowl Edition

Roll With It

Roll with It

Gatorade+Snapple+Alize=Awesome

IHOP

Boqueria

Featured

Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

My Other Blogs

What?

The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101