Jul 6
I don’t usually concern myself with local news in my own neighborhood, let alone Staten Island, but I’m loving this story about a melee over fireworks. They had me at young woman with Down syndrome attacking a cop but what really clinched me was the use of donnybrook. I’m still sporadically following my 2007 resolution to look up words that I’m not 100% sure of. Donnybrook has never crossed my path in 34 years. What a word! Who needs fisticuffs when you’ve got donnybrook?
3/4 It was an unexpected New Jersey chain restaurant bonanza this weekend. My original intent was to simply head over to Edison and hit all my favorite box stores but food always figures into an afternoon to evening excursion somehow.
But first it was Costco because they close at 6pm, too early for people who can’t get up and out of the apartment until after 2pm. I don’t know how it happens, but grabbing things like Larabars, spare ribs, seltzer water, chicken thighs, garbage bags, frozen shrimp and scallops, honey wheat pretzel rods, Laughing Cow cheese, and apparently more, eventually lead to a $300+ bill. Costco is dangerous. We spent considerably less than that at Trader Joe’s and that included seven bottles of wine, and not all Charles Shaw, mind you.
Even though I loathe gardening, we also stopped at Home Depot for flowers that James can plant in the front communal patch of concrete and dirt that he’s possessive of since we live on the first two floors. I’m not even sure that he enjoys the pastime or if it’s just a bizarre territorial thing. At least it’s prettier than marking with spays of urine.
I rarely check out Wal-Mart, not out of any moral superiority, they’re just not on my mind. But the Linden location just past the Home Depot and a small airport was surrounded by all the lowbrow greatest hits: Lucille Roberts, Fashion Bug, Dress Barn, Radio Shack, Dollar Tree, Sears Essentials and International Food Warehouse. All that was missing was a Petland or Rainbow.
Wal-Mart did provide me with my favorite, non-fancy but hard to find Hanes underwear, teeth whitening gel, mini coffee grinder, AAA batteries and a $10.46 purple knit belted tunic (I love that the sizes are so skewed that I can technically wear a L instead of an XL).
Apparently, a Five Guys just opened semi-reasonable walking distance to me in Brooklyn Heights, but as is my way I turned my back on local offerings for a 33-mile drive to Edison, NJ. New York City, Brooklyn in particular, does horrible things to chains. I actually dread the Ikea and Trader Joe’s (I’m not even counting the Whole Foods because it’s not in my realm) that are eventually coming because they’ll inevitably be mobbed and under stocked. It doesn’t seem right to have these national treasures in your own zip code and be forced to leave the state for sanity’s sake.
I’m not an Americana food fanatic, i.e. pizza, hot dogs, burgers. I like two of the three very much (sorry, wieners) but I don’t go around the city taste testing or taking fastidious notes even though I admire others’ efforts. I can’t expound upon the burger-ness of a burger but I was curious what all the Five Guys fuss was about. And I was pleased that the restaurant was located in a familiar strip mall, Wick Plaza, that also contains my bank, North Fork, Sally Beauty (Miss Clairol in sable tends to be out in NYC because I guess everyone has dark brown hair. Plus, I’d forgotten to bring any lip gloss on our journey and I only had to spend 99-cents on their house brand to remedy this) and Hometown Buffet.
The menu is short and sweet and the french fries are freshly made so I can see the comparisons to In-N-Out. But the burgers aren’t really the same. If anything, I’d say they look and taste homemade, assuming you had good cooks for parents. There’s nothing uniform and assembly line about them. And a great deal of their taste has to do with your choice of topping.
This caught me off guard. Even though there was no line because it was suburban New Jersey, I got flustered with their fifteen choices and only asked for mustard, ketchup and fried onions. Basic lettuce and tomatoes eluded me. Another thing to keep in mind is the difference between burger and little burger. I found out that the standard burger contains two patties, which was only worrisome because I was saving some appetite for another chain later.
Though I prefer medium rare, I wasn’t insulted by their well done only policy. I was more put off by the signage about neighborhood children and allergies and not allowing peanuts off the premises. One of their trademarks is boxes of shell-on peanuts to scoop and eat while waiting. I can’t imagine that introducing peanuts into the wilds of New Jersey could possibly have the effects of sneaking ecologically unsound flora and fauna of foreign environments.
I was most impressed with the quantity of fries doled out (and that they offer malt vinegar and Mr. Pibb). Even though we dined in, they bagged everything up and not only filled our cups but threw in a full extra cup into the paper bag. As a scrounge, I actually brought all the extras home to warm up later. Thankfully, health got the better of me the next day and I forced myself to toss them.
I was fine with Five Guys, but James impressed me by thinking of Bonefish Grill and tracking down the nearest location in East Brunswick. Last year when I was doing competitive research on major restaurant chains for work, I discovered that Bonefish is the one to watch. A supposed upperscale and healthier alternative to Red Lobster that was spreading like wildfire, just not in NYC. In an effort to get our fingers on the pulse of America, we needed to get our asses to Bonefish pronto.
This location in a mall parking lot was fused with a Carrabba’s (another OSI property—same company as Outback Steakhouse) and being 9:30 the usual insufferable lines were more like trickles. Oh, this was a classy joint alright. Sure, you get the standard beeper but they have a neutral toned, wicker and ceiling fanned outdoor lounge to wait in. It felt like a tasteful Florida beach resort. A waiter comes around to take drink orders and push pomegranate martinis on everyone. I always assume drinks are going to be around $10 and get pleasantly shocked by gentle suburban prices where glasses of wine can be had for $4 and even over the top cocktails are only $6.90.
The dusky, warm evening was made perfect when New Order’s “Thieves Like Us” began playing. As a teenager, I couldn’t imagine first hearing this song in Pretty in Pink and seeing myself twenty-one years later being serenaded by it in a New Jersey mall parking lot. Glancing across the potted foliage at the looming glow of a Kohl’s, it felt like twisted paradise. Everything was so wonderfully incongruous that I started getting chills. Or maybe that was just the sun going down.
But the spell was broken before we could get a drink; our table was ready. It all went haywire upon entering. Nothing was coordinated with usual chain-like precision. The drinks we eventually ordered didn’t come for over fifteen minutes, our water and bread didn’t show up for a solid half hour. They’d run out of clean glasses. Our order wasn’t getting taken. I don’t get mad about these things because I don’t expect French Laundry, but for people who view this as a serious night out–some were celebrating birthdays–get very antsy and indignant. Multiple tables were complaining. All I could think about was this mystery diner side job I almost took a few years ago. Every little misstep gets critiqued and reported. It wasn’t until I overheard an apologetic waitress explaining to a group that this was the first Saturday they’d been open that it all made sense. Wow, we’d hit up the hottest new restaurant in East Brunswick on opening weekend.
We got a strangely stoic young waitress who wouldn’t make eye contact yet still engaged in classic overexplaning and attempts at being perky. While pouring olive oil in a dish speckled with pepper and spices, “I call it EVOO but not everyone knows who Rachel Ray is so they don’t get it. “ Oh, I get it all right.
“Do you have any questions about our menu?” No. Grilled seafood comes with a choice of four sauces: lemon butter, Mediterranean, mango salsa and pan-Asian. I felt guilty not engaging her, then capitulated and allowed her to expound upon the Mediterranean sauce being full of omega-3s. I was just going to go for the less than healthy lemon butter anyway.
We were surprised at the hotness of one of our crab cake sauces, adorably swirled into hearts. So, we remarked on it, attempting to be friendly chatty diners:
James: That was spicy
Waitress: fumbling for a second…it’s Sriracha
Me: Oh, rooster sauce
Waitress: Yeah, there’s worcestershire in it
Wha? No matter, I’d be a wretched waitress so it’s not for me to mock. After discovering they’d only been open five days, I let everything slide. The food was actually done well, my grilled shrimp and scallops were lightly charred and tender. The portions were absolutely sane and nothing was dripping cheese a la Red Lobster. The vegetable of the day was sweet and crisp fresh corn dotted with bacon. I had textbook garlic mashed potatoes as a side. Even my inexpensive Riesling seemed just right with the sweetness of my seafood and corn (or maybe it was because of multiple glasses of Riesling that I felt so soothed). I didn’t see a dessert list because we weren’t offered one (not pushing more food is a chain faux pas) though I did notice bananas foster on a specials menu.
Bonefish Grill is one of those concepts that might not fare well in New York City–it’s not as if we’re lacking for quality independent seafood options. But the gap between Le Bernadin and Long John Silver’s is vast so there’s probably room for this manufactured sophistication somewhere in the five boroughs. Me, I wouldn’t bother unless I could enjoy a key lime martini in a parking lot lounge.
“Leave the chill of the supermarket behind and gather your meal at a farm stand, where the produce tastes of the sun and of fertile fields that stretch as far as the eye can see.”
Every June I dread the grilling barrage that consumes food magazines. It’s not an easy technique for the yardless and renders half of warm weather content useless. But even more disconcerting are the outdoor dining photos that inevitably show up as well. The last few Gourmets that have shown up on my foyer table have dredged up old feelings on the alfresco fantasy.
This mythical fresh air culinary experience is one of my many somethings about nothing that’s busted my chops for years. I discovered that this is hardly a new sad sack fixation; I wrote about something similar in the zine era of 19 freaking 97. This glossy mag, good life porn is merely the grown up version of my former fixation.
I don’t want to live on a farm or even near a farm so maybe it’s the implication that others are getting away that resonates with me. I don’t “summer” or engage in extended getaways because you know, I have a place I’m required to be 10-6, Monday-Friday. Sometimes it feels like no one in NYC has to work for a living. Or maybe these rough hewn lakeside tables teeming with nature’s bounty are illustrative of weekending?
I guess I don’t live like that. I tried tapping into this concept two summers ago and attempted to get a group of people interested in a three-day woodsy share. No one would commit and I lost interest. This year another friend suggested the same and once again no consensus. But frankly, since I loathe the outdoors and swimming and hiking are anathemas to me, my main goal for a group getaway would be drinking, grilling and concocting rustically extravagant dishes. And as the three others initially involved with this plan that fell through are vegetarian, it would seriously cramp my lofty fantasy. Friendship is overrated. A beautifully staged bucolic tableau? Now that’s soul soothing.
Maybe I will feel better about this manufactured phenomenon if I somehow capture and preserve the offending images. I could just tear the pages from magazines but the librarian in me can’t deface periodicals. For preservation’s sake I could scan and print but the miser in me won’t allow such waste of inkjet ink. And what would I do anyway? Tack outdoor dining images all over my bedroom wall so when I commit a gruesome crime the police will find my obsessive shrine, the number one TV and film clue that someone’s deranged? Nah, that’s what the interwebs are for. Enjoy my first in a series of pointless epicurean still lifes.
The recipes for the pissaladiere strips and basil vodka gimlets pictured, plus the entire “Get it Ripe” menu can be found on Epicurious. Farm stand and fertile fields not included.
It doesn’t make any sense that this would be the last Mexico City restaurant I write about because it was one of our favorite, though incomprehensive, meals we had on vacation. Sometimes there’s not a lot to say about the satisfying so I’ve kept mum.
I have no idea how to pronounce Coox Hanal (“let’s eat”) as it’s not Spanish but Mayan. I don’t imagine the first word is like kooks. And accordingly, the food hails from the Yucatan. We only tried two snacky dishes, which was unfortunate, because this style of cooking is unique. NYC is very Pueblan so there are many regional styles I rarely get to explore. I’d also intended to visit a Oaxacan restaurant, La Bella Lula in Coyoacán, but time didn’t allow.
James had panuchos, bean-filled corn tortillas that gets topped with a variety of shredded meat. These ones used cochinita pibil pork, my recent obsession. My salbutes were similar but lacked the beany center and came with turkey, lettuce, cucumbers and tomato. Both are akin to what American would call tostadas, but the tortillas aren’t crisp like chips; they’re fried and pliable. Fierce habanero salsas and red pickled onions are classic accompaniments.
We very lightly scratched the surface. I want to know more about relleno negro, an ominously black stew made dark from a burnt chiles paste. Turkey frequently gets added and I think the relleno is a dumpling-like wad crafted from corn. I’m also curious about sopa de lima, a sour chicken soup using a fruit that’s not really a lime or a lemon, full on cochinita pibil and what everyone in the restaurant was eating that left a cleaned dinosaur-sized bone on the plate. I’m suspecting it was pavo (turkey) based since that seems to be a popular protein.
We considered going back a second time but we were so traumatized by our Centro Turibus experience that I’d sworn off the overrun barrio. Wishing we had a Coox Hanal walking distance to our Condesa hotel was reminiscent of our longing for real Thai food in South Brooklyn. Sometimes foot travel doesn't cut it.
Coox Hanal * Isabel la Catolica 83, 2nd Fl., Mexico City, Mexico
Águila y Sol, by some accounts, is currently the best restaurant in Mexico City. I can see why that’s been said but since my repertoire only encompasses a fraction of the metropolis’s offerings I can’t personally concur. Like Pujol, this modern eatery plays with classic Mexican flavors and ingredients but is more grounded in tradition. Even the cavernous room felt a bit more staid, like an upscale hotel. The restaurant just moved to this location in the last few months so I wonder how it compares to the original spot.
You enter on the ground floor and take an elevator upstairs where your arrival is announced from podium to podium by staff donning earpieces. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, that just didn’t seem very NYC. I have no idea if hosts and hostesses in L.A. walk around with wireless communication devices attached to their ears but I like to imagine that they do.
To lean on a recent discussion, Águila y Sol is more “mama” where Pujol is more “show-off.” And yes, chef Martha Ortiz Chapa is a woman. Also in light of the recent McNally/Bruni ladies manning kitchens flare up, it’s worth noting that many top restaurants in D.F. are female run. Mark Bittman wrote about another two just last month.
When the female half of the the youngish American couple seated next to us asked her boyfriend/husband how he’d heard about Águila y Sol he mentioned The New York Times. James was more irritated by this twosome than I was (usually I’m the one irked by little nothings) and swore he heard the words “Carroll Gardens” come from their mouths. If true, there is something grotesque about foodie Brooklynites (reluctantly lumping myself into that demo) clogging up the same restaurants miles from home. But at least I don’t gaze into my partner’s eyes all meal long while saying “I love you.” Thankfully, inoffensive, unromantic Canadians were seated on our other side.
Locals don’t show up until after 9pm. Part way through our evening, the chain-smoking twentysomethings started piling in. Tall skinny blonde Mexican girls with preppie Anglo-looking boyfriends who were probably Mexican too. They mostly drink and eat salads. I think this genre is called fresas, akin to American yuppies (a dated word I never use but whatever. Isn’t NYC completely teeming with wealthy under-30s? It must be a Gen Y fancying themselves as soulful and creative thing because I don’t sense the same disdain for these types that existed in the ‘80s). The staff was all shorter and browner (in the U.S. they just keep these guys in the back) and this seemed to be the case anywhere with $20+ entrees. I don’t want to be a class crusader, especially on vacation; it was particularly noticeable that’s all.
I was scared about taking photos after reading this missive from a stranger, but there wasn’t any trauma. I’m a super quick snapper (and it shows). Attempting to capture a dish with minimal blur is my only aim. Compensating for color distorting candlelight is beyond my grasp.
But the food; it’s quite good. Neither James nor I could decide if we preferred Águila y Sol or Pujol. The style is enticing in the sense that it’s food food. No tasting menus, crazy plating or avant-garde techniques. More like updated classics that would score higher on a Top Chef challenge.
I will say that we chose a wretched wine and I’m snob-free on the subject. Luckily, my cocktail made of jamaica (hibiscus—like Red Zinger Celestial Seasonings tea) and dusted with chile power was dazzling. I really wanted to try something Mexican and I suppose that’s what sommeliers are for. I kind of randomly picked a red on the lower end of the mid-range, just taking a chance. I want to say that the region was Jala but I’m finding no evidence of that on the internet and since the restaurant has no website I’m without a crutch. A full month has nearly passed since this dinner so details are cloudy.
We both ordered ceviches for starters. James had one of the specials and I didn’t want to copy so I chose another version from the regular menu. His was spicier and more exciting. Mine was fresh with clean flavors enhanced by cubes of cucumber and plantain chips. I don’t know what the black seeds sprinkled over top were. Where’s Mexican Menupages when I need it?
This was the man’s meal (except I ordered it). As I eventually learned arranchera is charcoal grilled meat and is wildly popular in Mexico City. There’s even a chain called Arranchera that serves sandwiches on hefty wooden boards. This was a Lincoln Log approach to steak that my intentionally bald, bespectacled, beige-suited dining neighbor (and possible real life neighbor) also ordered and said looked like the woody toys.
On the far left is a salsa that was unbelievably hot; I really hadn’t anticipated such fire from an upscale restaurant so after my first blob my mouth was a little shocked. It seems like chefs here tend to tone down strong flavors in proportion to the price. There’s also a pile of pickled onions, jalapeños and shredded dried chiles that I want to say are guajillo. I’m always swayed by sides and one of the main reasons I ordered this dish was because I wanted to know what frijoles chino (Chinese refried beans) were. They’re hidden in the little tortilla cup and covered with wild streams of fried potato. They just tasted like refried beans. I thought maybe they were going to mash black beans or edamame (yes, Japonés not Chino but you never know). I’m not complaining.
Handmade tortillas in a variety of styles.
There’s a fish in there under the cephalopod-esqe dried chile. I did not taste this.
Ok, I nearly lost my mind when our meal ended with a freaking molten cake. As you may or may not know, these gooey clichés are the bane of my culinary existence. I truly wish I had a menu to jog my memory but I swear even with my mediocre Spanish comprehension, there was no mention warmth or baked or hot, any clues. The words chocolate, caramel and hibiscus caught my attention. I knew it was going to be a cake; perhaps I should’ve just assumed the worst. For the record, it tasted wonderful and chocolaty but I wanted something more inventive.
These were our post-dessert treats. James thought the waiter said the wrapped goodies were ensconced in rice paper. After no tasty dissolving on the tongue, we discovered it was merely tissue paper. All I can remember is that the brown nubs in the back were crazy salty and sour and might’ve been tamarind paste coated in salt. I’m not sure if that qualifies as a nice parting gift or not.
Águila y Sol * 127 Emilio Castelar, Mexico City, Mexico
I cannot rest until I post all eating venues from Mexico City, no matter how banal. (Not true—I won’t go into Geisha, the pan-Asian restaurant that coats all sushi in cream cheese. I later learned that’s a common Mexican addition. Or the nondescript café where I discovered molletes, a pizza bread smeared with refried beans and topped with melted cheese and frequently chorizo. Apparently, this is a typical breakfast dish because I saw it on a lot of menus.)
I merge Sanborns and Los Bisquets Obregon together because they’re both chains in a Denny’s vein. That’s sort of a strange reference considering I haven’t been to one in probably a decade (I take that back—I did eat at one in Reading, PA around 2001) if only because they don’t exist here.
Sanborns’s food is no great shakes but they’re ubiquitous like Duane Reade and reliable for a bathroom, atm and genuinely crisp air conditioning. (Like Spain, Mexicans aren’t as into being artificially cooled as Americans. That’s one thing you could count on in all the modern Asian cities I’ve visited: surprisingly solid air conditioning. 
I enjoy the swampy to sweat-stopping contrast as opposed to experiencing varying degrees of warmth.) And their original location in the Casa de los Azulejos (house of tiles) is full of 16th century charm. The same couldn’t be said of Denny’s.
We were too late for breakfast so I had to settle for pibil tacos, which were on the oily side but not hideous. I always anticipated the bread basket and pickle dish because you never knew what might turn up in either. Here, you received an overwhelming amount of crackers, rolls and tortilla chips.
I was thinking Bisquets in Roma was closer to our hotel than it was. I just wanted to try the café con leche even though I’m normally a black coffee drinker. They prepare the coffee tableside using one pitcher of coffee and one with milk, which gets poured from high in the air almost like Malaysian teh tarik, though not quite as dramatically.
I liked how they come around with a baked goodie basket while you’re perusing the menu (they’re not freebies but it’s a nice touch). Bisquets also had baby potatoes in their spicy pickled mixture. I’d seen cauliflower at cantina in Coyoacan but potatoes were strange and new. I then picked a crazy breakfast jumble of eggs, tomato sauce, peas, American cheese, plantains and tortillas, which was no fault but my own. 
It seemed more Caribbean than what I’d eaten in D.F., more like crazy mishmashes I’ve eaten in Colombian restaurants. Of course, I ended up nearly cleaning my plate, crazy breakfast or not.
Sanborns * Madero 4, Mexico City, Mexico
Los Bisquets Obregon * Av. Alvaro Obregón No. 60, Mexico City, Mexico
Nevería Roxy is totally the Eddie’s Sweet Shop of D.F., which might mean more to you if you’ve been to the frozen-in-time Queens ice cream parlor. Condesa is no Forest Hills, though (but hey, that Trader Joe's shaping up nicely).
If I’m correct helados are ice creams and nieves are sorbets. 
The reader board menu behind Roxy’s counter seems to roughly devote a column to each style, though it’s not broken down as such with headings. (Damn, I shrunk the photo down so much that I can’t read the flavors anymore.) I had a scoop of turrón in a cone on my first visit. It was likeable but I decided that I shouldn’t have ordered creamy and candy-like when fresh and exotic fruit was so readily available.
On our second round a few days later, I tried a cone-less scoop of tamarind and zapote. The latter randomly chosen because I really wasn’t sure what it was but suspected it might be a freaky fruit with black innards. I chose correctly. The tamarind was sour and refreshing as expected; the zapote was hard to pin down flavor-wise. I immediately liked it more, it was sweeter, richer and vaguely prune-like. More like a dried fruit than a juicy one.
If I’d gone a third time I would’ve found out what a harlequin was, listed under Preparados.
Nevería Roxy * 89 Fernando Montes de Oca, Mexico City, Mexico
I’m not tamale crazy in the least but it seemed remiss to pass up Flor de Lis since it was so close to our hotel and gets talked up all over the place. And I almost went tamale-less because dining during the late end of lunch a.k.a. la comida meant many of the varieties were gone. My original order of chile verde pork in corn husks became a chicken filling in banana leaves. I’m fine with either, really.
Some of the reasons I’m not crazy about tamales is because even when they’re light like these were, they’re still kind of dense and I worry about the insides to outsides ratio. Even though our next meal was a good five hours away, the meat and masa stuck right with me.
I’m still not sure when the proper time for tamales is because you’d see people on street corners hawking them from giant metal steamers in the morning as well as the wee hours. I never did eat a street tamale aside from the one stuffed into a roll and that appears to be an anomaly.
Street food has never scared me but today I received an email from a stranger who in addition to giving me Mexico City food tips said that there’s two tons of dried feces in the air so watch out for uncovered food. I snorted out loud at work when I read those words. I’m not sure of the veracity of that boldly disturbing statement, and since I basically find and fact check statistics and all day long at my job I can’t help but wonder about that number. This will have to be looked into further because I would hate to eat a poop tamale, wrapped in banana leaves or corn husks.
Flor de Lis * Huichapan 21, Mexico City, Mexico
Ignoring T.G.I. Friday’s late-to-the-game attempts at small plates, Subway has introduced a new overstuffed behemoth (I can’t find any reference to this on their lame website or on the blogosphere—perhaps I imagined it?). Surely, to compete with Quizno’s girthier sandwiches. Sorry Jared. The commercial that I’ve only seen once initially caught my attention because I’m a sucker for chain food gimmicks, then I became fascinated by one of the eaters, a office lady woman dressed to look younger than she is. Office ladies eat Lean Cuisine, salads and microwave popcorn, not bulging hoagies. But I do appreciate the attempt to include the fairer sex in their marketing ploy.
Another weird ladylike eating habit presented itself to me on Sunday. I was scoping out the now slightly famous Red Hook ball fields. I hadn’t been this year, and wow, it has practically been taken over by South Brooklyn post-college, just barely pre-stroller/SUV set. Live and let live, but I couldn’t ignore the female members of these crews and their approach to a food-centric gathering.
There were a number of groups scattered around the hot grass and precious few shady tables, and they tended to be made up of two or three guys with one girl. The young men were all chowing down on sasquatch-sized huaraches or greasy pupusas while their accompanying gal pal remained empty handed. Ok, a few had agua frescas and one of the dudes tried scoring a Diet Coke for his little lady but the damn Mexicans only had full sugar versions.
So, that’s how you spend your Sunday? Sipping lemonade and watching a bunch of men eat? I don’t get the point. Maybe it’s the 2007 equivalent of being subjected to band practice, a ritual no self-respecting woman over 24 should engage in.
Hmm, I was just skimming through my feeds and couldn’t help but notice this post from a Food & Wine editorial assistant (#4 of Five Bites Outside of Aspen). It looks like the girl managed to at least choke down half a quesadilla. We must’ve been on different days.
I, too, had a quesadilla on Sunday. And yeah, they’re unnecessarily large (though I handled a whole one no problem). I’d never had a Red Hook version before and was hoping they’d be compact and cheesey like the one I recently had in Mexico City. The Brooklyn ones aren’t really like quesadillas at all since they put tons of stuff in them like lettuce, onions and they don’t stay stuck in a half moon shape because the cheese is only melted to the tortilla and there’s not enough of it. The insides need to be gooey and you really only need one simple filling.
Jeez, I had no idea I was such a street food snob. I’d remedy this with a Subway sandwich taste test, if I could only remember the name of their new supersized product.
Photo from the New York Times article, "The Boys in the Band Are in AARP"
Wow, I’ve barely cooked anything other than a turkey burger in the past three weeks. Vacation, recuperation and entertaining out-of-town family hasn’t lent itself to kitchen experimentation. Instead I’ve been eating mediocre take-out Chinese and paid visits to Totonno’s, East Buffet, Fragole, Sripraphai, Sophie’s, Om Tibet, Junior’s, Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, La Rosa and Sons and Dunkin’ Donuts (can you believe these no longer exist in Portland, Oregon?).
Sunday was not the smartest day to get back into the kitchen. Especially since I was keen on slow-cooking a pork shoulder, Yucatan-style. There’s nothing like a hot oven on all afternoon and evening during 90 degree heat. I suppose that’s the beauty of an outdoor roasting pit.
After reading a little Diana Kennedy, Rick Bayless and Gourmet, I eventually settled on CHOW’s rendition of cochinita pibil. It seemed the simplest (though I can’t figure out how I managed to miss scrolling down and seeing all the negative comments) and I had no problem with using a pre-made paste. But a problem shortly arose with acquiring said paste.
Sunday morning I got into a huge unnecessary fight because James got up early and went shopping for ingredients without waking me up and asking what I needed and where to go. The hunk of meat practically cooks all day so I get that he was trying to get a jump start. I guess I’m a control freak because but I was irked because he didn’t know what store I had in mind. I was thinking of Nuevo Faro on Fifth Ave. around 16th street but the night before when I said “that Hispanic store in South Slope” he thought I meant the wretched National Supermarket in my old neighborhood on Fourth Ave. and 25th. No!
And no paste. He did pick up achiote seeds and some achiote lard blend in a glass jar, but didn’t get the concept that these are raw ingredients that need seasoning. It was now going to take extra time and effort to make the paste from scratch. I hadn’t intended on toasting and pounding spices in such heat and humidity. I really felt like I was in the tropics, though. Our spice grinder bit the dust some time ago and some things like say, annatto seeds, are hell to pulverize even in a sturdy mortar and pestle. I pounded until my wrists almost snapped and the ingredients weren’t close to powdered.
 Pre pound |
 Post pound |
Ultimately, I also borrowed from a recent Gourmet recipe for the paste-making steps. We stopped an hour short of CHOW’s original 300 degrees for eight hours instructions, which seem too high and long now that I think about it. The meat wasn’t dried out, though. Next time I would consider marinating the meat overnight but we were short-sighted as it was. Dinner wasn’t ready until Entourage started.
Cochinita Pibil
1 3-pound boneless pork shoulder roast (also known as pork butt)
1/2 cup fresh Seville (bitter) orange juice
1 teaspoon black peppercorns
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon whole allspice
3 tablespoons annatto (achiote) seeds
6 garlic cloves
1 teaspoon dried oregano (preferably Mexican), crumbled
1 large banana leaf (about 4 feet long)
3 cups water
Heat oven to 375°F. Trim any excess fat from pork.
Toast peppercorns, cumin, and allspice together, then cool slightly. Transfer to grinder along with annatto seeds and grind to a powder. Transfer to a small bowl.
Mince garlic and mash to a paste with remaining 1 1/2 teaspoons salt using side of a large heavy knife. Add to ground spices along with oregano and remaining 6 tablespoons juice and stir to make a paste.
Trim center core from banana leaf and run it under hot tap water until leaf becomes soft and pliable. Remove excess water from leaf and cut in half horizontally; overlap the two leaves so that they are about 2 feet long and 1 foot wide, together.
Generously season pork on all sides with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Place the pork in the bowl with the achiote mixture and coat it well, rubbing the spice mixture into any crevices. Place pork on banana leaves, fold in the left and right sides, and roll it up like a burrito, completely encasing the roast.
Place roast in a roasting pan on a rack, with the seam of the banana leaves facing down. Add the water to the bottom of the pan, cover tightly with foil, and place in oven for 20 minutes. Reduce heat to 275°F and continue roasting for 6 hours.
Remove pork from oven; unwrap the banana leaves and discard them. Shred meat with two forks onto a serving platter. Serve with pickled red onions, warm corn tortillas, and salsa.
Serves 8
Recipe based on Yucatecan-Style Pork from Gourmet May 2007 and Mayan-Style Pit Pork from CHOW
After leafing through a few versions of habanero salsas (mildly fun fact: habeneros are traditionally used only in the Yucatan), I chose one from the Gourmet’s international issue. It’s meant to accompany cochinita pibil. It ended up too liquidy. I was hoping it would be thicker like the ones I had at Coox Hanal in Mexico City. I added an extra pepper and it still wasn’t so hot. When I eat it again, I’m going to strain off some of the orange juice and add a few drops of El Yucateco KutBil-Ik.
Pickled onions are also a must with Yucatecan fare. The end result is supposed to be tangy, pink slivers but I had to make do with white onions. After the achiote paste fiasco there was no way I was going to make a stink about only getting white onions from the store.
Pickled Red Onions
escabeche de cebolla
1 small red onion, peeled and sliced 1/8-inch thick
1/4 teaspoon black peppercorns
1/4 teaspoon cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano, preferably Mexican
2 garlic cloves, peeled and halved
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup cider vinegar
Parboiling the onion. Blanch the onion slices in boiling salted water for 45 seconds, then drain and place in a medium-size bowl.
The pickling. Coarsely grind the peppercorns and cumin in a mortar or spice grinder, and add to the onions. Add the remaining ingredients, plus enough water to barely cover. Stir well and let stand for several hours until the onions turn bright pink.
Makes a generous 1 cup
Recipe from Authentic Mexican by Rick Bayless
I really don't understand memes and how they take off like wildfire. I was peripherally aware of a Robert Rodriguez taco cooking video showing up all over blogs in the past week but only took notice after I saw another one demonstrating puerco pibil. Everyone's a cook nowadays. Also entertaiment-related, I just discovered that even Variety has a food blog. Forgive me, I'm slow to Hollywood trends.
Linen Theme by The Theme Foundry
Copyright © 2025 . All rights reserved.
Follow
