Posts by krista

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Bum-Rushing

Hibino
For only four dollars more than what I pay for my occasional lunchtime chirashi near my office, Hibino, sort-of-near my apartment, presents a selection of raw fish, roe, okra (!) and omelet shreds that is the definition of jewel box precious. Plus, the rotating selection of $5 obanzai, Kyoto-style tapas (somehow it doesn’t bother me that they’ve appropriated the word as much as when it’s used to describe sliders or chicken parm) are unlike anything I’ve had elsewhere. There were meaty chunks of lightly battered, fried monkfish in a broth with baby bok choy and enoki mushrooms, crispy, sliced chicken cutlets served with a fluffy pumpkin tartar sauce, and a selection of soy-stained white blobs that turned out to be potatoes, burdock, and scallops that I’m guessing were dried and reconstituted (the latter dish just showed up, we didn’t order it, and the two others turned out to be more substantial than I’d expected for the price). Just beware that 10pm closing means 10pm—I’m conscientious about lingering to the point where being the last person in a restaurant is a phobia, and we still got the bum’s rush. Previously on Hibino.

Grand Sichuan House
It’s still nice having Sichuan food in Brooklyn, but things weren’t as good as I remembered from past visits. The dan dan noodles and cold tripe and tongue dressed in chile oil, and sautéed green beans with pork were all fine. The slices of double-cooked pork with leeks, though, were gnarled instead of fatty and lush and lamb with cumin was lacking any sear, what you might call wok hay. It was like when I sautee food at home and can never get the pan hot enough or the meat dry enough and end up steaming it into grayness. I’d still probably return if I happened to be shopping at Century 21 and the urge struck. Once again, we ended being the last people in the restaurant at 10:30, closing time, but managed to leave of our own accord, no prompting.

Empire Steakhouse
I finally gave into the late-night commercial (which they no longer run) touting their expensive/expansive/extensive wine list. We cobbled together a Peter Luger-esque meal of grilled bacon, creamed spinach, hashbrown potatoes, and a medium-rare porterhouse for two that was as good as any I’ve had in NYC (or maybe the non-expensive Napa Valley Cabernet clouded my judgment). The biggest difference between Empire Steakhouse and Peter Luger was that the staff was Russian, the clientele Asian, and barely audible ‘80s music kept pushing in and out of my consciousness. Why not eat steak to muffled Journey and A-ha? Thankfully, a couple of tourists came in half-way through our meal so we were only the second-to-last table left in the place.

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Eaten, Barely Blogged: Red-Sauced

Bamonte’s
Ok, I’ll admit that this wood-paneled old-timer’s recent appearance on Bored to Death made me think of going. The deal was sealed when I realized a party I was attending happened to be at a Night of Joy across the street at the end of the block. I try not to talk about Italian food at all because you just come across like a jerk if you say you don’t like Italian food, meaning Italian-American. I don’t want to insult this nation’s favorite cuisine. My hesitation stems from all the tomato sauce–it’s too tangy and one-note. (It could be argued that I just haven’t had a good version. Regardless, I still have zero interest in Torrisi—or now Parm—no matter how life-changing you tell me it is.) Twice a year I might break down and order something like two meaty pork chops smothered in red sauce, pizzaiola. Add clams casino, garlic potatoes, green beans, and a bottle of Chianti, and you’re set. Also, the ladies’ room (maybe the men’s too?) is entirely pink–I want to say that somehow that rosy shade has something to do with red sauce.

San Loco
At the time, a quesadilla made sense five hours after a substantial pork chop. Red wine and beet vodka will cloud decision-making (and stain the cracks in your lips to look like dried blood and no one will tell you). And if I have it out for Italian-American food, San Loco is more like a twice a decade anomaly.

Palmyra & Enoteca on Court
Solo since Saturday, I’ve been living like a bachelor left to his devices, garbage piling up, not shaving, ordering delivery. I like Palmyra because it’s faster than Zaytoons. All I really want is the pick of five mezes to eat with pita: labne, foul, babaghanouj, muhamara, mousaka. The tagine used to be lamb leg with prunes and almonds and now it’s chicken (it now says chicken on the menu, it wasn’t a surprise substitution). And they forgot my baklava. Maybe I’ll go back to Zaytoons next time. Enoteca, the casual restaurant next to Marco Polo, which is very Bamonte’s, has a good spicy, oily pizza, the Calabrese with sopressata, n'duja, and olives. It arrived still very hot and crispy.

Sottocasa
More pizza? This was from last week, though. At this Neapolitan newcomer I tried both the Calabrese (I prefer Enoteca’s because the n'duja is nice touch) and the Emiliana with cherry tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, prosciutto, and arugula. The latter, my favorite, was lighter and the crust held up while the meatier one was a little sogged-up. Maybe not destination pizza, but a fair Lucali alternative in you happen to live in the area (I only went because it’s a few blocks from my Wednesday night Spanish class—if you go on a Friday night it will be packed with waits for tables). Much of the restaurant’s appeal comes from the back garden, which is out of commission for the season.

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