Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Jan 19

Hope & Anchor

When passing through Red Hook James occasionally suggests stopping at Hope & Anchor. I never share his enthusiasm. This is based on little evidence since I’ve only eaten there once, and quite some time ago when it first opened. The place struck me as kind of fun with adequate food if you happened to be in the area but not worth a special trip. Its two main attractions being drag karaoke nights and prices befitting a real diner not a faux one. But it seemed like a fitting place for an early weeknight meal after looking at house for sale in Red Hook owned by the proprietors of Hook & Anchor, no less. (For the record, the home was lovely but just not me. I’m really more clean lines modern where this was a touch Cottage Living [R.I.P.] mixed with turn-of-the-century maritime. Those bearded Brooklyn foodie types would have a heyday wainscoting, wallpapering and tin ceiling-ing the hell out of the place. Moldings, chandeliers and dumbwaiter already in place [I really loved the dumbwaiter]. The unfinished basement would be perfect for crafting sassafras bitters and hanging homemade wild boar sausages to cure.)
If you’re in a diner, there’s no sense in ordering a salad. It’s grease or nothing, so it was cheesesteak and fries for me. The massive sandwich (which I made into a second dinner the following night) satisfied my unhealthy urge, but in a perfect world the meat would’ve been sliced instead of ground and oozing with Cheez Whiz instead of the indeterminate melted white cheese applied with a light hand. Red Hook might feel as far as a sixth borough but it is no Philadelphia.
The pumpkin lager was no longer being served, but the suggested cherry was a fine enough substitute. Fruity beers do not give me pause. Generally, well-done ones like this Lakefront Brewery version aren’t cloying. I do draw the line at flavored coffee, though. (1/13/08)

Jan 12

Patois

After hearing that Patois, one of the Smith Street pioneers, was closing this weekend, James made reservations for Friday. Of course, now it seems that they will simply relocate across the street, but at least I had the opportunity to try one of the many eateries along South Brooklyn’s restaurant row that I normally walk past without a glance.

And Patois was very much what I expected: charming in a rustic cozy way (who can resist a roaring fireplace in the dead of winter?) with serviceable food. I can see why a French bistro would be something to celebrate in 1997. Now, there’s a lot of competition. Restaurants in this Gallic vein can be found all over Smith Street (Provence en Boite, Café Luluc, Robin du Bois, Bar Tabac) and environs (Jolie, Pit Stop, Quercy).

The slab of pate (on the right) was creamy, spreadable and more memorable than the coarser country-style slice beneath it. The accompaniments–cornichons, grainy mustard and tart vinaigrette–were all sharp, almost too much so. A stronger sweet component would’ve added balance. And now that I'm looking at the photo, I realize there are blobs of what must've been a fruity syrup yet I don't recall tasting it at all.

I loved the fries in my steak frites. The medium-rare beef was also well cooked. The only detraction was the cornstarch-thickened poivre sauce. We were sitting next to a drafty windowed door (completely my own choice. I initially liked the less hemmed in corner table. It wasn’t until we got settled that I realized how much of the frigid air was seeping through the wall behind me) so it didn’t take long for the thin peppery sauce to cool off, exposing a gluey consistency. Not that this deterred me from taking home leftovers.

The financier was larger than I had expected and not overly sweet. The insides were springy and studded with bits of melted chocolate, the outer edges golden and firm. What sold me was the scoop of coffee ice cream, though. I tend to choose based on extras not the feature.

Everything at Patois was perfunctory but lacking in small harmless ways. I left without a strong feeling one way or the other. I’ll be curious to see how the new location will differ, if at all, though I don’t know that I will return in the immediate future. It might be worth it for the mid-week prix fixe.

Patois * 255 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

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Jan 8

Hill Country

With the obvious exception of vegetarians (of whom I know quite a few), barbecue seems like a style of food anyone could agree on. What’s not to like about slow smoked meat? That’s why Hill Country seemed like the perfect post-holiday meet-up with a friend who will beat me with a bland buttered noodle if I mention her baby palate once again (maybe the Olive Garden gift card James gave me to give her will temper her ire if she reads this).

I needed someplace that wouldn’t be a killer from Brooklyn (that nixed Dinosaur, and besides I was just there a few months ago) or too painful from Morningside Washington Heights (no Smoke Joint or Fette Sau). Daisy May’s has those kooky commercials, but Wildwood has lamb ribs (lamb is the new pork, right? Or is that goat?). In the end I picked Hill Country, top tier as any. Even though the original pitmaster left year, it’s not like I would detect any difference since I had never been anyway. And you could also tell me all sorts of tales about Texas barbecue and I would be none the wiser, having never set foot in the Lone Star state either.

The cavernous, woody restaurant was quiet on a Sunday afternoon. The week between Christmas and New Year’s is great that way, a dead zone. I’ve been entertaining moving to Red Hook just to experience that soothing desolation on a daily basis, never mind the nuisance of bussing to the subway. (I finally convinced James to call about this seemingly awesome house for sale near the Ikea but it had already gone into contract. Even in this supposed down economy, properties are selling quickly in third-rate NYC neighborhoods.)

I liked the by the pound approach so you could get just what you wanted. And I didn’t mind carrying around the little check off card to individual stations for meat, sides and beverages and ordering from the chalkboard menus. I did lame out and got the lean brisket, half a pound, when normally I’m one for the moist, i.e. fatty cuts. With the addition of a quarter pound of pork equaling two hefty ribs, all was well. I know our citified ‘cue is overpriced by Southern standards, but $12 plus change for the meat above wasn’t wildly outrageous.

The brisket is definitely the star and that was no surprise being a Texas-style joint, complete with imported Blue Bell ice cream, Kruez sausages and Big Red soda. Even the lean slices encased in char with pink substrata were juicy. The ribs weren’t necessary and they were a bit tough and dry, which wasn’t helped by the fact that I talk too much when I eat and was futzing around with a new camera (I still have kinks to work out, clearly, but I’m getting there) so they were cold by the time I got around to gnawing on them.

Even though it was still 2008 at the time and I said I wasn’t making resolutions anyway, eating more beans has been a vague plan I’ve been meaning to adopt (I’m making a white bean chorizo soup tonight, well, the same idea but with tepary beans and chicken sausage). Unfortunately, I think the addition of rubber eraser-sized “burnt ends” to the baked beans might’ve mitigated any nutrients potentially gleaned.

I shared pickles and corn pudding that Heather picked out because I’m a beast who doesn’t like mac and cheese. Starchy and creamy corn is more desirable than starchy and creamy pasta.
Next time I’ll ignore the ribs, opt for a little of the Kruez jalapeno cheese sausage instead, and try one of the mini, though not two-bite mini, pecan pies.

Hill Country * 30 W. 26th St., New York, NY

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Jan 3

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Buttermilk Channel

Sometimes things fall into place; often they don’t. New Year’s Eve, much like Fourth of July and Halloween, always end up lackluster because I can’t be bothered to make plans. That why for the dawn of 2008, I made a concerted effort to get out of town and randomly rang in the new year in Toronto. This year I was still recuperating from vacation hangover and wasn’t feeling motivated to come up with anything monumental for December 31.

It was too icy and cold to take chances on Williamsburg where vague parties of friends of friends are always an option and where I frequently end up drunk and eventually angry over the inescapable ‘80s music (Nu Shooz will always set me off guaranteed). So I kept it local, trying to avoid ridiculous prix fixes (even freakin' Marco Polo was throwing a $125 per person fete) and attempting to find a free table anywhere without reservations.

Chestnut was hopelessly full. I wasn’t even going to bother with newish Smith Street darlings like Char No. 4. I had put Buttermilk Channel in that same camp, but decided to check anyway since it’s only three blocks from my apartment. It was hopping at 9:45pm, every space occupied, and then miraculously, two high chairs were open at the end of the bar. Perfect. Maybe that bodes well for 2009?

I didn’t bring the new camera because I know myself too well and feared an inebriated dropping, and sure enough, my purse hit the ground at the end of dinner despite the nice bag hooks beneath the bar. A cocktail that blended rye with vanilla liqueur and bitters, whose name I forget (it contained a woman’s name) got me started on the path to a more festive mood. I stuck with wine the rest of the evening, misguidedly believing that I’d suffer fewer ill effects than with the harder stuff.

Popovers with honey and large flakes of sea salt. They don’t look like much, but sweet, salty and starchy rarely disappoints.

I normally steer clear of entrée salads, they always seem too chicken Caesar, chain restaurant-y. But I’ve been making exceptions more and more (most recently with the luxurious lobster salad at Irving Mill). Buttermilk Channel’s rendition with tender lamb and long leaves of romaine was substantial and beefed up with cauliflower, olive bread croutons, a soft-yolked egg and fried capers. I might’ve preferred the cruciferous vegetable to be fried instead of the capers since the hot oil treatment barely registered on such a tiny subject.

Name-checked Schaller & Weber bratwurst on a roll. I only tried the fries, which were the way I like them: skinny and crisp.

I’ll definitely go back for a more complete meal. The service was gracious and professional despite the holiday frenzy and the food (what little we sampled) was high caliber for this unloved strip of lower Court Street (eh, for upper Court, too). I'll still patronize chimichanga-slinging Mezcal's on the same block, though.

Buttermilk Channel * 524 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

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Dec 31

Elettaria

Gone? Dammit, I never got to try their crab rangoon. (8/28/09)

I wouldn’t believe you if you told me I would be eating Filipino congee for my Christmas meal. Every year I have a holiday dinner date at an often random restaurant a few days before December 25th because I don’t do the going home with the boyfriend for Christmas thing (no, not even after nine Christmases). This year was Elettaria, primarily because I never paid a visit when it was new–and why not now?

I got the impression somewhere that the bar scene overshadows the dining. That wasn’t really the case. In fact, I still have no idea what kind of scene it is other than an all-encompassing one. Maybe the Monday before Christmas isn’t representative because the room really cleared out after 9pm (as opposed to Wilfie & Nell–where I showed restraint by only drinking and not ordering pork sliders–packed solid earlier this same evening. Maybe that’s the New York magazine review effect). All of the larger corner tables were taken by canoodlers, gay and straight. There was a primo banquette between the bar and dining room that seemed reserved for seniors only. Children were present, as well as twenty-something lawyers flirting with each other. Oh, and even a little person (who was not Peter Dinklage). Something for everyone.

Including me. The cuisine is Asian-inflected, I knew that. But I was still surprised when our waiter described the only appetizer special, “Lugaw, a Filipino rice porridge with beef torchon, quail egg and tripe.” Really? I had him repeat it later because his accent was thick and all I caught initially was Filipino and tripe. That’s all I needed to hear, though, and more than enough to sway me from my original choice of smoked duck.

I should’ve been eating congee my entire time in Hong Kong because it’s good sick person food. Now, I could make up for lost time. I don’t know that porridge makes for a compelling Manhattan starter though really it’s not any stranger than ordering soup as a first course. And it endeared me to the restaurant. The menu was otherwise winsome and filled with lots of ingredients that appealed to me but it was the lugaw that won me over.

I’m still not certain what a beef torchon is or if I even heard that correctly (you usually see that term in relation to foie gras). No matter, the flavors and textures worked. The meat, a bit chewy and gelatinous, melded well with the creaminess of the egg and ricey broth. Fried garlic and minced scallions added punch.

Normally, I would’ve been drawn to the fried quail. This looked like a decent-sized portion. Maybe I’ve lost my tolerance because the food even though mildly fussy, was very filling. Fussy isn’t the right word, what I mean is there were many components to each dish.

Being overporked in 2008, I went for the guinea hen. I’d forgotten how wonderful a simple skin-crisped-to-perfection bird can be (though not simple in price—this was the most expensive thing on the menu at $30. It was early Christmas dinner, though, so no nickel-and-diming). The legs were surrounded by gnocchi, sliced chestnuts and a soft cabbagey squash relish. Maybe I’m just imaging the cabbage.

Sea bass, potatoes, fennel prosciutto and octopus? A little complex without being incongruous, and hearty for a fish-based course.

That would’ve been plenty but you need dessert for a celebration so it was an unnecessary pineapple upside down cake and served with coconut gelato. At least it wasn’t molten despite its pucky looks.

Thumbs up on lugaw and hen skin. And here's to venturing beyond pork products in 2009.

Elettaria * 33 W. Eighth St., New York, NY

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Dec 24

El Almacén

3/4 I’m not crazy about dining in my own neighborhood because the food is overwhelmingly mediocre. I’m not crazy about dining in Williamsburg because the service is always comically aloof. But sometimes I have to make allowances and lower expectations because I’m either too lazy to leave Carroll Gardens or I’m visiting friends who seem to live disproportionately in North Brooklyn.

Due to the snowstorm, I was trying to come up with someplace no more than a block or two from my friend’s apartment where she was throwing a party Saturday night. I am lame in snow and ice and wanted to lessen chances for potentially falling on my head. I didn’t actually think I’d find anyplace worthy that close to Driggs and Sixth until I remembered brand new El Almacén, which I had genuine interest in.

I found a warm room adorned with cast iron skillets and antique seltzer bottles (I’m still not sure why seltzer is an Argentine obsession but it’s one shared by me. Sunday, I found Bariloche, a product of Argentina at Wegmans and snatched up four plastic containers) that while small, wasn’t cramped, and even had a few empty tables. No ridiculous wait time necessary. Rare for a Saturday night and I blame it on the holidays compounded by bad weather.

Of course being 11231 there was minor weirdness with getting any acknowledgment or eye contact after walking in the door. After a baffling minimum full minute (hey, 60 seconds feels like a long time when you’re actively trying to engage numerous individuals to no avail) we just sat ourselves. No sense in getting annoyed over something that’s no surprise. (I dined at an NJ Cheesecake Factory the following night and you couldn’t get more freakishly chummy, attentive service, duh, it was the Cheesecake Factory. My point being that you’re crazy to not know what you’re getting into wherever it is you choose to eat.)

I was curious about an Argentine restaurant that wasn’t all steak and pasta because that’s really all we have in NYC and well, that kind of dominates in Buenos Aires too. It turns out that the menu is rife with classics: parrillada, choripan, milanesa and empanadas, but the overall feeling is Argentine-inspired with a pan-Latin influence. The first tip off is the use of salsas and spicy sauces. Argentines are notoriously heat-averse and I don’t know if it’s an urban myth but I had heard that they don’t even put pepper on the table and now that I think about it peppermills might’ve been absent during my Buenos Aires trip this spring. Argentine touches show up in things like mate-infused sauces and chimmichurri mayonnaise, but many ingredients hail from other parts of South America. And for the most part the hodgepodge works.

Fried cubes of Manchego are much more pungent than a mozzarella stick, and considerably lighter despite being battered. The tomato sauce played off of Argentina's Italian influence, though as I noted earlier, it was spicier than a typical marinara or anything you would traditionally find in Buenos Aires. These went way too fast.

The weather called for hearty. I’ll save ceviche and salads for a warmer time of year. Short ribs are the ultimate snowstorm food. I’m not sure that I detected any purported mate flavor but the beef was wonderfully rich without being too fatty. The tender meat sat atop thick slices of boniato, perhaps a touch too mealy and dense but that’s just nitpicking. The sauce looks wilder in the photo than I realized at the time. Interestingly, they call these costilla de res but I found out the hard way in Buenos Aires that costillas aren't ribs like in NYC but massive pork chops.

There’s was nothing Argentinean about lechon with black beans and salsa. I stayed away from this because I feared the pork would be dried out. For some reason, moderately priced restaurants tend to ruin pork. You expect a Dominican hole in the wall to get it right, same with a dish that costs $28; it’s the in-between I worry about. It wasn’t tough or stringy at all, and I kept wanting to pick at the dish even though it wasn’t mine.

Fiambres (salumi) and quesos headline the menu and would be a great accompaniment to a glass of Malbec or Torrontes. But as it stands, there is no liquor being served and I hesitate to say it’s BYOB either. I don’t know the laws in NYC but I was always under the impression that if a restaurant didn’t have a liquor license it was ok to bring your own. I brought a bottle just to be safe (also because I’m a cheap lush, and yes, I'm drinking rosé in December–pink wine in winter will be all the rage for 2009), left it in the car and asked if it was ok before toting it in. They didn’t seem to have a problem with this, others were doing the same, but alluded that the practice was illicit and kept the bottle hidden behind the bar and served the wine in coffee cups. It certainly lent a speakeasy flair (so à la minute) that I could go along with but I’d never encountered a similar situation before.

I don’t say this very often but El Almacén is the type of place that I wouldn’t mind having in my neighborhood, especially on a weeknight when I’m stuck for a satisfying meal that’s a notch above takeout. I would take creative Latin over the so-so Italian, sushi and Thai that plagues so many pockets of the city, any day.

El Almacén * 557 Driggs Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Nov 25

Vesta Trattoria

We have a zillion Italian-American, Italian-Italian, wine bars, pizzerias and small plates joints in Carroll Gardens and environs so maybe I’m blasé. I wouldn’t think twice about Vesta Trattoria if it were on Smith Street.

But Astoria is a different matter. That part of Queens has never been my stomping grounds, so I’m not a good judge of the neighborhood. But from what I can tell, there doesn’t seem to be much going on way west on 20th Street. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why the brand new restaurant was filled beyond capacity on Saturday.

At least they understand the power of softening an hour wait with a free drink. I don’t know how many places, particularly small places catering to locals, seem hospitality deficient. You think that would be especially vital in the first few weeks when opinions are being formed.

The menu isn’t wide-ranging. There are a handful of starters, three pizzas, four pastas and on my visit, three entrees. I wasn’t taken by the standard sounding chicken, salmon or steak. Maybe they were prepared wonderfully, warm lentils and prune reduction doesn’t sound half bad, but they didn’t entice me with their simplicity.

Instead, I shared a lemony cracked wheat salad. I don’t always want something delicate and leafy when it’s freezing out so this fit the still light but more substantial bill. This is the type of thing that would be horribly dull if I made it myself, probably because I always underdress salads.

Pizzas are very crackery, which I like, though I know not all do. The margherita was a little tomato and basil sweet and not terribly cheesey.

Pastas come in cute individual casseroles, which struck me as something Gordon Ramsey would suggest to perk up business on Kitchen Nightmares. Not that any nightmares occurred here (well, sort of, if you consider being smooshed next to a furiously groping couple who insist on sitting side-by-side on a shared banquette, horrifying. I particularly liked it when James inadvertently got brushed by the grabbing hands an inch from his body).

Gnocchi with oyster mushrooms in a cream sauce more than compensated for the oddly light starters. This was hearty, though not relentlessly dense. The parmesan crumbs and meaty fungi kept the dish interesting.

“Sunday dinner style” lasagna, whatever that means. I did not sample this, and worried for a second, considering it was Saturday’s dinner.

I’m not clear what atmosphere they’re trying to cultivate, maybe it’s evolving. The Scorpions and Poison that were initially playing seemed a little off but I kind of got it and didn’t think it was completely ironic as the crowd leaned middle of the road. As the night wore on Vampire Weekend came on, as if one of the waiters had finally got a chance to play his mix.

This is the strange little artwork that I looked at during most of my meal. For no particular reason, it made me think of the “The Nightman Cometh” musical from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia’s season finale. I suppose that’s a good thing, not sure if it’s appetite stimulating, though.

If you feel compelled to pay a visit and intend to drive, beware the folly of Google maps. Type in 20-02 30th Ave. and it gives you 80-02. Drive there and you’ll end up in a residential neighborhood near La Guardia trying to figure out where you went wrong.

Vesta Trattoria * 21-02 30th Ave., Astoria, NY

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Nov 19

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Killmeyer’s

1/2 Googling killmeyer's vs nurnberger bierhaus
recently brought someone to this site, and strangely, I had the exact
same question last week. This is German food weather, but where to go?Manhattan just doesn’t work, though I’ll admit that I haven’t given it a chance. I probably would appreciate the kitsch factor at Rolf’s, especially this time of year. Queens is rife with options, and part of me is curious about Manor Oktoberfest since it’s in that bizarro Atlas Park Mall...um, and they serve a Cuban panini. Schnitzel Haus is Brooklyn’s only contender (and might just have the best food of any I’ve tried so far--two words: schweinshaxe “hofbrauhaus" a.k.a. pork knuckle ). But really, the best ambiance is in Staten Island, yes, Staten Island. Killmeyer’s is barely even in the city. After winding for miles on woodsy dimly lit Arthur Kills Road, you could practically be in the Black Forest. If you really pushed your imagination, this isolated pocket could even be the setting for my favorite Grimm Brothers' fairy tale, "The Bird, the Mouse and the Sausage."
Due to its inconvenient location (though there are bus stops outside) the crowd tends to be very local, and on a Saturday night the bar was more crowded than the dining room. I sipped a Bitburger at a lone unoccupied table while waiting for friends to arrive (the same ones that I’d randomly ran into at Wegmans just a few hours earlier).I wonder if forcing the staff to wear festive costumes is key to the experience? Maybe that’s why I shy away from Manhattan…too much dignity. But what is German food without a Snow White-style building, moose heads and dirndl-clad lasses? (I’m seriously looking forward to Hua Hin where I’ll be in two weeks because the coastal town is thick with German expatriates who run businesses staffed by Thais in lederhosen and the like. So wrong for the tropics.)Potato pancakes with the requisite sour cream and applesauce were shared by all. They were a little oily but not offputtingly so.
I was a little disheartened that there wasn’t any pork knuckle on the menu (I checked Nurnberger Bierhaus’ and Zum Stammtischs’ too and same deal. Sure, Schnitzel Haus seems oddly located in Bay Ridge, but they have the massive, crispy, fatty pork knuckle!). In order to try and satisfy my pork tooth, I opted for the farmer’s feast, which includes pork loin, smoked pork chop and pork sausage with sauerkraut, red cabbage and potato dumplings. It’s a lot of food. I could’ve survived on sauerkraut and kassler rippchen, but was happy for variety (and lunch the next day). The overall effect was sweet, tart and salty. Perfect with dark wheat beer whose name I’ve forgotten but in a style called dunkelweizen.
Sausage trio for a recently lapsed herbivore. On my last visit to Killmeyer’s I was accompanied by two vegetarians and it was tough going variety-wise. They do have a vegetarian plate, if need be.
Sauerbraten. This looked wonderfully dark and rich. I always intend to branch out into something non-porcine (though chicken or fish is pushing it) but after once ordering a lackluster sauerbraten at Schnitzel Haus instead of my favorite dish, yes, that damn pork knuckle, I was deeply disappointed. No German beef ever again.
There was no need for dessert and yet James was swayed by ridiculously fluffy overflowering sundaes being brought to tables throughout our dinner. No, there’s nothing particularly Bavarian about ice cream covered in walnuts and Bailey’s Irish Cream. But seriously, look at that thing.
Is black forest cake authentic or one of those regionally whack things like English muffins or Singapore noodles?I can’t help but notice the “Book your holiday party now!!” plea on their website. I wish. After last year’s foodie-planned office party fiasco at Bacaro, someone else took over holiday celebration duties and we’re now going to someplace I’ve never heard of called Kemia Bar where I doubt squid ink, head-on sardines or chicken livers will make an appearance. (11/15/08)

Nov 4

Korhogo 126

1/2 It must’ve been sometime around Labor Day that I decided to finally check out Korhogo 126. It had transformed from Bouillabaisse 126 quite some time ago but I’d never been compelled to pay a visit. I’m not sure why, it didn’t seem casual enough for a weeknight and it never crossed my mind on a weekend. Unfortunately, it was closed with only a handwritten sign about being on vacation. That seemed a bit suspicious since summer was over by most standards (not mine, but many).

Instead, I just went to Alma, acceptable Mexicanish food not worth writing about more than once, around the corner.

After hearing they were open again and with lower prices, I figured now was the time to return. That block of Union Street is a bit wonky with hours (House of Pizza and Calzone used to be closed randomly, Ferdinando’s also keeps weird hours and…well, not related to hours but is Calexico really that good? I’m glad that something’s going into the Schnack space but I’m not convinced that I will be crazy about these burritos, Vendy award winners or not) so I half expected Korhogo to be closed. But on a prime Friday night, Halloween, no less, lights were on and a decent amount of diners were scattered throughout the back patio than the main room. I prefer dining indoors during all seasons.

I recall there being a crab cake on the menu, which seemed to have been replaced with $6 cod fritters. And in addition to the sparse selections of wines by the glass hovering around $10, there was a $7 white and red on offer. I’ve already forgotten what the red was other than that it came from France, and I ordered it. But other than that, I couldn’t say how the prices and menu have changed.

We split the escargot kedjenou because how often do you get to try snails served atypically, sans garlic butter and parsley? From what I understand, kedjenou is a tomato-based Cote d’Ivoire stew that typically uses chicken. This dish exemplified chef Abdhul Traore’s style: heavy on the French with small nods to Africa. At least I don’t think they’re using puff pastry, escargot and asparagus near the Gulf of Guinea. I immediately realized this was going to be refined food, nothing earthy and gritty (I don’t mind a little earth and grit).

The ratatouille-like sauce was subtly perfumed with licoricey star anise. The snails didn’t have a pronounced flavor and if no one told you what they were you might think the firm dark blobs were meaty mushrooms.

My lamb shank, a perfect mix of tender meat, cripsness and fat, owed more to Northern Africa. This was exactly what I had been wanting last month when I landed at Tanoreen with a lamb craving (and this one is $7 cheaper, I might add). Oddly, here too, the accompaniments were very western: super buttery mashed potatoes, green beans, carrots and squash. I tend to think hotel food when I see that combo, but I wasn’t bothered so much. I bet it would’ve been great with attieke, a false couscous made from cassava that I recently became acquainted with.

This was a flounder special, which I did not eat. The sides were similar to the lamb.

As we were finishing, a group of Nigerian women (and one male) showed up to celebrate a self-proclaimed girl’s night out. I wouldn’t have described the place as a destination restaurant but I’m glad that it is attracting clientele beyond Carroll Gardens.

Korhogo 126 * Union St., Brooklyn, NY

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Oct 29

Irving Mill

I like to pretend that I’m not susceptible to suggestion but after reading a blurb about Irving Mill’s charcroute platter on Food & Wine’s blog earlier this month, I knew I’d have to seek it out.

I hadn’t paid much attention to this restaurant initially because I only have room in my mind for so many urban farmhouses. But after Ryan Skeen moved there from Resto, bringing my favorite salad of 2008 (so far) with him, I figured this meaty Alsatian hodgepodge would not suck.

And it didn’t. The only difficulty was in trying to determine how much food to order. Irving Mill has one of those menus scattered with bites, small plates, full on entrees and randomly placed boxes advertising things like a burger and this charcroute plate. How much does one get for $22 versus the $38 version?

I decided the smaller size could be an appetizer for two, and this was true, everything came in pairs. Perfect. If there had been three of us, it would’ve been all wrong and insufficient. Shared bites just aren’t enough sometimes.

Head cheese or terrine tete de cochon if you want it to sound nicer, ribs, boudin noir in slices, boudin blanc whole and breaded, fried pig’s feet are on the plate clockwise from the top. Though, I wouldn’t have predicted so, the crispy-tender ribs were the star. None of these items were boiled together as tradition dictates, so everything from the delicate weisswurst to the schnitzel-like feet kept their individual textures.

Accompaniments included grilled bread, violet mustard, grainy mustard and potato wedges with horseradish-spiked crème fraiche. I closed my eyes, pretended I had an astute palate and tried to detect floweriness in the burgundy-hued mustard. I liked the color, but nothing violet jumped out flavor-wise.

A few minutes after we took in the whole affair, a separate small bowl of pork bellies were hurried to our table. I think they initially forgot them and in the charcuterie frenzy, I hadn’t even noticed. Now that I look at the menu, the missing component is described as glazed pork shoulder but we definitely were given two, fat-striped squares of belly.

This is perfect restaurant food because cooking miniature versions of six meaty items is impractical from both financial and time standpoints. And I was able justify the gluttony because each porky treat is small and manageable.

So, my palate was useless for flavored mustard, but boy did the sauerkraut get into my system. James didn’t think it was particularly strong, but I wondered if the fermentation might’ve gone wild. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on what tasted odd, not bad, but pungent. It was clearly the shredded cabbage, which was tart, salty, with undercurrents of mustiness. I initially thought urine, then changed my mind to festering genitals (not that I know that smell, first hand, of course). This wasn’t an unfamiliar odor, and I finally placed it: stinky tofu.

On the cheapy bus from Beijing to the Great Wall (hey, I was there this week last year) I started getting whiffs of what I thought was the stench of an unwashed human (once a similar smell assaulted me on the 5 to the Bronx Zoo and it was clearly attributable to a kid sitting next to me) or maybe a dead and decaying human. I was convinced it was human in some form, not animal. I finally realized that it was food, which made me feel a little better, and I totally got why they call it stinky tofu.

I just ate kim chee for lunch so I have no problem with fermented cabbage. I liked Irving Mill’s sauerkraut too. But I wonder if I was just having a supertaster moment and the dish wasn’t as strong as I perceived it to be because I don’t imagine the average diner goes for that sort of thing. Or maybe the average diner steers clear of charcroute, altogether.

Yes, there was other food. I ordered a lobster salad hoping for lightness to balance the starter. I do appreciate salads that go easy on the lettuce; the romaine is really only there to support the salinity of the sweet shellfish and mouth-popping caviar (which type, I have no idea). I could’ve done with an extra chunk of lobster, though. And just to make sure that pig parts appear in every possible place, there are thin rectangles of bacon tossed on top that I initially thought were some kind of vegetable chip. I’m glad it wasn’t crispy grilled eggplant.

I never eat macaroni and cheese because it just tastes like cheese and noodles. I totally don’t get the appeal. And yes, this tasted like cheese and noodles, but drier and sharper than usual. Oh, and those cracklings kind of changed my mind a bit.

The lamb cassoulet was not light and was not my pick. I did eat a slice of gamey, lightly spiced sausage, though.

The sundae was completely unnecessary. I got sucked in by the idea of ice cream slathered in gooey sauce, but really the confection was ordinary. The caramel drizzles were nearly imperceptible and the blondie was kind of hard. The cinnamon walnuts were the standout.

I like getting dismayed over ‘80s music wherever it plays. I guess because it means that I’m old. In a Paramus Outback Steakhouse, hearing The Cure tickles me a little. It somehow makes sense paired with a 22-ounce mug of Foster’s, but I’m weirded out by the same music when sipping a $14 organic apple cider from Normandy because it’s a bizarre melding of highbrow with ancient pop culture.

But no matter the setting, I always love it when "Age of Consent," my favorite New Order song, comes on (a live Arcade Fire version had popped onto my iPod the same day I dined at Irving Mill so it was a daily double). No, it’s not the most obscure tune yet it never fails to put me into a good state of mind. I would gladly eat headcheese to synth-pop again.

Irving Mill * 116 E. 16th Street, New York, NY

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