Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Aug 25

Ba Xuyen

Some foods gain universal adoration and acceptance, despite once being obscure. I understand why banh mis have such a stellar reputation. I’ve loved the mixed up sandwiches ever since I accidentally stumbled on a $1.50 Portland version what seems like a lifetime ago. I had no idea what it was at the time but the idea of something called a French sandwich in a Vietnamese takeout joint was too incongruous to pass up. I was hooked.
And they’re still a value at $3.75 in Brooklyn, even if that’s 75 more cents than my last posting on the subject. I forget the bounty of Sunset Park and really took living in the neighborhood for granted. Who knows, there might come a time when I look back fondly on the so-so Thai and French I’m surrounded by now. Perhaps I should soften my stance.

I don’t think I’ve had a Vietnamese sandwich once in 2008 and broke my dry spell this afternoon at my favorite, Ba Xuyen. And I hate hyperbole, but I swear the #1 was better than I remembered. I’ve experimented a bit and bought a #4 meatball for James, but I like the more is more approach. I also prefer everything bagels over plain or single ingredient.
Maybe because I’ve been eating lighter recently, but the one thing that struck me was how rich the pate was, like they added a little more than usual and mixed with the slightly sweet mayonnaise, created a new velvety condiment. It might’ve been overwhelming if it weren’t for the pickled carrots and daikon and jalapeno rounds lending sharpness. I’m honestly not sure what the different lunch meats are exactly, you can’t mind the cartilagey bits, though; they just add texture and the row of ground pork adds meaty springiness.
I only intended to eat half of my sandwich since this impromptu lunch didn’t take place until after 5pm and I was planning Sri Lankan food for dinner, maybe around 9pm. But I ate the whole thing anyway because it was that good. (And I have another one to look forward to tomorrow--I always buy a second sandwich to bring to work for lunch.) Ba Xuyen’s version is a bit heartier than some others so this might’ve been a mistake. I have zero interest in cooking now.
Ok, I could just leave my banh mi missive like that, happy go lucky and to the point. But I can’t or else it wouldn’t be me. I can’t because while waiting for my sandwich I encountered the convergence of two subjects that garner the angriest comments here: my impatience with know-it-all white foodies showing off their love of ethnic food and my suspicion and dismissal of the seriousness of food allergies. I rarely get comments period, I guess I’m more of a blabber than a cultivator of community, but yes, these are two topics that never fail to elicit vitriol from strangers. And this is how they come together in one interaction.

Twenty-something redhead: Does the #8 have peanuts?
Perfectly nice counter woman with adequate English skills: You want peanuts?
Twenty-something redhead: No, I don’t eat peanuts.
Perfectly nice counter woman with adequate English skills: The pork sandwich has peanuts.
Twenty-something redhead: I can’t eat peanuts. I have allergies.
Perfectly nice counter woman with adequate English skills: Allergies. Ok…
And this devolved into a back and forth with no resolve. The counter woman understood what allergies were but the redhead was getting more exasperated and sniped, “this is really turning into a drama.”
I think the problem was that the counter woman didn’t get what the girl was asking for. To me, it seemed that she wanted a different sandwich than the one she had ordered, sat down with and had started eating and now wanted to know which of the eight choices were peanut-free but she wasn’t really articulating this well. So then, her Asian-American (not Vietnamese, I’m fairly certain) boyfriend came up and reiterated the exact same thing like that would help matters, then announced that he’d just swap his #1 with his girlfriend’s #8 and that would solve peanut-filled sandwich problem.
While waiting for my sandwich, the counter lady was conferring with the cook lady in Vietnamese and every few words you could hear highly accented, allergy huffed with derision. I caught her eye and shared a smile—I didn’t want her want her lumping me into the difficult white lady camp. I’m no trouble-maker.
Sure, I’m guilty of being white and loving to eat food that I didn’t grow up with. I’m all for everyone sampling cuisines of the world. But I have issues with two types: loud, braggadocios who either have traveled extensively or lived in a foreign country and suck the air out of restaurants with their unbridled knowledge (not this couple’s M.O.) and the culinary explorers who expect all conventions of American, particularly neurotic New Yorker, eating quirks to be anticipated and respected.
As a diabetic, I’m careful about avoiding sugar but that’s my problem. If I blindly ordered a foodstuff from an inexpensive storefront, oh, let's say an iced coffee from a Vietnamese establishment, and the beverage I was handed was beige with sweetened condensed milk because that’s what Vietnamese ice coffee is like, it would be my own fault for not asking what it contained first. I wouldn’t expect the business to make me something else due to my mistake. I don't expect Danny Meyer levels of hospitality for $3.75.

Back to the important matter: Ba Xuyen makes the most awesome banh mis in the city. Just watch out for the bbq pork, a.k.a the #8—it’s sprinkled with crushed peanuts. (8/25/08)

Aug 22

Botanica

I feel like I can’t talk about places and things without photographic backup. People, including myself, don’t have time for words anymore. It’s all I can do to scroll through my work RSS feeds during the day while trying to squeeze in a few non-work feeds on the side. Particularly with food blogs, photos and headlines get the point across, and then you move onto the next.

I didn’t even start taking snapshots until 2006 and I’ve been writing on the web since ye olde 1998 so it’s creepy that photos have become so essential so quickly. Yeah, yeah, it’s all about video now…well, that’s never going to happen on my watch.

Maybe I’m regressing (some would say evolving) or maybe it’s just the lazy days of August when all NYC media tries to make you believe that the entire city is summering someplace full of fresh air that’s insanely fun (I’m indifferent to fresh air) but I haven’t been inclined to detail everything I eat and drink digitally.

I didn’t take as single shot at Grand Sichuan last week and only two or three at Boca Junior on Saturday. I did attempt a few pictures of my negroni at newly opened Botanica in Red Hook but flashless photography is futile while drinking outdoors at night.

Yes, there’s already a perfectly established bar with the same name on Houston Street, so that is weird. And yes, old-timer fave, Sunny’s is just down the street. I don’t see why the established and the new can’t coexist. No matter how much gentrification talk gets bandied about, the neighborhood is hardly bursting at the seams. The streets are still dead at night. Three cats prowling around the sidewalk at intervals was about the sum of the foot traffic I witnessed this weekend.

I’ve never felt more like I was in Beijing while ordering a drink at Botanica. Well, there weren’t any mute assistants with bowl haircuts working behind the bar when I was in China, but in both places I experienced pricy cocktails for the environs painstakingly made, i.e. slooowly from a binder of recipes. I’m all for perfection but the trick is making it appear seamless. I tend to be a bit twitchy and nervous as it is; I can’t spare the stress on my heart to be nervous for others too.

Now that I think about it, the awkwardness might’ve been compounded by a lack of bar seating and a big unfilled space between the bar and the row of tables against the wall. It feels strange to be standing eye to eye with a bartender when the room is nearly empty and you’re the only one at the counter. Or maybe it was the quirky African (or was it African-influenced? It was most definitely wasn’t Vampire Weekend, thank God) music playing that threw me off.

Normally, I’m violently opposed to sitting outside but Saturday the temperature was abnormally tolerable while the bar itself was hot and stuffy despite all doors being open and nary a crowd emitting body heat. My only fear was being targeted as a douche for drinking a double-digit-priced cocktail at a candlelit (make that glowing plastic votive thing) sidewalk table on Conover Street. And funny, because I overheard one table trading war stories with another table about the good ol’ days when the area was so scary it was safer to walk in the middle of the street.

The emphasis appears to be on freshly muddled fruit. A row of martini glasses filled with blackberries, cherries, and the like are prominently displayed on the bar (like this). I wasn’t up for a blueberry martini or anything sweet so I went completely bitter and dry with a negroni. Those herbal aperitifs like Campari have only recently begun to grow on me. Maybe it’s an aging thing; James mentioned that his father’s favorite drink is a negroni and the man is twice my age.

Botanica hasn’t hit its stride yet, and one drink was sufficient to get the gist. $10 lighter and seven mosquito bites later, we moved onto Brooklyn Ice House (formerly Pioneer Bar-B-Q). I do prefer beer and Van Halen chased by a free shot.

Botanica * 220 Conover St., Brooklyn, NY

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Aug 16

Tailor

While settling into a post-birthday dinner at Tailor with my friend Sherri, conversation turned to her recent Portland excursion. I am from Portland. She is not. I was wowed by all of the photos of trendy restaurant food she had taken because it’s not my Portland. It’s not that upscale dining didn’t exist pre-1998 (though the food scene has hipified radically), it’s probably more that I tended towards the “grubbin’” side of cuisine. Horrible, horrible word, but it conveys the message: cheap, filling drunk/stoner food, exemplified by rice-filled (abhorrent) burritos big as your forearm.

To say Tailor is anti-grubbin’ is an understatement. Which isn’t to say that it’s not enjoyable. If price were not a concern, I could’ve sampled peculiar ingredient combinations on plate and in glass all evening long. It’s fun. I even gave into a bell pepper dessert (not so the bell pepper lemonade), despite the sad vegetable being on my bad side (strangely, the green menace had also shown in my Pret a Manger gazpacho at lunch earlier).

Cocktails, kind of Tailor’s selling point, were an immediate must. A lightly sour, gender-neutral hibiscus 7up, rye and key lime beverage for me and the insane prettiest pink Bazooka, that yes, relies on bubblegum liqueur and tastes exactly like it looks though maybe one notch less sweet. I do wonder where the color comes from. Could it possibly be natural?

Despite ultimately sharing, I picked out the veal, which came thinly shaved and cured like prosciutto. The whiter more gelatinous spheres were marrow, rightly rich and fatty, the denser orbs were composed of parmesan. Once again I was taken with color, apparently so much so that I can’t even recall what ingredient created the intense emerald green swoosh. The culprit was obviously herbal and tasted like a shot of wheatgrass. Paired with huckleberry drizzles and purple leaves, the result was pleasingly foresty, nothing like this scary forest.

Coriander-crusted sweetbreads were more straightforward and creamy almost like foie gras. A salsify base was neutral while the beer foam added bitter punch.

There are very few things more compelling than pork belly. Normally, those fatty striated slices would’ve been my first choice but the starchy component of “skate frites” snapped me to attention. Tater tots would’ve been good enough on their own because I love them (though not quite enough to craft a vest from Ore-Ida bags). But purple tater tots?! This had to be seen. To be honest, they didn’t have much flavor but they came atop a pool of ketchup and well, the looked pretty cool. The skate was formed into scallops and accompanied by a mayonnaise tarted up with malt vinegar and pickled shallots.

If mixing and matching were allowed I would’ve tossed a few purple tater tots into the pork belly bowl and created a giant plate of awesome. The butterscotch miso is the perfect blend of caramely and savory, almost like a salted palm sugar. I can see why Dale copped it for his own on Top Chef; unfortunately, it led to his downfall. Even the addition of artichoke made sense when bathed in this sauce.

I’ve said it before, but I am fairly conservative when it comes to desserts. Herby granitas and poached fruit bum me out. But that’s primarily because they’re unfun. I don’t really mind cerebral as long as I’m entertained. So, I gave into the bell pepper cake with cornbread ice cream topped with a pea frond. I mean, it makes sense that this trio would be compatible. Cornbread is frequently sweet and cake-like anyway. This could just have easily been a starter.

In some ways, the kumquat confit finisher was more challenging because I have a hard time associating deep, brown European caraway and pumpernickel flavors with sweets. All it needed was the addition of dill or sauerkraut and I might’ve lost it. The candied fruit paired with thin crisps and earthy rye-like ice cream made me think of what would happen if I took my usual Wasa crackers and slathered them with jelly instead of laughing cow cheese. I don’t think I’ll do that anytime soon.

The flavors of these two cocktails have merged in my brain because I was drinking them at the same time (don’t ask). On the left is a maté sour using yerba mate and while tea-like at first, an astringent, not unpleasant dirt-like aftertaste stuck with me later. The other is a blood and sand using scotch, sweet vermouth, cherry ale and an orange foam, which was smoky and orange peel bitter.

Tailor * 525 Broome St., New York, NY

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Aug 8

Eton

3/4 I’ll temporarily stop boohooing about the state of Asian food in Carroll Gardens. Eton is a small step for the neighborhood, small in stature and in menu, and only works if you’re craving Chinese dumplings.

No, you won’t find any five-for-a-dollar (isn’t it four in a few spots now?) deals, as Sackett Street is no place for such bargains, but $3.50 isn’t exactly extortion. And anyone who’s had their fill of the standard pork and scallion will appreciate the variety served here.

I tried all three staples: pork, beef and cabbage, chicken and mushroom and vegetarian. I really didn’t notice the vegetables in either meaty dumpling. The fillings are substantial, dense and almost meatbally, with very little extra space left for the blobs to float around inside the dough, which is a good thing. You can choose from a variety of sauces in little plastic to-go containers. I would recommend both sriracha and soy sauce drizzled on these two dumplings.

The vegetarian is a little odd though not un-tasty, using celery, tiny tofu squares and lentils, I think, but you must make concessions for local tastes. I heard that initially there were complaints before the vegetable dumpling became purely vegetarian. These matched well with the ginger-soy sauce on offer.

Shrimp dumplings were the special on my few visits and they might’ve been my favorite, at least interspersed with a few pork and beefs because those can bog you down. I was expecting a mousse-like puree, but the seafood is chopped roughly and tossed with edamame beans, which provides more texture to chew on. I would pair these with chile oil.

Dumplings are a fine enough Chinese snack (though I’ll always have a soft spot for the greasy, cardboardy crab rangoon from Wing Hua—or is it Ting Hua? I always forget which is the one on Court Street) but what I’m really looking forward to are the noodle soups that will supposedly be on the menu in October. I love a good Asian noodle soup so I’m hoping that what ends up being served isn’t the equivalent of the sad black-charred pizzas coming out of not-so-far-away South Brooklyn Pizza. All I was told is that they will be Asian-ish, not totally traditional, and that short ribs will probably play a role.

Yes, so Eton currently has two menu items. Hawaiian-style shaved ice has equal billing with the dumplings but I don’t eat things like that so I can’t speak to the snocone-esque treats. I’m really not supposed to be eating sugar (yes, they have four sugar-free syrups—I just don’t like fruity icy things, except for maybe halo halo and that’s just because it looks insane) and when I do I save it for something over the top like the hot fudge sundae that almost put me into a genuine coma at the Jersey Shore last weekend. Sweetened ice just isn’t enough to sway me. I do like that the toppings range from mochi to marshmallow fluff, though.

Eton * 205 Sackett St., Brooklyn, NY

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Aug 3

Poodam’s

Poodam’s has reminded me once again of the lameness that is Brooklyn Thai food. Even an unassuming corner spot in that weird part of Astoria not far from the multiplex theater serves better food than any of the attention grabbers in Cobble Hill.

I’m almost certain that I’ve relayed this tale before but it clearly annoyed me enough that it’s still stuck in my craw more than a year after the fact. An extremely volatile, know-it-all former coworker with an MBA (who got fired shortly after I quit of free will) insisted that Joya in my neighborhood served the best Thai food she’d eaten in NYC. And I was like, “You’re nuts” which prompted the oh so sassy, “Have you even been to Thailand?” Uh, yeah I have, and then I thought she was crazier than I already did.

The Issan menu (they spell it e-san but I like it with an I) is what makes Poodam’s unique. When I see Northeastern Thai specialties, I stick to salads over curries.

I tend to imagine Thai sausage as grilled, stiff yet crumbly like this from a random Poodam’s diner. Yet whenever I order a salad with Thai sausage (which has only been twice, the other instance being at Lotus of Siam in Las Vegas) the style used is pale and boiled-seeming, more akin to weisswurst or bologna. I don’t mind these soft sliced links but it’s something to remember. Obviously, I enjoyed this rendition with tomatoes, red onions and a tart-hot dressing or else I would’ve remembered to have taken a photo before half of it was gone.

Normally, I prefer my duck a little fatty, crispy skin intact, but it also makes for a rich larb ingredient. Typically, there’s no added fat in a larb preparation (just broth) so a gamier meat than chicken works well. I’ve been known to make healthier larb at home with chicken breasts but that’s not something I’d want to eat in a restaurant.

The fried fish was more Chinesey in flavor though I can’t put my finger on what made it so. Maybe it’s soy instead of fish sauce? I’ve noticed this effect with certain basil and chile preparations. Whole, crispy bass is a treat.

Drunken noodles just because. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t order noodles with a Thai meal because they seem like a distracting thing unto itself.

My Poodam’s review for Nymag.com

Poodam’s * 44-19 Broadway, Astoria, NY

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Jul 30

Dovetail

I tend to think people who have a hard time navigating Brooklyn, or rather flat out refuse to visit Brooklyn, are on the retarded side. But maybe I should lighten up because I’m clueless about the nuances of navigating anything uptown. On my way to my birthday dinner, I managed to end up at 125th Street when I only meant to go to 81st.

Normally, this wouldn’t be the biggest deal– how many times do you arrive on the dot for a reservation only to be made to wait at the bar–but it turns out that Dovetail is persnickety about punctuality. It was just frustrating because I’m always on time, if not on the early side.

Well, my sweaty and late arrival at 7:15 (by my watch—7:20 according to James) was tardy enough that our 7pm table was given away to walk-ins. Fine, do Friday evening business as you must. However, what was kind of offputting according to James was that the hostess (who oddly dressed like a woman in her 40s but was probably two decades younger) apparently gave him the once over, then asked in so many words if his date was really going to show up. Like it’s been 15 minutes, are you sure that don’t want to just give up this waiting charade? I don’t know that that’s the best way to start off a customer’s dining experience.

So, I was initially soured a bit. I try to separate service from food but when you’re spending hundreds of dollars the two are kind of inextricable. You start thinking in more critical terms. I will say that the servers were professional and gracious, though we both got paranoid when a besuited gentleman we hadn’t seen all night, likely a manager, came over towards the end of the meal to check on us and took our dessert order. We became convinced that we were being watched, bugged and/or expedited for taking too long at the table.

Amuses: a mini taco-like crepe, turnip, and salmon with crème fraiche.

I was excited about the deconstructed muffaleta and wasn’t disappointed. I would never think to batter and pan-fry a lamb’s tongue and serve it with ham, salami and provolone, thinly sliced olive ovals and a capery mayonnaise. But I’m glad that someone else thought of this creation.

Compare the striated meat and cheese cross section of a classic muffaletta to Dovetail’s more refined roulade of layers that they call presse.

I’m not certain what cut of pork this is. The chop contained nice amounts of fat and char, and there’s a crispy strip tucked behind. I wasn’t imagining the chickpeas and fennel united in a chunky Indian-spiced puree, or the peaches at all. The meat was so good, though, that I didn’t ponder the slightly unharmonious side components.

I recently discovered that my birthday falls on National Hot Fudge Sundae day. I do love a sundae but that’s the type of dessert you can only ever find (at least in a straightforward fashion) at chain restaurants or Luger (no, you’re not going to catch me saying Luger’s). Instead, I shared a super buttery brown sugared bread pudding. It was the bacon brittle and rum ice cream that sold me.

Curry marshmallows and fudgey squares were our parting treats.

Clearly, I’m more provincial than I’d care to admit. I like to imagine that I’m intrepid but in the future I’ll probably limit special occasion dining to restaurants that are less than an hour away by subway. But I wouldn’t hesitate recommending Dovetail to anyone residing on the Upper West Side or vicinity.

Dovetail * 103 W. 77th St., New York, NY

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Jul 23

James

1/2 Do you think people are swayed by businesses with the same name as their own? I would because I'm a cornball, but the only establishment I'm aware of that falls into this category is the Krista Hotel I recently saw in Buenos Aires.

I didn't choose new restaurant James simply because I was dining with someone named James, though it's possible that I was lightly influenced. Really, I was thinking of not terribly far away Brooklyn neighborhoods I rarely dine in like Prospect Heights, Fort Greene and Ditmas Park. I'm just not sold on South Brooklyn as neighborhood even after four years here so I'm testing the waters through restaurants.

James is pleasant in that handsome dark wood, painted white brick and pressed tin ceilings punctuated by hanging filament bulbs style that's been au courant for a few years. Nearby Flatbush Farm isn't a wildly different animal. The area can definitely sustain two seasonal restaurants with prominent bars, though.

Sure, there are small plates…and proper entrees too (mostly above $20, for what it's worth). I'm all for a normal dinner-sized portion but something about the wilting humidity combined with offerings that just sounded ok, not amazing (I can't define an amazing sounding entrée but I know it when I see it, and I will concede that James the dining companion's lamb with big fat white beans looked good) prompted me to order the burger. I never order the burger.

The grass-fed beef was juicy and flavorful, perfectly medium-rare. Topped with sharp Cotswold cheddar and served on toasted brioche, this was a more elegant burger specimen. My only complaint is that the patty was a little stubby and tall, and not wide enough to fill up all of the bun. I cut the sandwich in half and this caused the patty to bunch up at the flat cut edges, so that when you tried to grip the half-circle the meat kept sliding out. I don't think it's overly fussy to want your patty to stay put.

I envisioned a cocktail with our shared starter of prawns with a lemony sunchoke puree and a glass of Syrah with the burger but they brought out all of our food at the same time, which is a pet peeve I didn't realize I had. Maybe I'm fussier than I thought. It doesn't just throw off the balance of a meal and lets food get cold, it's physically tough at a two-top. It certainly wasn't the end of the world.

The ginger fizz with rhizome-infused vodka and mint was refreshing. I've always preferred ginger in beverages than in food where sometimes it's jarring. I would've passed on dessert but if one is ordered and put in front of me I can't not take a few bites.

Described as ricotta beignets, the blobs were more like coconut-crusted fritters. Fried, sweet and cheesey is a hard combo to resist. A raspberry-red wine coulis tarted them up.

James is a perfectly likable restaurant, but with so many worthy spots competing for attention in the city I wouldn't feel compelled to return in the immediate future. But it's definitely worth stopping in if you happen to be in Prospect Heights, maybe for a cocktail and a few small dishes.

James * 605 Carlton Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Jul 15

Resto

I’ve found a new contender for the most awesomely un-salady salad. Sripraphai’s crispy watercress salad is still tops but Resto’s crispy pig’s ear salad is a close second. Clearly, the secret to a good salad is the use of crispy ingredients.

I’m still not sure how something so suspect can taste so good. The sizable curls of fried ear almost outweigh the chicory leaves. The meat has much more chew than chicharrones, the closest thing I can compare the cut to, but still retains lots of crackle. White tarbeis beans are also distributed through the dish and everything is laced with a mustard-based dressing most likely herbed with chervil (the little fronds looks like parsley yet taste a little licoricey). The crowning glory is a soft-cooked egg.

I’m so sick of mix and match Financial District lunch salads I could cry. Even the cheapskate in me would order this $12 (oh, it’s $10 at lunch) number on a regular basis if it were available in the neighborhood.

After my new favorite ear mélange and a bottle of Kasteel Donker, curry mussels were superfluous. I was just going for something relatively light and non-meaty. Never mind the French fries and mayonnaise. Those fries were very tasty, but abnormally heavy.

James and I were going to share appetizers, but he was more into the tete de veau sandwich spiced with sriracha and I was obviously smitten with my salad. He actually preferred the head cheese on toast to the much lauded gruyere burger, his entree. I forgot to taste the burger so I’m not sure what to think.

Dessert was a chocolate tasting, from left to right: cinnamon milk chocolate, Sichuan peppercorn dark chocolate and orange dark chocolate. Not purists, we chose all flavored bars, besides they were out of the hardcore 88% cacao anyway. I love Sichuan savory food but I’m not sure how I feel about the use of these crunchy pods in sweets. The metallic tingly effect is kind of overpowering, like licking aluminum foil. I could still feel it while waiting for the 6 train 20 minutes later.

I know that if you were reading a cooking blog and they were whipping up pig’s ears they would be sourced from a quaint farm where the animals are blissful or special ordered by their local butcher they’ve forged a trusting relationship with. And those ears, lovely as they might be, would set you back say, $30. And maybe that’s a small price to pay for quality ears. I don’t know.

But I’m a grocery store girl so Saturday while at Western Beef, my favorite all-purpose supermarket, I browsed the walk-in meat cooler for ears. And of course I found them all frozen and scary looking, yet for a mere $2.39 a pound. I needed no convincing to put them in my cart.

It’s just cartilage, skin and fat. Do you think there is genuinely a marked difference between odd bits from a grocery store and a butcher? That would be one taste test that would be hard to recruit for. Well, I’m only out $3.87 if my pig’s ear cooking experiment goes south. I’ll crack open my copies of Nose to Tail Eating and The River Cottage Meat Book tonight

Resto * 111 E. 29th St., New York, NY

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Jul 11

The JakeWalk

I’ve been scoping out new and newish neighborhood bars for potential birthday celebrating. I think many opt for this solution because their living quarters are cramped. That’s not really my problem at all (don’t worry, I have plenty of others) I’m just not sure that I want to go the big messy, cooking and cleaning shebang in the apartment route (but I probably will because I’m a control freak).

Group dining is too traumatic. Annd apparently, my circle of friends are gauche because we always do the split the bill and divvy up the birthday person’s meal approach. It’s not as if the birthday person ever picks an expensive restaurant, so I don’t get the big deal. I also don’t know anyone who hosts their own birthday party and pays for all guests—that seems very rich and elderly, or at the very least like that middle aged guy in the commercial for what I think is Harrah’s Atlantic City and he’s showing off for his friends by picking out all the food and wine and shaking hands with the chef.

My inclination would be to check out Hot Pot City where it’s all you can cook plus unlimited beer for about $30 per person. But Flushing is a pain to get to and the non-carnivorous would probably have problems with raw meat dipped in the shared broth. Feh.

What I’d really like is to order lechon, a whole roast Filipino pig. Yesterday, I got distracted on this blog affiliated with a New Jersey restaurant, New Barbecue Pit. Dining-wise, it’s unfortunate that I know such a large number of vegetarians. Pig heads are enough to scare anyone, and even worse, practically every side dish and appetizer I could order from this place, including vegetables, would contain pork because that’s just the Filipino (and Chinese) way. I really, really do want to have a party with a whole pig but I don’t want to be a brat. It’s my birthday, though, right?

Well, if I ever get married there will most definitely be whole hogs…er, and durian cake and lots of things cooked with foul smelling shrimp paste. You know, just because it would be my special day and I’d like to exercise my right to be self-serving.

So, last night I intended to visit both The JakeWalk and Clover Club and started with the former when I should’ve reversed the order. JakeWalk was only about half-full when I arrived and still had a few open tables when I left around 9pm. Clover Club was at capacity by the time I made it a few blocks up the street. I should’ve known better since it’s gotten a lot of press people flock to newness. I wasn’t inclined to wait around for a seat.

I love fondue to death but I was kind of freaked out by how many diners were ordering it. I mean, it was like 98% humidity last night. My clothes were all damp and sticky just from the 10-block walk. I wouldn’t eat fondue in a place like Singapore either, but that’s just me.

I did order cheese, though. I’m not supposed to be eating sugar and that makes me sad (I’m on a mailing list that has been talking about chocolate croissants the past few days and food blogs seem to have gone wild with summer fruit tarts). But no one said I couldn’t go wild with cheese. And yes, I realize there is sugar in alcohol, cocktails in particular, but I turn a blind eye.

We ordered a small sampler with a choice of three cheeses and two meats. They were out of lamb prosciutto, which I was interested in because why not. Instead, we chose wild boar sausage, which was fatty, gamey and very stiff on the teeth. I liked it, though it’s not a soft pliable piece of charcuterie. We also ordered speck because I always forget what it’s like. I would say it’s a heartier less salty prosciutto.

I was hoping for Hooligan because it’s one of my favorite cheeses and I’d seen it on their website (urgh, I have to type “Web site” at work all day and now my hands automatically want to use that format) but it wasn’t listed. No matter, as an offshoot of Stinky Bklyn you know there will be plenty of winsome options. Instead, I picked another raw cow’s milk cheese I’ve liked in the past, Constant Bliss, and creamy blue Stichelton (which I now know is pronounced stickleton rather than stilcheechon). James always likes sharp and hard cheeses so he went for an Essex Street Comte.

Extras entailed a blob of peach jam, fig almond cake and pickled beans and onions.

I did appreciate that they provided a serious amount of bread slices (more than shown in the photos). I’m not supposed to be eating bread either (seriously, what can I freaking eat?) but whatever, it’s the principle. I hate it when you get tapas or things demanding bread and you’re given like two tiny slivers.

Who cares if the leaves are coated in creamy lemon vinaigrette, I like to pretend that salads are healthy. This tuft of arugula also contained shavings of manchego and spiced marcona almonds.

Apparently, I’m easily influenced because I ordered a glass of sherry after just having read Eric Asimov’s lament in the Times. The main reason I wanted to try Montilla-Moriles Fino was because I was wondering if this was the mystery sherry we’d had in Buenos Aires, the one where James inexplicably scrawled down the nonsensical phrase malo-malo. This sherry did contain two hyphenated M words. I don’t think it was the same, though. The flavor was a little harsher, kind of like musty almonds with a hint of dirt.

I finished with an Improved Gin Cocktail because I was curious how the ingredients–genever, maraschino, absinthe and angostura bitters–would blend. Now that’s a pretty yet bitter drink. I’ve never liked syrupy sweet cocktails but only in old age have I been able to appreciate the opposite end of the spectrum. The orange peel twist only upped the ante.

The JakeWalk * 282 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

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Jul 3

Meytex Cafe

I wasn’t completely sold on Ghenet, Park Slope’s newish Ethiopian restaurant so I wanted to make good on my promise (to myself) to try more regional African food. I headed out to Prospect-Lefferts Gardens (don’t kill me if that’s a bullshit name like Greenwood Heights—I’m still figuring the area out) to explore what edibles Ghana has to offer.

I will freely admit that I’m a novice Ghanaian eater. It’s not like there are “chop bars” on every corner, so I can only take so much blame. I say this because I get annoyed when I read reviews of totally common foodstuffs written as if the item is obscure or exotic (I’ve been trolling the DC/Baltimore Chowhound board in preparation for a mini-trip this weekend and I’m baffled by comments like “what are plantains and jicama?” but these are message board users not necessarily food bloggers.) I was driven insane a few years ago by a blogger, who is now high profile yet no less irksome, who had ordered non-exemplary Vietnamese takeout in a neighborhood so not known for the cuisine, then wrote about all the things they’d never eaten before. Seriously, who has never eaten Vietnamese food?!

One amusing aspect to Meytex Café is that it used to be called Meytex Lounge and was a candidate for the New York Press’s Scary Bar Project. Darkened windows have a way of creating scary ambience, for sure.

I did get a little nervous when I noticed that no one inside seemed to be eating. Only one person was even drinking despite the bar set up in back. There were just a few guys watching boxing on TV, most with bottles of water. It was kind of like you were hanging out in a stranger’s basement.

So, I was open for anything but there wasn’t much on offer. I’d seen menus online so I knew what they potentially had but we were only briefly allowed to hold one before our waitress rattled off what they did have and took them out of our hands. None of the soups or stews that I was interested in were available, nothing meaty, just fried fish, rice and beans, plantains and some vegetably things. I’m not fanatical about rice, beans or plantains, and besides, you can get those anywhere.

I was confused but curious about the many starches I’d seen listed. I imagined banku, kenkey, gari and fufu to all be glutinous masses meant to be eaten with liquidy dishes, and I’m still fairly certain this is true. We were given banku, which was described as “bitter,” which didn’t sound so good and our waitress didn’t seem convinced that we’d even like it but I insisted we would. I knew she meant sour, like sourdough. It’s pounded cornmeal that’s fermented and rolled into a big blob resembling white Play-Doh.

We were brought three balls of banku, and yep, they tasted like a strong sourdough, more like raw elastic dough, not bread. Not unpalatable, but I will say that I don’t really eat sourdough. They were served with egushie, a spinach and pumpkin seed stew that was really good and smoky, though I’m not sure where that flavor came from. There was also simple fried fish, no garnish or sauce, and a small bowl of stewed, tomatoey okra that James insisted contained creamed corn. I’m 99% sure it did not.

They hadn’t turned on the lights even though it has started getting dark so it was hard to see the food. And when I attempted to take photos and only got black shadows, I thought it was from lack of light. It took me a minute to realize that my camera was broken. I’d dropped it the other night and hadn’t noticed that the body had popped open. Bad omen.

I didn’t realize how addicted I’ve become to photographing my food. I only started with pictures in 2006, despite writing about my meals since 2000, and had a terrible time acclimating to taking photos in restaurants because I don’t like drawing attention to myself. At Meytex, I started going through withdrawal and getting cranky. I didn’t want a broken camera to ruin my meal but the damage had already been done (in more ways than one).

We managed to eat a decent amount of our food, but only got through about a quarter of those rib-sticking bankus and half of the egushie, so we took them to go. I figured that I’d eat the leftovers for lunch.

After we got halfway down the block I could hear an “excuse me” that seemed directed at me. “Excuse me” is not a phrase I like to hear walking down the street, but depending on context I’ll turn. “Hey,” I will ignore.

So, I turned to the excuse me lady, who happened to be an MTA worker just getting off a bus.

She asked, “Did you just come out of that restaurant?”

After pondering whether I should say yes or no when clearly she saw that we did I responded, “um, yeah.”

“What’s the food like? I walk past it all the time but have never gone in,” she questioned.

Now that was rich. We stuck out like sore thumbs in the restaurant, we kind of were sticking out like sore thumbs on this block, too, yet she was asking us about Ghanaian food. She was probably thinking how sketchy can a place be if white people are going there.

“It seemed ok,” we both agreed.

I mean, it wasn’t creepy, just kind of like a social club we’d wandered into without being members.

When I got home I felt crazy full, seriously abnormally full. I didn’t even want to think about the glycemic index of banku. I think it had expanded to every corner of my stomach. About 30 minutes into watching a DVRd episode of Hell’s Kitchen, abnormally full turned into gut wrenching pain. That banku wanted out.

And I spent the next few hours heaving up the contents of my stomach, and when not hurling I was sweating and writhing in pain. I started half-believing that a creature was going to rip out of my stomach like in a horror movie—it might’ve been Anansi, himself trying to crawl out. If you think something is sour going down, wait until it comes up. There’s an argument against sourdough. It was about as pleasant as regurgitating tendons in Sichuan chile oil, another tragedy from earlier this year.

Blobs of death. Yes, I fixed my camera. I started gagging while taking this picture and a full 24-hours had passed. My stomach is still jumping around.

The funny thing is that I’ve eaten street food all over Asia and parts of Latin America and have never gotten sick (a salad in a French bistro in Mexico City did cause severe gastrointestinal distress). In recent history, the only poisoning incidents were from dim sum in New Jersey and Chinese egg cakes from a cart in Sunset Park, and I haven’t written Chinese food off. So, I shouldn’t hold a grudge against the cuisine of the entire African continent. I don’t think I will be eating anything from Ghana anytime soon, though.

I’ve seen online experiences that were much more pleasant than mine. Temper my traumatic encounter with theirs:
Bridge and Tunnel Club
Word of Mouth
Eating in Translation

Meytex Café * 543 Flatbush Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Ba Xuyen

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Tailor

Eton

Poodam’s

Dovetail

James

Resto

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