Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Apr 20

Listo el Pollo

1/2 I would be talking out of my ass if I called Listo el Pollo the Colombian Hooters because I’ve never been to a Hooters. But I’d like to imagine that this Jackson Heights oddity is better than a Hooters. They’ve mastered out the ok food, made better than ok by young waitresses in skimpy attire approach. That might’ve been enough in its own right, but the restaurant also appears to be a former tiki lounge that was lightly, if at all, redecorated to reflect the Latin American cuisine.

I suppose it’s possible that bamboo, coconuts carved into monkey faces, palm trees and Sex on the Beach drinks (I was confused by a cocktail simply called Alexander—that’s like vodka and tomato juice being dubbed Mary) could be found in Colombia. On the other hand, there’s nothing Polynesian about the white, ruffly grandma curtains that make each booth feel like a private paradise. That must be the Colombian touch.

Really, the ladies’ costumes are more campy than sexy, sort of a pirate/dirndl hybrid (I witnessed something similar in Hua Hin, which I didn’t realize was a German expat stronghold and lots of the restaurants served muesli and sausages and had Thai waitresses gussied up in dirndls) composed of a short skirt and corseted top. I’m not one to be bold with photo taking so my only evidence is a stealth shot with a server in the background. Sure, there were some groups of guys there for the ogling but mostly the clientele is composed of families and couples.

In my limited but rapidly expanding Colombian food experience it seems that they truly are the masters of the large combo plate. I stuck with the roasted chicken and ordered a half when ¼ would’ve been sufficient. For $6 and change it was a bargain, coming with white rice, fat pink beans dotted with pork, and a boiled red potato (I was hoping for something starchy and fried) and a tough nugget of an arepa.

James got the whole bandeja shebang with steak, chicken, pork, yuca fries, plaintain, arepa. Maybe more, I can’t remember. We also got a little white pitcher of herbier than spicy salsa and salads with a selection of Kraft dressing packets. At least we had a choice between Italian, French and Ranch–at Honduras Maya we just got a plastic bottle of Kraft Italian, no options.

We also ordered Coronas, which came preparado, a new concept to me where they’re served in salt-rimmed glasses over ice with a slice of lime. It was no Alexander, but it sufficed.

Atmosphere can be half the battle with many restaurants, a poor one will piss me off for life even if the food is superior, while a fun one will elevate an otherwise ordinary meal. Listo el Pollo put me in an unexpectedly good mood for which I have to give them high marks. Plus, my inexpensive dinner provided me with lunch the following day.

Listo el Pollo * 8602 37th Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

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Apr 17

Centrico

1/2 Sometimes I’m hesitant to try upscale takes on humbler dishes. That’s one of the reasons why I’ve never been to Chinatown Brasserie, despite Joe Ng’s dim sum pedigree. But my recent meal at Devi succeeded in elevating Indian food so I should be more open minded. Centrico falls somewhere in that spectrum. I’d been once before, but only to sample a michelada at the bar. This time I tried a lightly spiced, vegetal jala-piña. As both Thai and Mexican street snacks prove, tropical fruit, lime juice and chiles partner well.

Despite being tempted, I didn’t try the tacos. Not because of their double digit prices, I was just swayed by a more inventive sounding starter, the camarones y pozole. The form the hominy came in was unexpected, ground and pressed into a cake, perfectly browned and crisped on the outside with steaming soft corn mush on the inside like polenta. A mound of creamy guajillo-spiked shrimp toppled over this pozole base.

I hate to admit that even in my extremely limited birria tasting experience, I prefer the thin consommé studded with shredded goat approach. Centrico birria-ized short ribs in a thick, rich, ancho broth and included trimmed baby carrots and possibly a turnip. If I had been presented this hearty braise simply as short ribs, I would’ve enjoyed them on their own merit. They’re two different animals, literally. Of course, the hand made, little grilled tortillas and lime drenched chopped onions were a fitting touch. Interestingly, one of the first web hits for birria is an Aaron Sanchez (Centrico's chef) recipe from Melting Pot, one of those old Food Network shows where people actually cooked things you'd want to eat.

I’m in Tribeca just about never but I wouldn’t be opposed to another Centrico meal if I were in the neighborhood.

Centrico * 211 W. Broadway, New York, NY

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Apr 14

East Buffet

I can’t say East Buffet without thinking Eve’s Buffet. That will likely only mean anything to Portland, Oregon old-timers, skuzzy pre-90’s folks, not the current uber-indie inhabitants. Before there was Meyer Café (which could be defunct now for all I know) there was Eve’s, a dowdy little coffee shop inside Fred Meyer (the best NW grocery store ever).

Unsurprisingly, the word east also brings up Easter, which might be why I’ve been twice on that non-essential holiday (as well as on my thirtieth birthday, which was totally essential). Last year I cooked a fresh ham. This year I was burnt out; persistent eating enabled by strangers seemed the thing to do.

I had been holding off on E.B. because it’s the kind of place my mom would love, not in an ironic way, and she’s visiting in June (my mom’s been to NYC twice in the nine years I’ve lived here and I’ve gone home as many times. I don’t think that’s weird but practically everyone I know sees their parents multiple times annually). She took me to her local Chinese Buffet, Treasure Island, which was fine by Beaverton standards, but it’s no Flushing. Really, what does it matter if I go again a few months?

At 5pm on Sunday (opening hour for dinner) the vast rooms weren’t even close to crowded. They were only using one half of the restaurant. Saturdays can be a mob scene and you often get caught in the middle of wedding parties and events. I don’t mind mayhem but pile ups occur when a fresh item is brought from the kitchen. Crab legs in particular, bring out the glutton in people. I don’t think they’re worth the effort (especially if E.B. decided to start enforcing their 1 ½ hour dining maximum rule) but they seem to be the unanimous favorite. Every table had more than one plate piled high with the orange, spindly appendages. They used to serve hacked up lobster tails in a brown garlic sauce and making it to the tray before it was decimated was worse than a rush hour not letting people off the subway before shoving on scene. I’m sure cost, not a call to manners led to the crustaceans’ removal, though.

James decided that we’d need to eat five plates of food to bring the cost per plate down to a reasonable level ($27 per person). That was pretty ambitious. By my third plate, I was kind of done in but a fourth had to be forced to get a dessert course. To say that there is a lot of food is an understatement. Even with four plates, I probably only sampled 10% of what was on offer.

Two stand alone stations are devoted to warm food. There’s one for cold, which I enjoy, despite ignoring the half filled with fruit, jello and dubious gelatinous treats, one which is black and jiggly that I’m guessing is grass jelly. The other half of this stall contains spicy, oily tendons, baby octopus, sliced organ meats, raw fish, seaweed salads and the like.

Behind the cold food is a sushi counter where you can pick and choose from a wide selection rolls and sashimi. I feel like this is a thing unto itself and usually abstain or just pick one or two items. I also never touch the soup or soft serve ice cream machine and try not to load up on noodles and definitely not rice.

Kind of the middle of the fray there is a carving display where peking duck is sliced on demand. In a double decadent whammy, there are also thick, meaty rectangles of roasted, crackly skinned pork. To the immediate left is a grilling area that turns out Korean ribs, skewers, scallion pancakes and other delights.

It’s strange how these photos make the plates look like they contain less food. They seemed much, much fuller at the time. Not to say that this is skimping.

I forgot about the no noodle/rice rule, so I only picked at the dull, slightly peppery noodles then got a little scared over the no wasting food or you’ll be charged rule. I picked up some random sliced cold meat, tendons and who knows what, wakame, shrimp, two little octopi and a battered fried sardine. I’m not sure what made the mini cephalopods bright red.

Seriously, this plate was a killer. I overdid it with meat, which can’t be discerned in that pile. Short ribs, roast pork, bbq pork, chicken, everything pretty fatty. As you can see there’s also a grilled eel nigiri, raw tuna slice, green beans, a fried bean curd blob with shrimp, that crazy dish of battered shrimp with walnuts and mayonnaise, and something white, translucent and topped with sesame seeds, kind of like konnyaku.

Peking duck was amazing but I should’ve gotten it earlier because I was feeling a little ill by the time I made my way to it and the pork wedges. New rule: rich food first. Forget about pacing. Like I said, sushi seems unnecessary but I couldn’t resist a couple pieces. I also picked up a few more tendons (I don’t know why I like cartilage so much) and a cereal covered prawn.

No, Asian desserts aren’t the big draw but I couldn’t leave empty handed. Clockwise from the lavender cup: taro pudding, caramel colored layer cake I thought would be peanut butter but was mocha, lotus seed pastry, a greasy mochi type ball that only attracted me because it was weirdly green and a cheesecake-ish square.

Now, I’ll have to fast the next few months to build up my stamina for another East Buffet excursion in June. Ok, fasting is not in my vocabulary. How about I just vow not to set foot in any all-you-can-eat joints for two months. (4/8/07)

This seemed like a good spot for a celebration. Apparently, two wedding parties thought the same thing. This was my most surreal visit to date, which might be appropriate for a 30th birthday. We were seated in a room next to a wedding party with bad '50s medleys, top 40 techno and glow sticks. In order to get to the food, we had to walk through their festivities. Not that I'm complaining, we got a show with our buffet. Well worth the Saturday night wait and $25. (7/27/02)

I don't even know where to begin with this one. If heaven were a giant all-you-can-eat restaurant, it would be patterned after East Buffet. From the sheer size (two floors), neon sparklers atop the building, and hostesses with walkie talkies, you know you're in for something larger than life.

I happened to go on Easter, but there's no need to wait for a special occasion to gorge yourself silly Chinese-style (I wonder if they actually have all-you-can-eat in China). Stations are brimming with items from accepted to the novel. One contained fruit, salads, and more jiggly gelatin-based items than a church picnic. There was also a sushi bar, a meat carving area with Peking duck and lamb with mint jelly (that I'm guessing was only there for Easter), and a tour of Asia's greatest hits space that confused me with satay, scallion pancakes, Korean bbq, tempura and live shrimp in tanks–were they supposed to cook them on demand? I was also baffled by the little shell balls that people piled on plates, sucked on and spit out. Snails, I'm guessing? One section had spicy shrimp and lobster tails that people were literally fighting for, yet in the same environs were odd old-school American treats like lobster thermidor. There was also an impressive dessert counter heavy on the colorful, coconut-laden, and ricey goodies.

Highlights included various dim sum, crab legs, that scary dish with prawns, walnut and mayonnaise that tastes really good even though it creeps me out, and sushi (I never knew it could be so filling–I suppose a giant plate of anything will use up stomach space). I ate so much I didn't even have room for any of the soups, congees, or Peking duck. My only letdown was their lack of turnip cakes, which I had expected to be there. But I was appeased a bit by their half-off bubble tea special.

Take note of intimidating handwritten list of rules in the lobby with a bit about time limits and getting a 20% charge for wasting food. What does that mean, wasting food? Who would do such a thing? I smuggled out a sesame ball and feared the worst, but sometimes you've got to take risks. (4/15/01)

East Buffet * 42-07 Main St., Flushing, NY

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Apr 12

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Ferdinando’s Focacceria

In the three years I’ve lived seven blocks from Ferdinando’s, I’ve never paid a visit. Part of that was oversight, though to a small degree it was intentional. I like that cuspy little area west of the BQE that’s mostly Carroll Gardens and a little bit Red Hook. I have tried Bouillabaisse 126, Schnack and House of Pizza and Calzone, all on the same Union Street block as Ferdinando’s so it was time to be all inclusive.

I was always a smidgen intimidated by the place, the peculiar hours (which also used to be the case with HOPAC’s previous incarnation), the old-schoolness, and never mind the fact that I almost never ever eat Italian food. Brooklyn Sicilian sounded ominous in a no outsiders way. I don’t mean that as a cultural stereotype. But occasionally you get whiffs of local/townie animosity in NYC. P.J. Hanley’s, also in the neighborhood, certainly had/has that reputation.

No biggie because I don’t feel like I fit into any particular neighborhood anyway (though I do feel an inexplicable kinship with the M train). I’ve never understood transplants who come to New York City and feel an epiphanous energy and comfort like there’s no place else they could imagine themselves. I can think of plenty of other cities I’d rather live in, though none are in the U.S. (I was recently informed that Beijing might seriously become a potential work-related relocation [not my work] and I’m completely open to that idea though I would be surprised if it came to fruition.)

Change is so rapid lately, that I figured I’d better hurry and give Ferdinando’s a try before it turned into a condo, mediocre Thai restaurant or an Alan Harding venture.

The menu had more variety than I’d expected. Since they close so early (7pm Monday through Thursday) I thought it would be more lunchy. I’m not crazy about heavy tomato sauce and they had plenty of enticing alternatives like pasta con sarde (sardines, wild fennel, pignoli) and panelle served four different ways: panelle, panelle sandwich, panelle special and panelle and potato special. Starch and starch is my way so a chickpea fritter sandwich is definitely in my future.

I knew what I had to order though, vastedda, the peculiar and lauded spleen sandwich. I imagined spleen might be like liver or sweetbreads and would be breaded and shallow fried. Not so, the organ is thinly sliced, nakedly gray-brown and wispy like the gills of a mushroom. There was something vaguely portabella-ish about it. The offal is served on a roll with a healthy dollop of ricotta, grated parmesan and baked.

The bread, both rolls and heroes, were remarkably good, not too crusty and very substantial. No fluff. The last time I had a foreign-to-me sandwich on a real homemade roll was just last month at Chilean San Antonio Bakery. I’m lucky to have so many sandwiches to choose from.

James ordered a hulking sausage parm hero that caused our waitress to ask if we were sharing it when it arrived. Only a few other tables were occupied during late afternoon on a Saturday so I eavesdropped on the staff talking about Grindhouse and the Yankees, which came in snippets. Every so often someone would switch to Italian and throw me off.

The only tragedy of the meal was that I’m pretty sure I left my camera sock behind. I’m concerned about scratching up my new camera but I hate all the cases I’ve seen so I started carrying it around in a sock that had been sitting in my drawer. Green argyle hearts are perfection to me so it’s a mystery how they went unworn. But I noticed it was missing when I got home and my camera was bare. The beauty of socks is that they’re a pair and I still have one left. I considered calling up Ferdinando’s and asking if they’d found my footie but if I was already concerned about their impression of the neighborhood’s gentrifying inhabitants, this wouldn’t help relations any.

Ferdinando's Focacceria * 151 Union St., Brooklyn, NY

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Apr 11

Ostia

I’m pleased to see the recent upswing of snacky Spanish options. While NYC hasn’t fully accepted full on Spanish cuisine, avant-garde or traditional, we love small plates. And oddly, small plates often equals small space. You have to be in the right frame of mind to brave Tia Pol or Casa Mono. Less distinguished places like Tasca and Ostia, nearly across the street from each other, have the potential to lighten the load though I’m not sure they deliver much wow.

I guess I want tapas to be more exciting. I’d like to see Basque pintxos, crazy combinations (cod and chocolate sauce, anyone?) piled on bread or crammed into tiny glasses and secured with a toothpick. Bar counters with options on display and up for grabs. But America’s tapas knowledge isn’t vast, there’s barely enough of a foundation to begin tweaking the familiar.

On an early weeknight, though an hour and a half past opening, Ostia was nearly empty. The feel stool occupiers looked like more of a happy hour crowd than diners. Of course, there are worse things than deeply discounted glasses of Tempranillo and freebie marinated artichokes. I don’t mind being verbally offered a couple choices of red or white upon asking, but others might find it odd not to be given a wine list by default.

We were informed that the ham croquettes weren’t ready yet, which bummed me out. A replacement suggestion, bacon-wrapped dates, were obviously tasty. I still wanted a croquette, though. The grilled sardines a la plancha were creative with oily, sweet and bitter flavors. I’m not sure what the charred black orbs were, they looked like olives but tasted more like dried cherries. We also tried a chorizo cooked in beer and salsa picante, though the tart tomato sauce slightly overwhelmed the sausage. All the greatest hits were on offer including serrano ham displayed whole-legged, hoof-on.

I wasn’t about to order the meat as much as I love it because I didn't want to take any chances on being disappointed. There’s a propensity in NYC to rough-up showcased, cured pig legs, resulting in short stubby hunks when they’re supposed to be paper thin and lengthy. Hand crafted only makes an impression when it’s done properly. I can’t figure out if shopkeepers don’t know better or if they enjoy manhandling the goods. Crudely sawing our Jamon Iberico with a 99-cent store pocket knife on our hotel bed was just as deft as anything I’ve witnessed around here. Maybe it’s pride that keeps people from just using a mechanical slicer.

No matter, I’m still happy to have more Spanish newcomers to choose from. I’ll just steer clear of the ham.

Ostia * 113 Seventh Ave. S., New York, NY

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Apr 10

Surf Bar

Surf Bar is a nearly neutral restaurant with nothing breathtaking or offensive to set it apart in my mind. Sure, there’s sand on the floor and more tchotchkes than an Applebee’s, plus the owner once threw down with Bobby Flay. No complaints or raves, I was merely there for a friend’s birthday, which I suppose was an improvement over last year’s Lazy Catfish strangeness. Molten cakes don't scream happy birthday to me, but it wasn't my celebration. I didn't even have a birthday party last year, which is probably why I'm so bitter now.

I shared some clam strips, battered fried conch, had sip of clam chowder and ordered the lobster roll with fries for myself. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve never had one of these iconic sandwiches so I can’t even weigh how it stacks up against the real deal. I don’t hang out at Pearl Oyster Bar or Mary’s Fish Camp, it’s not my thing. Minus a brief, long ago two-days in Boston, I’ve never set foot in New England. I don’t know the first thing about clam shacks and I’ve always been so turned off by the old-timey weather term n’or easter that it’s clouded my open-mindedness towards the region. Plus, I imagine the area being inhabited by a bunch of bespectacled, bow-tied Christopher Kimballs (yes,I know I just mentioned him the other day, but America’s Test Kitchen seems to always be on).

My lobster roll seemed correct, a simple to the point hot dog bun (not sure if it was buttered) stuffed with mayonnaise dressed chunks of lobster meat. There wasn’t any distracting celery tossed in. I liked it and didn’t think it was wildly priced at $14, though I swear I heard someone at the table complaining about the menu being expensive.

Then came the bar progression, who’s meeting up where and so on. I know I’m an out of touch cell phone-less crank but I still don’t understand the intermittent calling and texting that occurs when hanging out with large groups. Like you’re already with people, not to be all touchy-feelie, but why not live in the moment and enjoy where you are and who you are with rather than coordinating a nebulous near future. Ew, enough of that talk.

First, we went to weirdo nearly suburban, quiet-for-a-Saturday Hope Lounge. I’ve always used Nu Shooz to sum up what’s wrong with the youth of today, Williamsburg in particular, and like clockwork the DJ whipped out my favorite tune. Really. I’ve always thought if you’re going to embrace the silly poppy funky ‘80s, you may as well go whole hog with the decade and delve into ickiness like Mike and the Mechanics or Traveling Wilburys. (If you haven’t noticed, I’ve capitulated and now completely see the beauty of YouTube but Twitter I’m totally not getting. Why the hell would anyone care about what anyone else is doing capsulated in 140 characters or less? This is worse than Nu Shooz.)

Next was Larry Lawrence, where despite playing music from the here and now (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, of course) was a jam-packed nightmare (though not completely fruitless because I found a treat out front, which I’ll get to in a minute). I ended up across the street at creatively named The Pub, an even weirder, emptier out-of-place bar than the first one, but when you’re drunk enough that playing with a gag gift plunger and watching an extended infomercial for the Sonic Blade on a big screen is a total blast, the surroundings cease mattering.

To some degree, that is. Even when I’m having fun I can only block out so much of the world around me. And I discovered this new level of wrongness seconds after stepping into Savalas. The sweet strains of "I’ve Got My Mind Set On You" blasted my ears. My eyes almost started bleeding watching kids bopping around to that atrocity (most definitely more disturbing than having a Say Anything poster in your dorm room in 2001 click on 7). That ubiquitous song and video didn’t please me when I was fifteen, and it hasn’t gotten better with age. It was my signal that I needed to call it a night.

Fried seafood plus seven drinks (over a span of five and a half hours in case you’re concerned about my health) plus George Harrison might look something like this:

A puzzling yet reassuring combination of chicken bone, pork chop bone and a pool of vomit, all inches from each other on Grand Street, between Roebling and Havemeyer. Sidewalk bones always cheer me up.

Surf Bar * 139 N. 6th St., Brooklyn, NY

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Apr 6

Devi

This is that birthday time of the year for me. There’s like a two-week period late March/early April when it feels like everyone’s getting a year older (and I can relax knowing I still have a few months ahead of me). Luckily, I only have to worry about special occasion dining for one of the celebrants. You can’t ignore your significant other special occasion dining duty. I never know what I’m going to get, some years it’s more of a blow out than others. 2006 I was taken out to Cookshop, a place I never would’ve picked on my own yet thoroughly enjoyed.

I rarely go for trendy (though whatever year it was that Spice Market opened I did choose it) so Morandi or Waverly Inn were wildly out of the question. Then there’s the stodge issue, Eleven Madison Park and The Modern have been hovering in mind for a while but the time never seems right for them. There are also an infinite number of likeable standards that I doubt I’ll ever get around to, from the Le Bernardins and Daniels to the Union Square Cafes and Crafts of the city. It’s too bad the reviews have been so mixed for Gordon Ramsey at the London because that’s one restaurant I was initially interested in for a splurge.

Instead, I went kind of random and picked Devi. Pretty and creative, though not over the top or ostentatious. I don’t dabble in haute Indian so it was refreshing in that regard. I’d been avoiding it because my former supervisor loved it and I couldn’t imagine how my tastes might overlap with a plastic surgerized, middle aged Jewish woman from suburban New Jersey. But we all have to let go at some point.

First, we stopped into nearby Flatiron Lounge. Just as the thought of Morandi gives me shivers, I have been shunning Death & Co. like, well Death, I guess. My one and only visit to Pegu Club predictably irked me, though I do love the concept of all these newfangled gin joints.

I started with a Jack Rose (applejack, grenadine and lime juice), then segued into a Jamaican Firefly (rum, ginger beer, lime juice), essentially a dark and stormy. It looks like James’s drink in the background is the same in both photos but it’s two pale colored cocktails, a corpse reviver #2 (gin, Cointreau, Lillet Blanc and lemon juice) and something made with pisco.

As we were escorted upstairs at Devi to a completely stand alone, enormously square table for two nowhere near any other diners in the room, I thought “this is a table.” No squeezing or sliding, nothing communal or stifling about it. You could wave your hands or kick about in any direction and not bump a soul. Space is relaxing as long as there’s not too much formality attached to the luxury. I’m still not sold on bar seating, as much as it’s hyped.

Continuing the cocktail theme, I had a Mumbai Margarita with silver tequila, elderflower, mango juice and cayenne powder. I would’ve kept up my mid-week drinking binge—I’m all for wine pairings with tasting menus, but James has less tolerance for alcohol, wine in particular, and it was his birthday dinner, after all. Halfway through the courses I had a glass of random Riesling. I didn’t see a wine list and I didn’t bother to ask (I was a little hesitant after James asked our waitress where the restaurant got its lime leaves for his twist on a gin & tonic made with cilantro. She got kind of flustered. He was just making small talk, which isn’t either or our fortes. Then she disappeared in the middle of our meal and camped out with a cell phone on a box or a stool in this pitch black storage area in the very back of the second floor. I only noticed because even though she was hidden in the dark, she was in directly in my line of vision. I could make out a white napkin that she seemed to be pressing to her face. There was definitely crying and quiet fighting going on but not in English so I couldn’t eavesdrop. We had a male waiter for the remaining part of our dinner).

You could make a perfectly respectable meal from a few dishes and a bottle of Kingfisher beer, but if I’ve never been to a restaurant I like to (though both times I’ve been to Ureña—James’s birthday dinner last year–we ordered a la carte) sample as many things as possible. At $60, the tasting menu is fairly priced. It’s not high luxury or fusion Indian either. There’s a good deal of tradition at work, with the addition of atypical ingredients and very layered flavors and spices. Possibly the most punch per square inch of food I’ve experienced in a while.

Let’s see how much I can recall from the procession (with the aid of their website, of course). This is where words will fail me and why the hardcore write tasting notes on the spot. I find playing with a camera distracting enough, juggling a notepad is too much for a recreational meal.

While this looks like falafel, I know that it is not. I guess I wasn’t amused because I can’t remember what it was.

Calcutta Jhaal Muri
rice puffs, red onions, chickpeas, green chilies, mustard oil, lemon juice

This was a crunchy mishmash like a chickpea fritter rolled in rice krispies. I think I know this blob better by the name bhelpuri, though that seems to be listed elsewhere on their menu.

Salmon Crab Cake
tomato chutney mayonnaise

After spending a chunk of time in Baltimore, James always picks crab cakes. We rarely share food and most definitely do not feed each other. Therefore, I didn’t taste these.

These stuffed breads (kulcha, I suspect) showed up after the first few dishes. I was torn between not wanting to ruin my appetite and wanting to eat warm cheese and spinach filled dough. Not surprisingly, by the close of our meal my half had been decimated.

Tandoori Quail
spicy fig chutney

I always forget how tiny quail is, yet I often order it if I see it. I was swayed by the fig component. The bed of fruity mash (that you can’t see in this picture) contained little gritty bits, just like a Fig Newton. That freaked me out as a child, but I’m OK with it now.

Hmm, James had the grilled scallops with roasted red pepper chutney, Manchurian cauliflower and spicy bitter-orange marmalade instead of the mini game bird but I seem to have missed my photo op.

Veal Liver & Brain Bruschetta
veal with quail egg and green chilies, liver with cinnamon, tomatoes and onions

I knew we’d split on this course. I’m like baby animals and gray matter? Bring it on. The liver was much more distinctly organ meaty than the brains, which were tempered by the little fried egg. More teeny quail product. I don’t know what James’s fish of the day was (no photo because it was even worse than the ones I've deemed fit for publishing).

Tandoori Prawn
eggplant pickle, crispy okra

The side pile was almost like a salad made of shoestring fries, using dried wisps of okra instead.

Tandoor-Grilled Lamb Chop
sweet & sour pear chutney, spiced potatoes

I wasn’t going for a bone poking you in the eye effect—I just seem to have zero mastery over my camera. I can’t not take photos but these moody, low light meals really don’t lend themselves to flashless photography. This dish exemplified the simple seeming yet million flavors at once approach. The meat was mild and creamy from the yogurt, the potatoes were hot, punchy, soft; the chutney crisp and bright.

Emperor's Morsel (Shahi Tukra)
crispy saffron bread pudding, cardamom cream, candied almonds

How do you turn down something called emperor’s morsel? I had the warm cardamom flavored bread pudding and James had pistachio kulfi. He was annoyed because he’d just had pistachio gelato at Bouchon the week before. I was like those are so not the same, plus I was sitting home bored in Brooklyn while he was in Napa Valley (not on some foodie pilgrimage–his sister lives in Santa Cruz and it was a family obligation) so I had zero sympathy. He could’ve just ordered the same as I did but has a thing against food duplication.

Pistachio Kulfi
Indian ice cream, candied pistachio, citrus soup

Devi * 8 E. 18th St., New York, NY

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Apr 3

Alchemy

Saturday night, Fette Sau crossed my mind but I knew better. Williamsburg service tends to lack in the best of circumstances and opening weekend chaos might’ve turned my hair white(r) from stress and shock. It looks like I chose wisely.

Instead, I decided to have my patience tried at a Park Slope gastropub, thanks. I’m not clear why New Yorkers would find communal dining enticing. Communes equal love and sharing. Even innocent CSAs gives me the heebies. I don’t want to know my residential neighbors, anonymity is one of the few benefits to city dwelling. I definitely don’t want to sup with strangers.

At least the inch and a half that normally separates tiny square tables fools you into thinking you’re dining semi-privately. It wasn’t that I just didn’t want to sit wedged in the back corner of the restaurant, it was that I could barely fit into the back corner, even a medium adult would’ve had troubles. I was stuck between a wall and a Japanese girl, seething while unable to remove my jacket or use my right arm. We probably should’ve just refused the seat or eaten at the bar, which was more spacious but there was practically no way to extricate once squeezing in. And, well, I’m a culinary martyr.

I wanted simple and good, and that’s pretty much what we got. The menu is brief, with about a handful each of appetizers and entrees. We split an order of beef cheeks, which were served atop creamy polenta and garnished with parsnip strips and a few stray red pickled slivers of something unidentifiable. Beets seem like the obvious guess, but I’m not sure.

Somehow, I ended up ordering a dish in a style I rarely touch: meat-less and pasta-based. They were trying to make a hippy out of me. Next thing you know I’ll start digging rice-filled burritos. Urgh. But the beet ravioli with wilted greens and a goat cheese sauce sounded appealing. The marcona almonds mentioned in the description could’ve played a more prominent role, though. The smooth richness needed some contrast.

Continuing my beer theme (I managed to drink three Bluepoint Toasted Ales—after being given a bizarre moldy tasting version at Sheep Station, I now tend to order the brew when I see it on tap for comparison), we split a warm, puffy sticky toffee pudding made with Guinness. At least our dessert could be savored leisurely.

About thirty minutes after we arrived, the seating situation had loosened up. By 11pm we were the lone people remaining at one of the long tables. The front bar stools and spacious wooden booths were the only occupied space. I don’t think it’s a secret that weeknight dining has its advantages but leaving the house Saturday night shouldn’t be traumatizing either.

Ah, which reminds me. Three of the four curtains covering the back windows were hung closed but the one nearest to us had been pulled open. I imagine they were intended to stay shut since the rear patch was filled with junk, a typically Brooklyn backyard. During the middle of our meal, James glanced out and got an eyeful of one of the male kitchen staff taking a leak. Classy. This photo isn’t an attempt to capture the deed, I’m just illustrating the scene of the crime.

Alchemy * 56 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Mar 30

Bon Chon Chicken

1/2 Bon Chon is now Mad For Chicken. Doesn't quite have the same ring, does it? (5/15/09)

I have no idea how the Korean fried chicken craze of 2007 originated, but the New York Times article blew the genre wide open (I’ve really been liking some of the Times’s recent articles, sometimes I’m just bored. Last Wednesday’s suburban Latin supermarkets one was great. Huge, organized, well-stocked “ethnic” supermarkets are my raison d’etre and they’re too few and far between in the city. The article even made a point about having wider aisles for larger families [in number, not weight, natch] which ain’t happening here. Even the trying-to-be-mega Red Hook Fairway is cramped and illogical.)

Bon Chon is the type of place, along with Yakitori Totto, that I have every intention of visiting but never make it to because midtown is barely on my radar anymore and I need a catalyst. This time it was a friend’s birthday dinner, the venue chosen at the suggestion of her sister who’d become enamored with the chicken while working nearby.

The peripherals don’t necessarily enhance the dining experience. The décor is industrial, blood bath chic, kind of like a cleaner more stylish version of the room from Saw. Music ranged from late ’80s Depeche Mode to a dance version of Dirty Dancing’s "Time of My Life. "

And well, the food itself takes more than its sweet time making its way to the table constructed from wood, glass and rusty gears. Flagging down a server was also tough. But that didn’t stop anyone from retrieving numerous pitchers of Killian Red (the only beer served in that rare less-than-urbane format) straight from the bar. The possible downside of that was that by the time the food started arriving, I was too tipsy to critically evaluate the poultry pieces.

More_bon_chon_chicken Clearly, the chicken is cooked to order. But 30+ minutes seems a bit excessive. When we asked about breasts and whole drumsticks, our waiter looked at us like we were crazy, declaring “too busy.” That was fine. The extra skin to meat ratio on wings and drumettes is superior. The sensation is skin-centric with a papery crispness, more crackle than crunch. I enjoy thickly battered Southern-style fried chicken greatly, but this is a different beast.

Between a mix of hot wings and soy-garlic, the latter flavor was more popular. I’d agree by a margin, despite usually preferring spice over sweetness. The soy was just more welcoming where the hot required a pause between wings. I lost count, though I easily ate six. We ordered three $19.95 larges to split amongst seven eaters at our waiter’s suggestion and that was right on. Only two stray pieces were left on the plate, and even they were eventually devoured.

Accompaniments include a small bowl of cubed, pickled daikon and a heap of shredded lettuce with a thousand island type dressing. Sushi rolls, ramen and something for $12.95 called iced peach are also on the menu. The lone vegetarian in our party had to make a meal of edamame and rosemary wedge fries. We were accidentally given an extra order of these potatoes, for no reason.

Bon Chon isn’t cheap when you think about it, and definitely not fast food, but somehow that’s all clouded once you ascend to the nearly hidden second floor. There’s something about restaurants with no signs on the façade or ground level presence that change the rules. My sights have now been set on the Flushing location, Fort Lee’s Boom Boom and Jackson Heights’s Unidentified Flying Chicken.

Bon Chon Chicken * 314 Fifth Ave. second Fl., New York, NY

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Mar 27

Silent H

1/2 Silent H? It’s a cute conceit and a welcome restaurant. But my first thought when I heard the name was the word pho and you totally use the H in that (though there’s no American consensus on how to pronounce the soup. I’d heard like foot without the T and far without the R but if you don’t say it like faux then half the time people have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s a fine line with native English speakers going overboard in the name of authenticity. I feel kind of retarded saying Chee-lay for Chile, so I don’t). It’s definitely not po.

I’ve never understood why Thai food so dominates gussied up parts of Brooklyn while Vietnamese has been relegated to ethnic status. That’s not the case in Manhattan. I would think that Vietnamese has broader appeal; it’s not spicy, it’s lighter than a lot of popular S.E. Asian food, relying on steaming and grilling (never mind the deep fried spring rolls—I’ve always been most fond of cha gio as far as the wrapped, stuffed and fried Asian canon goes).

We waited about 15 minutes around 9pm, not bad for a Saturday night in a small new restaurant. Within an hour the room was jammed up. Oddly, we were the only ones who’d brought beer (it’s BYOB for the time being). Apparently, Williamsburg is a wine-loving crowd. It did feel a little funny sitting at a bar, drinking your lugged in beverages.

The décor is sparse, woody and muted–nice on the eyes but a bit stiff in execution. The older I get the more I notice comfort, not that I’m ready for a pair of Rockports but awkward seating seems more glaring lately. To be fair, I’m abnormally imbalanced and stools always traumatize me. But I’m tallish for a female and I had a hell of a time hopping up on my perch. It was like being up on a horse and I hate horseback riding. After being seated, I had a view of all the low-rise exposed asses, one with non-offensive floral underwear (not thong) sticking out, and one full bare butt flash with a good three inches of crack hanging out (you could practically fit a kielbasa banh mi in there). Another downside to stools, if you ask me. Amusingly, I just found a Flickr photo of the setup but they've featured guy asses, which tend to remain covered for some strange reason.

We were eventually given an end table for two, which was lucky because two-seaters bookend a four-seater that is impossible to get in our out of without making a huge production. One long bench lines the wall, while backless, stubby stools face the table. The distance between tables is NYC narrow, so even the world’s skinniest human can’t squeak by and pulling the table out barely helps matters. It made me nervous that they were seating two parties of two at one table for four Chinatown style. (I was very disturbed on my first visit to Chicago last month to see that they have side-by-side seating on their subways, like a movie theater. That’s totally insane to expect that during rush hour people are going to get up to let people off and on. And as human nature goes, when it was less crowded singles invariable sat on the aisle seat so it felt nearly confrontational to try and take the inner seat.)

Looks are one thing but practicality has to be taken into account with restaurant design. I really enjoyed the place, awkward seating was my one non-food beef. James’s was the price. I didn’t think they were outrageous but I could agree with his assessment that two bucks could be shaved off of most items and you’d feel better.

Our beef carpaccio was skimpy for $9 (forgive my messed up camera setting–I'm still figuring out this camera). I thought $6 for three taro, pork and shrimp stuffed spring rolls was fair, though. The raw beef strips were very limey, maybe lemongrassy, and nicely spiced. Both appetizers were likeable enough but my pork chop over broken rice was amazing. Maybe I was hungry because initially it seemed like a lot of food, then I managed to eat the whole thing. I wasn’t expecting hardboiled egg and cucumber, that seemed very Malay in a good way. The complex tasting caramel sauce is what makes the dish. The amber liquid is essentially a shit load of sugar cooked down with garlic, fish sauce and lots of black pepper, and sums up all that’s rich, pungent and homey about Vietnamese food.

James had the crepe with chicken and shrimp, which nods more to the fresh, herby side of the cuisine. He was smarter because I was so full of beer and pork by the end of the meal that it took me a few hours before I could drink properly. That’s when gin and tonics seem to work magic.

Silent H * 79 Berry St., Brooklyn, NY

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Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Listo el Pollo

Centrico

East Buffet

Ferdinando’s Focacceria

Ostia

Surf Bar

Devi

Alchemy

Bon Chon Chicken

Silent H

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