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Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Itzocan Bistro

Occasionally, I wonder why I rarely go uptown, and after four subways and over an hour standing, I remembered why. Bone-chilling weather and the F, J, 4 and 6 trains do somehow bolster the appetite.

Itzocan_bistro_goat_cheese_flanAnd you could do worse than Mexican ingredients, French technique and Bryan Adams’s greatest hits (segueing into the best of Paula Abdul) serenading you while you eat. I started with a goat cheese flan with epazote and jalapeño. I had expected a more literal silky flan texture, but the queso de cabra disk was more crumbly like a cheesecake quiche hybrid. The crumbles were more suited to eating with toast and lettuce, anyway.

Itzocan_bistro_seafood_pozoleI really wanted the ancho crusted duck breast but I had convinced myself that seafood would be marginally healthier and suitable for the weather, so I chose the jalapeño and oregano dotted pozole with mussels, snapper and giant head on shrimp instead. It was certainly in a different class than a weekends-only, hominy-heavy soup you might find at a tacqueria.

Itzocan_bistro_tequilla_chocolate_cakeLately I’ve been austerely attempting wine or dessert not and but Itzocan’s sweets didn’t sound run of the mill and I was happy to see that they hadn’t gone molten on me. Thankfully, no soft-centered, Mexican chocolate, cinnamon spiced cakes were to be found. We did go the chocolate cake route, though, sampling a rich tequila flavored version with brown sugar ice cream. 

On the F ride back home I spied that recent Look Book guy with walrusy facial hair (I’m still not clear why he merited a meta second look elsewhere) doing a crossword from one of those paperback puzzle books. At least it wasn’t Sudoku, I guess. I hovered near his prime seat because I’d pegged him for someone who’d get off at Delancey and I was right. It’s one of the few skills I have, deducing who’ll get off sooner on the subway and positioning myself accordingly. I just hope I didn't pick up any bedbugs.

Itzocan Bistro * 1575 Lexington Ave., New York, NY

Eddie’s Sweet Shop

After naively purchasing a silky teal-and-white Proenza Schouler for Target dress and thinking it would fit (I barely met the junior sizing restrictions when I was of appropriate age), it was already evening in Elmhurst. We’d already eaten a lunch that would suffice for dinner so we needed a non-edible distraction and decided on finding a movie. (In ‘94 a friend and I determined that a great punishment for a bet loser would be having to watch Nell on the big screen alone [out of curiosity, we ended up seeing it in the theater together and while non-good it didn’t live up to our punishing preconceptions]. Norbit strikes me as the modern version of this torture. But who am I to haughtily judge the black man dressing as obese black woman genre? I am fascinated how a lady so large as Rasputia has no cellulite. The more I think about it, the more I need to see Norbit—maybe on Valentine’s Day. I don’t have any plans for Feb. 14 proper.)

Neither of us had seen The Departed (which was intentional in my case) and it was still lingering at the moderately artsy/cheap theater in Forest Hills. I couldn’t picture where it was but as we started heading up Metropolitan Avenue I realized where we were and instantly remembered that Eddie’s Sweet Shop is right across the street from the movies. And miraculously there was an open parking spot on the corner, putting us spitting distance from both establishments.

We had 45 minutes until the 8:15 pm show time and I figured anyone who would’ve wanted to see this movie had already seen it so no stress on snagging seats (I was wrong, the theater was quite full. We were also easily the two youngest viewers in the audience. And for the record, old people are just barely less vocal and distracting than the rowdy teens who dominate the Court Street multiplex near me). We totally had enough time to split a sundae.

Eddie’s hadn’t changed a bit since my first and most recent visit nearly six and a half years ago (reminders of the swift passing of time completely freak me out). It was still manned by wholesome looking teens, old-timey and trinket-filled. The number of soda fountains with counter stools and spindly curlicue chairs is rapidly dwindling. Modernly garish Coldstone Creamery has more appeal, I guess. They don't burst into song at Eddie's, though they do play an '80s radio station. I honestly don't know which is more wrong. 

I find it hard to slow down and enjoy things properly so I struggled to savor my surroundings and scoops of ice cream. Surprisingly, it was James that said, “I don’t think I’m appreciating this,” which was an odd observation. I tried to concentrate and take in our shared creamy butter pecan, coffee chip and overflowing hot fudge before it melted. It’s funny that my initial inclination was to order a butter pecan and butterscotch sundae  since apparently that’s what I ordered on my last visit (see, this blog is good for something, after all). The perfect accompaniment was a short glass of water. I didn’t even have to ask, the young waitress offered, “I like water with hot fudge.” True, ice water and hot fudge is a great combo.

It’s frightening to think that my next Eddie’s visit could be in another six and a half years (I’ll be freshly forty…jesus christ). Though since the next NYC Trader Joe’s is bizarrely planned for a spot just a few blocks away, I’ll likely be back before 2013. (2/10/07)

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Mojito

Is it fair to be suspicious of a poorly named, industrial-chic Cuban restaurant abutting the desolate Navy Yard, on the same block as one of the city’s scariest bars (don’t just take my word for it)? My initial concern was mediocre food but I later became more consumed with trying to interpret the vaguely sketchy shenanigans taking place around me.

The food was surprisingly un-bad, reasonably priced (most entrees were under $12) and the $8 mojitos were generous in size and potency. I felt tipsy after two, which is a rarity (I’m not a cheap date) and totally messed up the photos I’d taken.

It was difficult to not plow through the complimentary plate of squished and toasted garlic bread with three dips but I was pretending to be healthy and ordered a salad instead of something weighted down with rice and beans. A giant pile of lettuce covered with avocados, mango, grilled dark meat chicken, white cheese and fried onions is hardly austere, though I was unusually careful about only eating half (though I couldn’t bear to just leave half even though salads are pretty soggy and foul after a few hours. The thrifty gene in me still asked our sweet but spacey waitress to wrap up the remainders. Just the day before at Yemen Café, as frequently happens without warrant, James got all freaked out that our leftover louyabia and fateh we’d requested to go had been tossed in the trash. This has never happened in my life, though I shouldn’t have said that aloud on Thursday because Friday at Mojito I was to never see the rest of my salad again. Jinxed.) I also split an order of two empanadas, one chicken, one cheese, both more than edible.

Being in proximity to Pratt, projects and luxury lofts (Mojito is on the ground floor of the Chocolate Factory, which sounds vaguely dirty to me), the clientele is a total mixed bag. The tables were filled with a wonderful melting pot of African-American families, scruffy college kids and the mandatory white guy/Asian girl couple.

I noticed a tiny white guy in moccasin boots, who looked like a scrawny version of George on Grey’s Anatomy (I had to look that name up—that show is painful to watch) had been propping up the bar for most of our meal. He had a messy haired, white studded leather belt friend with him. At some point George left and came back in a bathrobe like he was the Howard Hughes of Wallabout (the revitalization-hyped neighborhood name that I just learned last week). Ok, and then I was like that’s cool that the two 300-pound black men who ordered take out, then ate out of round aluminum containers at the bar while staring down fellow diners were palling around with the artsy gay guys. Ah, sweet diversity. “Is that a housecoat?” was my favorite exclamation (it reminded me of a girl who used to call shorts short pants). At some point they all skulked into a back room, which I suspect leads into the condo complex.

In high school, whenever you’d see rockers (I attended an extremely hesher-heavy institution) hanging out with popular kids you knew something was up. Only drugs (and perhaps, consequently, sex) could bring the two worlds together. Clearly, Mojito is totally the place to be if you want to expand your social circle.

Mojito * 82 Washington Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Buenos Aires

1/2 Apparently, Buenos Aires is a hot travel destination. Strangely, there were two separate articles (a 36 Hours and a Cultured Traveler) on the city in Sunday’s New York Times. They caught my attention since I’d recently eaten at an East Village restaurant named for the Argentinean capital. I’m definitely not an expert on the cuisine but the first thing that comes to mind is grass-fed beef. I’ll eventually branch out the more I sample this South American style but I’ve tended to stick with the parrillada in my few forays. I'm curious about matambre, which seems to be a jelly roll of  flank steak encircling a bunch of vegetables, hard boiled eggs and olives.

The mixed grill always ends up being more than you bargained for and a serving for one invariably feeds two. Even in Manhattan where portions tend to be smaller and prices higher, you still get quite a lot of meat for your money. I wonder if there’s a nouveau, or nuevo rather, rendition in the area with tiny cuts, unusual sides or stylish presentation. I kind of like the individual flame-licked table top grills you often receive; at Buenos Aires everything comes plated.

Buenos_aires_meat The bounty that appeared with their version of parrillada included skirt steak, ribs, pork sausage, blood sausage, sweetbreads and kidneys. I’m pretty sure that kidneys were not listed on the menu but they were most definitely on my plate. As expected, vivid green chimichurri is brought to the table, but a side of salsa also comes with the parrillada. I enjoy organ meats, especially morcilla. James does not so we rarely share one of these feasts (though he partook in leftover steak the next morning cooked with eggs and roasted potatoes. I let him have the pork sausage because despite liking hard cured charcuterie and blood sausage, I’m no fan of most squishy Italian-style links). He went for a simple filet mignon. You can choose from eight cuts of meat if you’re feeling single minded. Whether the beef is grass or corn fed, I’m not sure, though judging from the reasonable prices I’m guessing the latter. We got wonderfully crispy fries on the side and also split an order of baked spinach and cheese empanadas.

It’s easy to fall victim to meat overload but I was thankful for the padding after downing a few too many happy hour Makers Mark and sodas (and shots) at the new moderately cleaned up incarnation of The Continental. When was the last time you had $3 cocktail? Whisky and steak are perfect for fighting the temperature-in-the-teens chill.

Buenos Aires * 513 E. Sixth St., New York, NY

Pasita

Pasita_interior I’ve never liked the sound of wine bars, even though I enjoy wine accompanied by snacks. There’s something about the concept that makes me think modern fern bar. I wonder why has no one revived that style (I suppose some TGI Friday’s are still rocking it) We skipped right over the ‘70s, are still hesitant about the ‘90s and can’t seem to progress beyond the decade in the middle.

Anyway, I wouldn’t necessarily call Pasita a wine bar though they do refer to themselves as such. They have a concise list of Spanish, Portuguese and South American wines but the food is equally interesting. It’s hard to ignore the wood-fired pizza oven in the room and almost everyone was partaking in the 12” pies.

Pasita_mushroom_pizzaI couldn’t help but notice that the three women sitting next to us were sharing one. Bah, my friend Sherri and I each got our own and finished them no problem. One champiñon: roasted mushroom, artichoke hearts, caramelized onions, ricotta salata and mozzarella, and one queso y queso: mozzarella, queso de nata (a creamy Cantabrian cheese), parmesan, goat cheese and rosemary. We also split a salad with mango slices and roasted grapefruit, which was mildly girlie. I know that if I had been out with James we would’ve ended up with something fried and starchy in addition to the pizzas. It’s best that I dine with others now and then.

Pasita_gelatoWith a bottle of Zolo Malbec from Mendoza, we had plenty so I didn’t delve into the Venezuelan tapas. And because I have a suspicious nature I wondered if pasapalos were really just an invention to cash in on diners’ seemingly endless desire for small plates, but they do seem to be a real thing, though possibly less sophisticated than those on offer at Pasita.

We finished with glasses of a sweet dessert merlot and shared some Il Laboratorio gelato. I thought we were going to get a single scoop of honey lavender, but we were brought all three options, including icy orbs of chocolate and cinnamon too. Viva excess.

Pasita * 47 Eighth Ave., New York, NY

Malagueta

Malagueta_shrimp_stewI was semi-secretly relived that when I arrived in Astoria around 8pm, the restaurant had run out of the Saturday-only feijoada. I felt a little bad because I’ve never tried the Brazilian national dish and not many places in NYC do it, instead they frequently opt for the rodizio-style parade of skewered meat until you’re ill approach (which reminds me of what I think was my second Valentine’s Day celebration with James when he took me to Churrascaria Plataforma, which seems more wrong now than it did at the time. I’ve grown picky with age—I used to be thrilled to be taken out anywhere. Valentine’s days never end up being terribly romantic, at least in my world, but all-you-can-eat grilled beef certainly doesn’t help matters). I’d eaten Argentine parillada the evening before and had used leftover skirt steak and sausage enhanced with an egg and potatoes for breakfast (eating light is a tough concept for me) so I was meated-out for the rest of the weekend.

Malagueta_frittersAt Malagueta, a warmer, cozier place than I’d expected, I tried the moqueca de camarao, a Bahian-style shrimp stew with palm oil, onions, peppers and coconut milk over rice. More Afro than Latino. I always thought dende was one of those sure to kill you fats but at least they were being authentic. Sometimes I hate it when restaurants use olive oil when it had no place in the cuisine. The dish was fairly light, slightly New Orleans-ish and thankfully free of grilled meat.

For an appetizer, I had fried cheese-rice balls with an orange dip that’s similar to what accompanies a Bloomin’ Onion. That’s a good thing but I felt a little guilty so I split them with James even though he had a green pea soup of his own. I’m not sure how Brazilian these fritters were, but Malagueta isn’t purist. Malagueta_chocolate_mousseThey use the term continental to describe some of their cooking, but that phrase has such derogatory connotations. James’s pork loin with mashed potatoes and bacon vinaigrette wasn’t like bad hotel food.

Everyone around us was mad for the chocolate mousse, to the point where diners waiting for seats were saying, “I hope you save some chocolate mousse for us” to the waitresses. Strange. I’m not nuts for pudding-ish sweets, too soft in the mouth, no texture. But we got the mousse anyway and well, it tasted like rich chocolate. No complaints.

Malagueta * 25-35 36th Ave., Astoria, NY

Pardo’s

1/2 *I didn’t realize that chains could just go changing their raison d’etre willy-nilly but it appears that Pardo’s has switched from pollo a la brasa to ceviche and changed its name to Panca. (6/08)

I'm crazy for foreign chains but Pardo’s didn’t arrive with the fanfare of Beard Papa, Uniqlo or even Kyotofu. Perhaps the Japanese are just masters of drumming up enthusiasm (though I’m not sure that Gyu-Kaku has been a sweeping success). It’s a likable enough place so I’m hoping it doesn’t go the way of Brooklyn’s Pollo Campero.

Pardos_cocktailsPardo’s is a Peruvian chain specializing in rotisserie-grilled chicken. This is their first U.S. location and I’d be curious how closely the two menus resemble each other. They didn’t eliminate the anticuchos, beef heart skewers, which I imagine skeeve out more than few West Villagers. I don’t imagine there’s a Piscopolitan cocktail on the Lima menu, though. It’s pretty safe to guess that more than half of the clientele on a very busy Friday night were South American.

Pardos_chickenThe small, brightly lit room can barely contain the amount of diners and potential diners. I couldn’t relax the entire meal, even after a well-made pisco sour (that's a pisco libre to the left of the martini glass). The tables are so tight and precariously placed that I was constantly waiting for someone to knock something over on me. I will say that the waitresses (they’re all young females) are some of the most friendly, upbeat service workers I’ve encountered in a restaurant that’s one step up from fast food. Maybe they imported them because the leisurely pace that tables got turned over and bills were brought out was very un-NYC in lack of urgency.

Pardos_yuquitasWe tried half a chicken brasa and half parrillero, the brasa being rotisserie style and parrillero a grilled boneless fillet. Who knows what the advertised 14 secret ingredients were, but salt is definitely one of them (to be fair, I’m a notorious under-salter. I have to consciously add what seems like extra when cooking for others. It’s strange that I have high blood pressure since I’m practically on an unintentional low-sodium diet). I preferred the classic spit-roasted version, both styles were juicy throughout, no cottony white meat.

Pardos_tacu_tacuThere are quite a few sides to choose from, we got yuquitas, commonly called yucca fries, which are rapidly becoming one of my favorite fried starches, and tacu tacu, which are croquettes of beans and rice mashed together into fat little logs. Mayonnaise and a creamy aji sauce using yellow South American chiles come on the side. Despite the cute name, tacu tacu was kind of dull, I would’ve expected more pizzazz from a fritter. I might try canario beans instead if I went again.

Even though our spot was being eyed by anxious couples, we decided to have a slice of tres leches cake anyway. We couldn’t disappoint our waitress who highly recommended it and checked back to make sure we were enjoying it. Only a monster would hate tres leches cake.

Pardo's * 92 Seventh Ave. S., New York, NY

Sabrosura

1/2 On the few extended English vacations I’ve taken to visit my sister, I’ve become convinced that my legs were morphing into two stubby chip appendages. It starts with tuber thighs and next thing you know, you’re a human chip butty. Lately, a new starchy vegetable has started taking root on my limbs. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve eaten yuca. And yet after eating at Sabrosura, I’d gotten my third stomach full in four days. I never knew the true meaning of sticks to your ribs until I met this Caribbean staple. I see how it does its job as cheap filling foodstuff but I think it’s wise that I start laying off the yucca fries.

Sabrosura_outside Other than a soft pretzel at the zoo, I’ve never eaten a bite in the Bronx. It’s a whole new frontier begging to be explored (even the Times headed up this week). I wasn’t sure what to expect from Castle Hill but the first thing I laid eyes on after stepping out of the car was a toddler on a leash. Awesome! Just when I’d had it with all the foul Park Slope mom mayhem. No precocious roaming free, self-expression in the Bronx. They probably spank there too. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about loose un-paddled children ruining my Domincan-Chinese meal.

The menu is voluminous (I suggest looking at it online). I didn’t even know where to begin. Take out classics like beef with broccoli? Local stuff like grilled meat with yellow rice and plantains? They call themselves a seafood restaurant, which is supplemented by plastic fish on the wall, netting above a front area that looks like it should be a bar but isn’t. But beyond fried shrimp I’m not sure that seafood is the standard order.

Sabrosura_curryThe guys who seem more in charge are Chinese, the busboys looked Mexican, the clientele was mixed with white couples, Spanish families (I’m using that in the NYC sense, just for fun…when in Rome, though I’m not ever going to say Ore-uh-gone for Oregon) and no Asians. I always wonder how many Chinese actually eat corner “Chinese” food in the city. There’s got to be Mexicans who love Taco Bell.

While nibbling complimentary garlic bread, we decided on chicken curry, chofan and yuca mofongo. Curry is odd because there’s nothing particularly Chinese about it. It ended up being soupy yellow curry in the sense that it’s seasoned with curry powder, closer to Japanese curry than anything, kind of sweet and dotted with peas and carrots. It wasn’t like we were expecting Thai or Malaysian food so this wasn’t shocking. Choice for sides inlcuded maduros, tostones, yucca or rice. We got tostones.

Sabrosura_chofanChofan is their Nuevo Latino fried rice (there are other versions in the Chinese section). I’d just seen Chaufa, a similar dish, on a Peruvian menu. Everyone loves fried rice. This version had the extra additon of chicharrone. We paid the extra $2 for shrimp too. I take excess seriously.

The mofongo is where it got weird. I wanted the version with a side of fried pork chunks that I saw in a laminated flip menu on a little plastic stand. What I ended up with was an unadorned softball of yuca (you’re offered this starch or more typical plantain) in a bowl of gravy. Mofongo will put you into a coma. I’d never even heard of the dish until a few years ago. It’s not like I grew up with any Puerto Ricans, and I wonder if this is something a contemporary Boricua even orders. You don’t see blogs dedicated to mofongo worship (then again, you don’t see many Latin American food blogs period. Asian females seem to have the corner on the I eat and write about it market. I don’t want to generalize so I’ll have to look into this further before coming to conclusions. I think a big part of it is that Latin American blogs don’t tend to be in English, duh. Cooking Diva, a Panamanian blog is one of the few I can think of off the top of my head). Maybe it’s like tuna casserole, an old standard that some people in parts of the country might still eat. Or maybe it’s d.i.y. hip—I found a vegetarian, nay vegan recipe in ReadyMade.

Sabrosura_mofongoWe picked at maybe 1/3 of the mash-blob and had to pack it in. But the leftovers fortified me the next day during a 12-hour work shift where there was no time to take a break. No, I don’t perform manual labor so it’s doubtful I burned off all the carbs but it definitely kept hunger at bay. I recently was given a subscription to a British food magazine and they’re all obsessed with the GI diet over there. I don’t even want to think about where yuca falls on the glycemic index.

Sabrosura * 1200 Castle Hill Ave., Bronx, NY

Salud! Restaurant & Bar

Salud_bean_dip_1 I never intended to eat plantains for three courses at lunch. The plantain chips and bean dip was a freebie. You can partake or not but I’ve never been one to ignore a bread basket or facsimile. That was my first mistake.

It made sense to do the three-course $20 prix fixe since my original plan to order two tapas/appetizers would’ve cost even more. I don’t normally delve into the double digits for a weekday lunch, though I’m unusually frugal by even cheapskate standards. Trying to keep my daily total under $4 usually translates into a tiny midtown soup or bagel. But Salud is at the Seaport, which is an extension of the Financial District. James, who works nearby, didn’t think the prices were out of line.

Salud_stuffed_plantains I shouldn’t gone with my initial instinct and started with ceviche but instead I was swayed by sweet plantains stuffed with spicy beef and monterey jack. It sounded gooey and decadent, but in reality it was starch with barely perceptible dashes of ground meat and cheese. The maduros completely overwhelmed the other flavors.

Garlic shrimp seemed safe, but they didn’t come solo. Oh no, the little crustaceans aligned next to a tidy row of tostones. It’s a good thing I’m not low-carbing it. However, I am trying to eat less and shun sugar, but dessert was part of the meal so I was semi-forced to eat a perfectly acceptable flan (which apparently I enjoyed enough to eat before remembering to take a photo).

Salud_garlic_shrimpThere appears to be a Cuban theme in music and style, but the menu is more of a Caribbean mish mash. I can see Salud being good for happy hour drinks if you worked nearby but it’s not distinctive enough to attract diners from beyond the neighborhood. Now that I think about it, it’s the kind of place that would pop up in my neighborhood (Carroll Gardens) and fail to excite me. Un-hideous but far from amazing.

Salud! Restaurant & Bar * 142 Beekman St., New York, NY

809 Sangria Bar & Grill

1/2 Certain segments of the population like to brag about never setting foot above 14th Street (or somesuch nebulous boundary). Whatever (that’s actually less offputting than those who silently yet resolutely refuse to  venture beyond the 11211 zip code). But if I didn’t work in midtown, it’s not that likely I’d frequent the 40s or higher on a regular basis. Upper Manhattan and the Bronx? Ok, now I’m totally clueless and a little hesitant.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I made the A train journey up to Inwood for a meal. I wasn’t scared like I thought I was going to be knifed or something, the unknown just makes me nervous. I feel the same way about Staten Island (I like to believe I have a better than average grasp on Brooklyn and Queens). NYC is an insular place. I currently work in a deparment of ALL native New Yorkers, which is pretty rare in my experience (no, I don’t work for the NYPD or FDNY or the city) and I wouldn’t be surprised if many (not all, mind you) of the five were unfamiliar with the neighborhoods outside of where they grew up and/or presently reside. I only know places where friends congregate or where good food lurks.

809_arepa_trio_1My initial impression of Inwood wasn't bad. Of course my only exposure was walking three blocks to and from the Dykeman Avenue station but it seemed akin to Sunset Park or South Slope: a Payless Shoes, H&R Block, Subway, Dunkin Donuts, Chinese take out…I’m not sure if there was a Jimmy Jazz or not but there should’ve been. Lots of chains, a little grit, and no signs of gentrification beyond 809 Sangria Bar and Grill, my destination.

You might not even notice it from the street, it’s not flashy. The brightly lit, neon heavy place with sandwiches in the window, next store, made more of an impression. And I’m not sure how well they’re attracting diners (I think they’re doing a good job bringing crowds to the upstairs lounge, which is only open the last few days of the week). Our table was the only one occupied for a spell. Eventually two couples came in and as we were wrapping up a few other groups stopped by, one with like three children under three. Dates, partiers, newborns all welcome.

I’ll admit that the prices are high for the area (my entrée was $24) but it’s not a case of unwarranted gouging. The cooking is creative and the dishes are well thought out. The style borrows from The Domincan Republic (as everyone points out, 809 is the area code in the D.R.) and beyond and manages to avoid boring mango and avocado laced pan-Latino cliches.

809_stuffed_snapperI might’ve gone for a ceviche if I were solo, but the arepa trio topped with tufts of ropa vieja, pork picadillo and shredded chicken were moist and each distinctly flavored.There are two ways to go with entrees: the pick your meat, side and sauce churrasco or opting for seafood. My dining companion (logically chosen as my only friend who lives in the hundreds) has a reputation for being fussy, things that lived in the water or items with bones don’t please her. I was a little nervous but she eventually settled on a medium well skirt steak with yucca fries and three colorful sauces (I couldn’t tell you what they were). She didn’t complain so I’m assuming her meal didn’t completely suck.

I was pleased with the pargo relleno, a whole crispy-skin red snapper stuffed with a seafood risotto. The lightly spiced echilado-coconut sauce tasted slightly Thai, which I loved. Sometimes, I forget the lime, coconut and chiles similarities between Southeast Asia and the Carribean.

I totally didn’t need an 809 Mojito (rum, apple pucker, peach schnapps, fresh plums and peaches) and tres leches cake. My teeth almost rotted out. I’m trying to learn moderation in 2007, though it’s slow going. I pretended that I was being healthy by only eating half my fish, never mind that it was fried and doused in creamy saturated fat.

809_tres_leches_cakeOn my (long) way home, I decided that they’re nice in Inwood. As we were heading into the subway station, a guy on his way out gave me his soon-to-expire Metrocard (this may not seem like a big deal if you’re an unlimited buyer but I’ll gladly accept the $2 gift since I’m a pay per ride gal). The train was already at the platform as we were approaching the bottom of the stairs and a guy held the doors for us. Annoying when you’re in the car, yes, but it wasn’t rush hour and the train was practically empty since it was the second stop from the end of the line. Syrupy cocktails and a few glasses of Shiraz tend to cloud my thinking in more ways than one, they also have a way of inducing rare warm, fuzzy, mankind is ok feelings. I like people so much more when I have a few drinks in my system.

So, if you ever find yourself around W. 200th Street and are craving lamb chops, onion confit, balsamic panela reduction and ajillo mashed potatoes rather than cuchifritos, 809 is probably a good choice.

809 Sangria Bar & Grill * 112 Dyckman St., New York, NY