Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

May 19

Casa Senra

I thought I was becoming a seasoned pintxo-orderer by the time I ended up at Casa Senra, mid-way though vacation. Apparently, I still had fear in my eyes. “No tiene miedo!” said the young man behind the bar, nudging us to just pick up a plate and start plopping things on it. (Not all places are d.i.y., though, which is why I was waiting to see if another customer just jumped in or had things plated by staff.)

I ended up only picking one because my heart was set on a few cooked dishes. It’s amazing how much flavor can be crammed onto one slice of bread: anchovies, jamón, green pimientos, cheese and caramelized onions. I guess I should take back what I said earlier about not seeing meat and cheese together on pintxos.

Choosing with your eyes can be fun, but the more elaborate pintxos need to be ordered from the menu. Wow, I’m just noticing a wild mushroom dish with Coca-Cola sauce scrawled at the bottom.

My txampi con foie y suave allioli got attention from strangers—and for good reason—the architectural wonder nearly appears to have been sealed in fondant. That is the work of the so-called smooth aioli, which is blanketing a fat mushroom, block of foie gras and a bread base in all of its emulsified glory. How can a person who can only stand mayonnaise in small doses down a creation like this? I ate first, internalized later. Basque country is no place for gastronomic mental blocks.

I’m not 100% sure what’s going on with this montadito de txipiron pelayo y bakalao. In places like Barcelona, a montadito is essential a pintxo, something stacked on bread like the anchovy cavalcade above. Here, anything on anything seemed to be a montadito and I’m guessing that the bottom layer where the advertised squid (txipiron) was lurking. Its ink certainly played a role, as did the rectangle of salt cod crowned with frizzled leeks.

What I’m completely clueless about (any insight would be appreciated) is what Pelayo means. I can’t determine if it’s a region, style or breed of squid or something else, altogether. I get the sense that txipiron pelayo is a non-descriptive namesake like oysters Rockefeller or veal Oscar.

Casa Senra * San Francisco, 32, San Sebastián, Spain

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May 19

Bergara

Bergara skewed more traditional than Hidalgo 56. To be honest, I was a little more interested in the décor than the food because even sharing two small pintxos per stop, the third restaurant is where you’re likely to start busting a gut. But the main reason my attention was divided was because the room was a charming grandma/old sea captain mishmash of nuts.

Ceramic tea kettles in the shape of cats wearing dresses shared shelf space with steins painted with men’s faces. My spot on a picnic bench put me in direct view of the backlit elephant in the room. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the glowing tableau of pintxos interspersed with more bearded mugs and prancing cherubs. Luckily, I managed a quick photo before the staff turned off the light and started sweeping.

Do you see a pattern forming? 10:30 pm really is the weeknight dining tail-end in San Sebastián.

There is that txalupa, a fritter of wild mushrooms, langoustine, cream and cava, next to two massive béchamel-and-ham filled croquetas. I told you, third meal is the dangerous meal. I didn’t know any better–croquetas in NYC are often tiny little things.

Bar Bergara * Calle General Artetxe 8, San Sebastián, Spain

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May 19

Hidalgo 56

Bar-hopping isn’t all about la Parte Vieja, a.k.a. San Sebastian’s old town that quite possibly contains the densest concentration of pintxos bars on earth. Gros, the neighborhood across the Urumea River that’s accessible by numerous bridges (it’s not an undertaking like crossing the Brooklyn Bridge on foot) is a little lower key.

The Kursaal, a glowing auditorium, was on the Gros side, directly across the river from our apartment. I’d wanted to eat at the restaurant inside, Ni Neu, but it was closed the nights I had free eating time available (that sounds so creepy and regimented).

Nearly all newcomers (and likely, regulars too) order the volcán de morcilla. Yes, that would a blood sausage volcano. Instead of molten lava, the dark mountain of meat cut with rice, raisins and peppers is spouting a raw egg yolk sprinkled with salt. Add a swipe of apple puree and you have one complex, fun-to-eat pintxo.

Here, four rare slices of steak covered in potato crisps are served with “fondue” of naturally ripe and runny Torta del Casar. Earlier, we had been discussing how you might eat a plate of charcuterie or cheese, but you rarely see meat and dairy combined in a dish. This was as close as we would get to our dream Spanish cheesesteak.

Hidalgo 56 * Paseo Colon, 15, San Sebastián, Spain

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May 19

Borda Berri

1/2 Borda Berri, where I managed to squeak in just before the gate was pulled down for the evening, had a different vibe (dare I pull out the H-word?) than many other pintxos bars. For one, no one dining or behind the counter appeared to be over 30. They also had a penchant for American classic rock a la Sweet Home Alabama interspersed with Spanish-language metal.

On Saturday night, the crowds spilling onto the street–generally speaking, not just at Borda Berri–felt more off-puttingly Lower East Side, though. Screaming, glass-breaking (though San Sebastián was suspiciously free of zombie-texters, and smartphones, period). Is there such a concept as bridge-and-tunnel or fratty in Spain?

No matter, I had time to enjoy the first “taco” of vacation. This particular taco was tempura’d bacalao with multiple sauces that I’ve already forgotten. Sauces and drizzles are to pintxos what flowers are to alta cocina.

And a sorry photo of bread slices (if the pintxo isn’t served atop bread, you’re usually given bread on the side, which makes the three-to-four-bite concoctions feel like a real meal—plus, you don’t want to waste any of those aforementioned sauces) blocking the chunk of foie gras. The mustard was flavored with mysterious fruity ingredient that I didn’t recognize when reading the chalkboard.

“Qué es una cireula?” I asked. “Inglés?” the gentleman behind the counter correctly assumed while pulling a menu from behind the bar. After a bit of scanning, I was told “plum” in an equally heavy accent as I imagine my “cireula” sounded to him. Ah, plum instead of apple with this foie gras.

How many of these pintxos bars have foreign language menus hidden away, I’m not sure, but the only two languages I ever saw advertised explicitly on doors—which I took as a signal to stay far away—were English and French. All other tourists are out of luck—and from what I could hear, seemed to speak pretty good English anyway.

Borda Berri * Fermín Calbetón, 12, San Sebastián, Spain

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May 15

Goiz-Argi

Goiz-Argi was a good place to start. On a Wednesday night, our first night and still getting our bearings, this compact bar had enough breathing room to survey the small selection of fairly traditional pintxos on the counter and listed on the wall.

A hit of fizzy txakoli in a tumbler (I later began ordering vino tinto or cañas, small beers which seemed to be synonymous with zurritos, which I originally thought were even smaller, because that seemed more standard with locals—there are also a lot of rosado drinkers—than the white Basque wine) a brocheta de gambas, one of their specialties, and a wildcard, simple morcilla accompanied only by charred green pimientos, no fruity purees or hidden foie gras, set my foundation for the week of eating and drinking.

In much of Spain, at least in Barcelona and Madrid, there is the truth that only tourists go out to eat before 9pm. You look like a rube otherwise. So yes, you may not dine until 10pm but I learned the hard way that that doesn’t mean the entire evening has been extended. Most restaurants close by midnight so the opportunity for dining is short. After that, you may find yourself eating at Vips, the Denny’s of Spain.

San Sebastián turned out to be shifted even earlier. On this first night out we didn’t leave the apartment and make the two-block-stroll to Goiz-Argi until 9:30pm. By 10:30pm, many pintxos bars were already sweeping up and stacking stools. Weekend nights are the exception. Patrons spill onto the streets until midnight (though not much later) making it impossible to even consider entering. On a Saturday night attempt to return to Goiz-Argi, we were shooed out by owner as we tried to squeeze in past the hordes and had the grate pulled down behind us. No nonsense.

Goiz-Argi * 4 Fermín Calbetón, San Sebastián, Spain

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May 14

Bar Zeruko

Zeruko, where foie gras hides in every crevice and otherwise responsible adults leave sleeping infants unattended in strollers out front, turned out to be one of my favorite places to eat in San Sebastián. (In the late ‘90s a Danish mother got into serious trouble for employing this carefree parenting style in NYC—at a Dallas BBQ, no less.)

You see, pintxos bars are tiny, often narrow places, many standing room only and even though they are now safe for forming lungs (smoking was finally banned indoors in Spain at the start of 2011, much to the dismay of my loving-to-smoke-on-vacation self) parents haven’t taken this as the signal to start maneuvering strollers inside. Clue number one that I wasn’t in Brooklyn anymore.

Clue number two was the pricing. I’ve thought about why pintxos bars don’t/couldn’t thrive here (Txikito being the only example I can think of). We have plenty of small storefronts and a love of creative food, but the ingredients would demand higher prices, as too the rent, and a small $12 plate of food—what I could see being charged in NYC—would make the whole thing overly precious.

In San Sebastián you may only have a little glass of wine (beer, cider are also acceptable) for the equivalent of $2 and one dish, maybe $4, and consume it in less than ten minutes. Time to move on to the next spot. Your 5 euro meal—something to savor, but not to fetishize—has earned you a brief spot at the bar or a ledge.

Now, allow me to fetizishe the food. Zeruko differed from standard approach where cold dishes are displayed on the counter and warm ones are listed on a chalkboard menu to be ordered sight unseen on description alone. Here, everything available was piled onto the counter and there was a menu, some of the two matched up and most items if pointed at or asked for would be whisked to a back kitchen and gussied up in some manner.

Like the artichoke I saw being consumed by many. I mangled the word alcachofa with anchoa (anchovy) and had to point to sort things out. I wanted something light and vegetable-based. Ha, but what I was eventually served was deep-fried, stuffed with foie gras, painted in gold leaf and surrounded by a swirl of caramel sauce; a rich wallop consumable in a few bites. So, this is how it’s done at Zeruko.

A simpler package of something fishy, likely bacalao, swaddled in thin zucchini slices served straight from the counter.

Langostino glass (I know this is the official name, even though I don’t understand the glass part, because on our second visit we ordered from the menu rather than picking by sight) turned out to also contain foie gras, possibly the most popular ingredient after mayonnaise in the region, along with a fruity compote. Foie gras was almost always paired with fruit and 95% of the time, apples. In this case, though, berries.

Taco de cochinillo lechal confitado con mostaza dulce y Grany Smith. Once again, the taco that wasn’t. This time it turned out to be a square of suckling pig.

Morcilla y foie rebozado con pistachio. Yep, more foie gras, blended with blood sausage, encrusted in pistachios and drizzled with raspberry sauce. Our drizzle was more of a dried-on speck because I asked for this dish just as they were about to toss out three that had been ordered and not wanted. Would I be ok with one of these? Yeah, I ate someone’s reject.

I did not try their famous “la hoguera,” featured on the cover of the one book I bought, Pintxos de Vanguardia a la Donostiarra. It’s likely you’ll see at least one person (usually whole groups) with the diy charcoal smoked cod atop a mini grill. It draws attention—just like a sleeping baby left alone in a buggy.

Bar Zeruko * Calle Pescadería 10, San Sebastián, Spain

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Apr 20

Brooklyn Star

No amount of salad, yogurt, fruit and dinners ripped from the pages of Cooking Light—my dull weekday diet—can make up for an excess of pork fat, batter and beer. Weekends are a problem for me. But what’s the point of going to southern-by-way-of Williamsburg Brooklyn Star if you’re living a life of grilled chicken breasts and steamed broccoli?

Unusually, the long wait on a Saturday night didn’t sour my mood. The luck of two seats instantly opening at the crowded bar and a gratis Sazerac granted by the kindly bartender (whose accent leaned more Scottish than Southern) just shy of the one-hour-mark raised my spirits. We had duck rillettes to occupy us, too. Served in a jar, as country-fied cuisine in urban settings often is, the rich confit was cut by the tartness of pickled green beans and was just as good on a biscuit as a baguette. The thing about terrines, pates and the like is that there’s never enough bread and you feel silly eating charcuterie by the spoonful.

The fried pigs tails were more bony than anything, but if they’re on a menu you’re going to order them, right? The darker nuggets on the periphery of the bowl are jalapeño hush puppies.

I appreciate the starch variety. Hush puppies, biscuits and here, Texas toast as the bready delivery mechanism for roasted bone marrow. The parsley salad you may have seen before in this context; the red onion jam, maybe not.

I did not sample the country fried steak with a creamy white gravy, but it looked substantial.

Yes, one vegetable (there are a few on offer) fried, of course, and tossed with ham, apples and chow chow. The unexpected combination paired with brussels sprouts was the most Momofuku-ish dish I encountered.

I’ve never been into chili or chips, but I do love tripe so I’d deal with the Fritos accompaniment and likely-to-be hearty preparation to see what the tripe chili is all about. Something for next time.

Brooklyn Star * 593 Lorimer St., Brooklyn, NY

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Apr 15

Texas Roadhouse

I’m never ever a jerk to service staff, but when “Have you dined with us before?” hits my ears (which isn’t the sole province of chain restaurants) I feel this childish urge to backtalk in some manner. Really, how much explaining should a dining experience require? I always lie and say “yes” to save the spiel. But as a first-timer at Texas Roadhouse, who only knew about the business because it came in fourth place in a survey of favorite casual dining restaurants, I did kind of want to hear what they were about.

“Hand-cut steaks,” sides made from scratch and freshly baked rolls that are whisked from the front counter and brought with you to the table as you’re being seated, it turns out. The staff wearing I Heart My Job t-shirts and periodically breaking into country line dances and why the chicken fingers are called “critters,” were not explained.

While waiting for a table at the bar, we sized up the restaurant with its chilled giant mugs of beer, bloomin’ onions, woody motif and emphasis on steaks, to be an OSI brand. But not so. That fried, battered onion turned out be called a Cactus Blossom, and apparently has nothing to do with Outback Steakhouse, whatsoever.

What the restaurant really reminded me of, particularly the country music and encouragement to throw peanut shells on the floor, was a restaurant in Tigard called BJ’s Roadhouse that I can find no online evidence of (there’s a BJ’s Restaurant and Brewhouse, but that’s not it). I’ll never forget it because it’s where my dad and his wife took me for my birthday right after I turned 21 and I forgot my driver’s license and couldn’t drink away the trauma (no, I did not appreciate chains and suburban trappings in college). The waiter wouldn’t even let me have an O’Doul’s. The evening ended with a watermelon (the only food in the world I hate) and a diabetic cherry pie.

A decade-and-a-half can make all the difference. Now, I’m soothed by honey-cinnamon butter and warm, fluffy rolls and the ability to drink forty ounces of Sam Adams Cherry Wheat beer without being carded. I practically ate the whole basket while scrutinizing the menu. The bread reminded me of the “scones” at a restaurant I ate at once in grade school called Pa’s Kettle (wow, I can’t believe that it still existed in its 1980s form until 2008). They were warm yeasty triangles served with honey-butter that had me in for a surprise when I first tasted a real dense, baking soda-heavy scone (probably at Starbucks, sadly).

Rattlesnake Bites are a take on jalapeño poppers with the chiles and cheese mashed up and formed into a fritter and served with a Cajun horseradish dip. “Hand-battered,” don’t forget. I felt health draining from me with each bite–maybe that's the rattlesnake angle?–but who doesn't appreciate a newfangled popper?

I tested out my favorite Dallas BBQ combo: ribs and chicken. Well, the ribs, despite being a little dried-out and not likely smoked, still tasted more like real barbecue than BBQ’s. Nothing wrong with them. The chicken, though? Ugh, grilled, boneless chicken breast, my enemy. I was picturing a crispy, skin-on leg in my head. This sad poultry part has a place in my weeknight dinner canon, but I never ever want to eat it in a restaurant and I will never understand Americans’ obsession with flavorless white meat. (Apparently, Chinese don’t like chicken breast—or kung pao, but that’s another story.) To be fair, the grilled chicken was moist and not tasteless—the more peppery than sweet sauce helped—it’s just not what I wanted. Baked beans and steamed broccoli, carrots and cauliflower (my attempt at health) were my choices of sides.

They really do hype-up the beef—the cuts are displayed in a butcher-style case in the waiting area—so, James went all big-spender (relatively speaking; the steak and rib combo was $18.99) and ordered a steak and rib combo. I’m still trying to parse our enthusiastic server’s question “Have you had ribeye before?” Did he mean ever in our lives or at Texas Roadhouse? Am I naïve/privileged to think that the average adult in this country has eaten a ribeye at some point? Must tamp urge to sass waitstaff.

No matter. Texas Roadhouse is worth having in my chain restaurant repertoire. I would go again, if only to be able to answer “yes” when asked the inevitable “Have you dined with us before?” question.

Texas Roadhouse * 1000 US Highway 9, Parlin, NJ

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Apr 10

Má Pêche

As part of my recent initiative to eat a real lunch every few weeks, I ended up at Má Pêche one-day-shy of its first anniversary. Apparently, 364 days is how long it takes me to eventually try a restaurant (and I won’t be back, at least not during the day, anytime soon, if only because 35 minutes each way during a workday just isn’t feasible).

I shared two versions of the $25 prix-fixe (which never end up being a bargain after ordering two glasses of wine—it was nice seeing a Jura wine by the glass on a short list, though) with a friend.

We were hesitant about summer rolls. Would they be any different that at a nicer Vietnamese restaurant? They were certainly heftier with more pork (there’s an unseeable slab on the far side of the roll) and greens than one would normally see. What at first I thought was sugar cane turned out to be a fried wonton, resembling a rolled wafer cookie. I liked the added crunch.

Oxtail terrine with pickled carrots, mushrooms and violet mustard skewed more French. I would’ve probably preferred this first course if I had been dining alone.

And the rosy slices of duck breast and Jimmy Dean-esque puck (in looks only) of duck sausage with spaetzle would’ve been my main. Super meaty, so what.

As it was, the half portion of duck was just right with shared rice noodles, sheets formed into tubes not strands and sautéed for textural contrast. Other than pork and what appeared to be fried shallots, I’m not sure what else was in this dish. This looks a little more naked than versions I’ve seen online.

We took our third course, double chocolate and corn cookies, to go. I forgot to take a photo, but I did not forget to eat the sizeable brown cookie as an early evening snack. I think it broke my pancreas.

Má Pêche * 15 W 56th St., New York, NY

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Apr 5

Hunan House

It wasn’t that I thought pupu platters and moo shu pork were Hunan food; I’d never even considered that regional Chinese food existed. And I can’t fault Gresham, Oregon or the era when I took my first job bussing tables at Hunan Garden. Even twenty years later in a city filled with actual Chinese people, we have kung pao and lo mein slingers with names like Hunan Balcony and Szechuan Delight.

Luckily, we also have restaurants representing less-celebrated corners of China like Dongbei, Quingdao and Fujian, something that not all cities in the US have. (I truly didn’t understand when in the ‘90s a Queens transplant to Portland complained about the city’s lack of good Chinese food. Many of the restaurants serving Chinese and Thai at the time were really Vietnamese.)

And finally, Hunan food. I’ve gathered from reading Fuchsia Dunlop’s Revolutionary Chinese Cookbook, sampling the Hunan section of Grand Sichuan’s menu and a meal at a Hunan restaurant in Shanghai, which is about as close as I’ll get to Changsha in the immediate future, Hunan food is spicy like Sichuan cuisine—some say spicier— but doesn’t use the tingly peppercorns.

I didn’t find the food at Hunan House to be particularly chile hot. The cold pigs’ ear appetizer was mildly spiced and consisted of chewy ribbons of meat and fat lightly slicked with oil in a very straightforward presentation that was more about texture than strong flavor. I kind of missed the orange pool of oil that dresses similar Sichuan dishes.

Chairman Mao’s pork, a rich star anise-heavy braise of pork belly cubes with green bursts of wilted spinach and sliced scallions to trick you into thinking the dish contains healthy components, has always been a favorite from Grand Sichuan and was successful here, too.

I had no idea fish heads were part of the Hunan canon because I’ve tended to encounter the toothy castoffs in Southeast Asia, the most famous example being Singaporean fish head curry. At first we worried that our choice was a dud. The waiter asked, “you know that’s a fish head?” But after noticing at least three other tables with the same red chile-and-scallion-smothered dish, we realized he was concerned about our non-Chinese palates (I really wanted to type palette to see if anyone would go apeshit on me).

No worries, we picked the bones mostly clean, despite the fish head’s size (in Singapore you can specify if you want a small or large head) being better suited for more than two diners.

Ack, the stems (I completely had forgotten that I was aware of their existence and swore to never eat them). I could’ve sworn the menu simply read sautéed water spinach with green pepper, though the online version I’m currently looking at definitely says water spinach roots. Once again, I got tripped up by a Malay/Singaporean preparation of what they call kangkung. I was expecting leaves in chile sauce, not a whole platter of stems! I don’t want to make a big stink and go as far as saying I have a stem phobia (it’s like you’re being cute and drawing attention to quirks unnecessarily like in that Sloane Crosley story—a few months ago in an attempt to better myself and become more compassionate by reading things I assumed I would hate but that others love, I checked out her book from the library…and couldn’t get past the third story—where she claims to have a made-up disorder where she can’t read maps) but when I get a banh mi stuffed with more cilantro stems than leaves, I am not happy and if I make kangkung belacan, myself, I use leaves only. Stems go in the garbage, no matter how wasteful.

With all of that said, this dish that was far more challenging than a fish head, ended up being delicious. Light chile heat blended with the salty funk of black beans and hits of ginger and garlic. I didn’t even miss the Sichuan peppercorns I had been craving at the start.

Hunan House * 137-40 Northern Blvd., Flushing, NY

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Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

Casa Senra

Bergara

Hidalgo 56

Borda Berri

Goiz-Argi

Bar Zeruko

Brooklyn Star

Texas Roadhouse

Má Pêche

Hunan House

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Occasional Instagramming

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The Past Will Haunt You

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