Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

Nov 14

On The Border

Jose Tejas, the incongruously named Border Café that give the illusion of not being a chain, rules the Tex-Mex scene in Middlesex County. It’s always packed, the parking lot overflowing well past the time other restaurants in the area are thinning out for the night. Chevy’s in nearby Linden doesn’t really compare, so we kept going south down Route 1 until we hit On the Border in New Brunswick where you can always see a new movie in an uncrowded multiplex.

Not surprising for a Saturday night, the restaurant was bustling and we were quoted a short wait. What I was surprised by was the predominantly Indian clientele. That’s why I like New Jersey so much. Sure, it’s the suburbs but it’s not the all-American West Coast suburbs of my youth. The setting would've been ripe for painful Outsourced-style humor involving Sikh turbans.

The chicken-and-cheese stuffed jalapeños (they didn’t call them poppers) aren’t so different from mirchi bajji, really.

Their fall Hatch chiles menu is kind of on trend. This year in particular, they’ve been getting a lot of press. The weird thing was that I didn’t really taste the green chile and I didn’t expect cheese on my grilled meat. Of course, melted cheese in the trademark of any fine chain, but I was asked if I wanted cheese or guacamole, and I went for the latter if only to lower my cholesterol marginally.

I ordered one agave margarita, which tasted bitter and lingered like it contained artificial sweetener. My second, a standard version, tasted exactly the same, so then I was confused. I will say that one thing Jose Tejas definitely has over On the Border is the margaritas.

On The Border * 51 US 1, New Brunswick, NJ

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Nov 6

Lotus of Siam NY

1/2 Assessing a restaurant like Lotus of Siam, which popped up out of nowhere in a shocking I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant style, is problematic. Do you compare it to the Las Vegas original even though it’s a different beast? I prefer the strip mall version. Do you match it against the existing Thai restaurants in the city? I still favor Chao Thai or Sripraphai in Queens.

Based on the opening week tasting menu—yes, I’m curious to see the variety and pricing of the regular entrees—Lotus of Siam presents Thai food that ranges the gamut from regional Issan specialties to fancified inventions. And they’re most successful when focusing on those two ends of the spectrum. The most disappointing dish turned out to be a generic green curry, something I wouldn’t normally order anywhere of my own accord even in Thailand.

Tuna koi soy, a tartare, was the dish I was most concerned about when looking at the menu online, and it ended up being one of the most distinctly Thai flavored things I ate all night. Herby with vegetal lime leaf undertones, toasted rice powder chalkiness and a powerfully hot chile punch, this was a promising start. If this was what they could create with done to death tuna tartare (I really hope there’s not a molten cake on the menu) my fears would all be misplaced.

Two of the four starters–nam kao tod and koong sarong–were things I’d eaten before in Vegas, so that was also a good sign. The tangy crispy rice with sausage that’s really more like cubed ham was fun and so were the tiki-esque fried bacon-wrapped shrimp enrobed in wonton skins with sweet-chile dipping sauce.

The satay was perfunctory (it’s also one of those items I never order because it’s rarely exciting and well, Malaysians and Singaporeans just do it better because they own it) and the pik kai yao sai, crispy chicken stuffed with its own meat and vegetables was solid, if not a bit Chinese in nature.

The rest of the tasting menu, two choices per course, was arbitrarily dispensed. I sampled both but only took photos of what was put in front of me first. Oddly enough, in nearly every case I was given the dish I would’ve chosen for myself.

The tom yum koong was appropriately salty, spicy and funky. I was pleased to see the shrimp head bobbing in the amber broth. It adds a welcome bitterness.

The soft shell crab yum using julienned green and red apples instead of shredded papaya is where they started to lose me. I might’ve been sold if the dish had heat to balance the fruit’s sweetness but there wasn’t even a speck of chile, fresh, powdered or flaked. If someone presented this to me as a nice salad and didn’t say it was Thai, I would’ve liked it more.

Scallops krathiam prik thai were an interesting diversion that came across as refined in presentation yet still Thai in flavor. The swamp green sludge was a viscous paste of cilantro, garlic and black pepper that was pungent but didn’t overwhelm the seafood.

I’m glad they incorporated Thai apple eggplant (I wouldn’t been ecstatic over those little pea-shaped ones) and that’s the only nice thing I can say about the kang khiao wan. It was like a bowl of water with stuff in it and even the stuff tasted like water. Then again, I just really dislike chicken breast. (This didn’t even come close to the anger-inducing chicken breast I was served at Spoon Thai in Chicago, though.) Tofu would’ve had more appeal. The packet of (unopened) curry paste I bought at Aw Taw Kaw eight months ago and rediscovered in my fridge’s crisper drawer the night before this meal made a better curry. The red curry beef, the other option for this course, was much more robust so I am not completely writing off Lotus of Siam’s curries.

Thankfully, we were served a nice traditional scoop of coconut ice cream topped with strips of coconut meat, mango and “red rubies,” a.k.a. water chestnuts coated in gelatinous pink tapioca starch and not molten cake. The common street vendor dessert might seem out of place on Fifth Avenue, but it brought me back to what Lotus of Siam is about.

Lotus of Siam is also a wine conscious restaurant, one of the strongest differentiators from NYC Thai, and I was happy to drink a few glasses of Reinhold Haart Riesling with my meal. There is also an on trend cocktail list, which I don’t think exists in Vegas.

I have not tried Kin Shop yet, but it will be interesting to compare it to this experience since I think Lotus of Siam is closer in intent to that restaurant than most of the existing Thai venues in NYC.

Lotus of Siam * 248 Fifth Ave., New York, NY

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Oct 27

Tadich Grill

Tadich Grill, said to be the oldest restaurant in San Francisco, reminded me a bit of the Grand Central Oyster Bar. It’s certainly not as loud and sprawling, but it’s a seafood-centric icon, not as inexpensive as the surroundings might suggest, and favored by both tourists and commuters.

During my late lunch at the bar, solo men close to retirement age and older with a newspaper and a martini for company, filled empty counter seats on my right and left. They were there for dinner, seemingly clocked out at five on the dot. It could’ve been 1960 or 1980; the only thing missing being clouds of cigarette smoke.

This is the San Francisco that I enjoyed the most, not the local, seasonal ethos that’s an obvious culinary draw, but lazing about in eateries that haven’t firmly settled into the twenty-first century yet. Just a few hours earlier at proper lunch time, I’d taken in the bar scene at Fishermen’s Grotto, another reassuring time capsule.

Cioppino is a big thing at Tadich Grill, but it’s not what I ordered.

Sand dabs (or sanddabs, depending) are a regional flat fish. I just liked the sound of their name. Served breaded and pan fried, drizzled with a thin white sauce (homemade tartar sauce on the side), steak fries (my enemy) and institutional steamed cauliflower and broccoli, my meal could be construed as bland and geriatric—at least in comparison to how I might normally prefer my seafood.

But this is exactly what I’d want to be served at a 161-year-old restaurant. Just as a Harvey Wallbanger would be appropriate at Eddie Rickenbacker’s and nearly no place else. It’s just the way it’s supposed to be.

Tadich Grill * 240 California St., San Francisco, CA

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Oct 27

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Preview: Graffit

There’s still a lot of hubbub surrounding Spanish food (or have we moved on to Scandinavia?). Yet, for such a de moda cuisine, there are many swaths of the city lacking a single Spanish restaurant, modern or traditional. I can’t believe it took until last week for South Brooklyn to get a tapas bar (no, La Mancha doesn’t count).

Maybe I’m geographically biased, but the dining diversity on the Upper West Side has always felt a bit bleak. That’s why it’s surprising that Spanish chef, Jesús Nuñez, has decided to open his first New York restaurant on W. 69th Street. Known for deconstructions, playful presentations…and a penchant for graffiti art (hence, the name, not to be confused with Jehangir Mehta’s Graffiti) hopefully his vision will translate in this staid neighborhood.

This is a preview of what Graffit will be serving when they open in November. As this dinner was hosted at Compass, chef Milton Enriquez contributed dishes, as well. Free food clouds one’s judgment so this is by no means a review. Just the facts. I will say that I would likely return on my own. Mercat, Txikito, Casa Mono and countless other tapas bars are justifiably popular, but I would say that we haven’t had a creative full-on Spanish restaurant since Ureña.

Sangria in Six Textures

Fuji Apple, Endive Salad
Greek yogurt, manchego, tangerines, pistachio vinaigrette

Carabinero, Langoustine and Prawn Carpaccio
Saffron Cream, Sauce Américaine, Olive Oil Gel and Sea Dust

I wasn't going to editorialize, but this was my favorite–so much color and flavor crammed into such small surface areas.

Potato + Onion + Egg = Tortilla de Patata

Hudson Valley Foie Gras
Meyer lemon curd, brussels sprouts, porcini mushrooms, toasted pinenuts, 50 -year old balsamic

Pan Roasted Dover Sole
Sunchokes two ways, poached hen egg, white truffles, parsley beurre blanc, osetra caviar

Bacalao in salsa verde, kokotxas, traces of bell pepper

I also like the use of mauve and bisquey earth tones, which aren't intuitively appetizing.

Braised Veal Cheeks
Celeriac, chanterelles, cipollini onions, mustard asian pear salad

Venison
Chestnuts, Wheat Risotto, Lentils and Pumpkin

More of those flesh tones–and lavender micro cauliflower. Yes, I'm a sucker for unnaturally colored food.

"Orange Julius" jasmine granite

Piña Colada
Curry scented pineapple sorbet, coconut bubbles

Molten chocolate buñuelos on a canvas of colors, flavors and textures

More lilac hues. A fitting send-off.

Graffit * W. 69th St., New York, NY

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Oct 26

Wall & Water

When asked what made me decide to try Wall & Water (it had already been determined that I wasn’t a hotel guest, but worked up the street–really those are the only two reasons someone would be dining in this nowhere edge of the city) I didn’t have the heart to admit that it was a Village Vines 30% off promotion. Normally, I’d shy away from $14 cocktails, “house-pressed” ginger syrup or not. But a $9.80 dark & stormy? Sure.

The manager is painfully attuned to the service being described as “hot and cold” in the doubled-up New York Times review from August. Consequently, they’re kind of overdoing it now, falling hard into the ingratiating end of the spectrum. Not that I’m calling for more aloofness, just balance.

The food, however, hits all the right new American notes. Raw bar, charcuterie, artisanal cheese? They’ve got that too. Overall, the menu is a little pricey but good as opposed the little pricey but middling that plagues nearly every establishment in a ten-block radius (Setai excluded). I would return if I had an expense account type of job, and recommended it to someone I work with who probably does.

The salt-sprinkled hunk of butter drizzled with olive oil and goat cheese topped with cracked black pepper added variety to the bread basket.

The swordfish confit starter would’ve been better for sharing. It was hard to gauge serving sizes based on price. Fifteen dollars of seafood could be a few bites or it could be substantial like these three slices of mild, firm fish. The dish was appealing but not exciting enough to hold my attention. The smoked trout with pickles and beets might have been more my style.

It’s hard to go wrong with a pork chop, especially with such handsome grill marks. I enjoyed the slightly unusual pairing of meaty pinto beans and horseradishy slaw. Potatoes would just be too obvious and I’ve been trying to take a break from heavy starches, so this was perfect.

At its core, Wall & Water is at hotel restaurant in the Financial District. Lots of suits, and for nearly an hour I was the only female in the dining room. Eventually, a young guest was seated next to me who ordered swordfish (an entrée, not my appetizer) a glass of water and blew through his meal in minutes, sunglasses on, iPod buds in ears the entire time. This is what’s going to happen to all those kids glued to DVR players at the table when they grow up.

Wall & Water * 75 Wall St., New York, NY

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Oct 23

Mr. Bill’s Terrace Inn

“See?! I’m getting my Orioles hat out of the trunk.”

Mr. Bill’s is the kind of place where the older gentleman in slacks, who appears in photos at various ages on the wall along with maritime art and sports memorabilia, sits on a stool guarding the dining room from the bar and will begrudgingly take your name down. Maybe he doesn’t want you there. Locals only.

You’ll drink a couple Yuenglings at the substantial rectangular bar while kids commandeer the pool table and cropped-haired ladies who remind me of women my grandma would know, women who three decades ago might’ve worn t-shirts that said liquor in the front, poker in the rear, sip brown liquor on ice through little straws. Maybe you’ll be tempted to play Keno but shy away because you’ve only partaken in Oregon and maybe it’s different in Maryland. You don’t want to look like a New Yorker.

If you’re lucky, your name will be called in under an hour and you’ll be led from one windowless room to another. Vinyl booths and long communal tables covered in brown paper. No metal cracking implements, just wooden mallets and sturdy plastic knives. It’s hard to say if it’s a bar with a restaurant or a restaurant with a bar. You’ll order a dozen Old Bay-encrusted crabs; big ones for $50-something or even bigger specimens for maybe ten dollars more. They’ll be worth the work; none of that shrunken crustacean all you can eat business where you burn out, fingers cut up and still hungry.

In fact, you might not even be able to finish your share of crabs because you’ve ordered a pitcher of beer, and some cheddar-topped crab dip too. Served with pita triangles? That seems kind of fancy.

On your way out, the gatekeeper slaps you on the back. No Baltimore cap needed, afterall.

Mr. Bill's Terrace Inn * 200 Eastern Blvd., Essex, MD

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Oct 17

Incanto

It was pure coincidence that I was asked to write about food cooked with blood the week after I ate pig’s blood pappardelle in San Francisco. I’ve not found anything in NYC that really approaches that level of creativity; most preparations here are traditional, whether French or Filipino.

The chewy, crimson pappardelle strewn with trotter meat, hunks of foie gras and homemade raisins that were closer to grapes is hard to describe without sounding obscene. The few times I’ve brought it up, I’ve had to temper my words with, “No, it’s really good.” I’m not sure if it’s the blood or the multi-levels of decadence that’s off-putting to the uninitiated. This smaller portion we shared as a second course—many dishes are available in two sizes—was beyond rich, a glorious appetite-squelcher.

Really. We ended up taking most of the following course, pork belly with heirloom tomatoes and yellow and red watermelon to go (yes, I’m normally melon-averse but I discovered that the pork tempers the fruit’s cloying nature when I a tried a funkier take on this combo at Fatty Crab). It wasn’t half-bad room temperature for breakfast.

Our starter, while also meaty, was the lightest of the bunch. Just a little spicy lamb’s heart and shallots.

Incanto * 1550 Church St., San Francisco, CA

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Oct 15

Hill Country Chicken

Hill Country Chicken really wasn’t what I had expected. The cute, ‘50s farmhouse décor, plenty of open seats and an abundance of choice, not a single item sold-out, were all pluses. My restaurant pessimism over newish restaurants was squashed flat.

I wouldn’t say that the heat lamp setup is kind to the fried chicken, though. Pre-Willie Mae’s Scotch House visit, I would’ve been fine with this dark, denser, paprika-heavy approach (the Mama El’s style with a crushed cracker crust is actually pretty tasty, but for me the skin is the whole point of frying poultry) but now I’ve been spoiled by a lacier, golden version that will satisfy after only one thigh. Of course, Hill Country would certainly fix a Manhattan fried chicken craving if New Orleans isn’t in your immediate future.

Sides are perfunctory. I’d rather fill up on the fried pimento cheese sandwich, shown wrapped in red-and-white gingham paper in the back. The crisped treat is salty, gooey and not greasy in the least.

Cut into quarters for sharing.

I think I liked the pies more than my tablemates, as it came out that they are cake people. I like pies of all sizes; shrunken ones with more crust to filling ratio don’t even bother me the way it does others. Then again, I also like more cupcake than frosting and more bagel than cream cheese. My choice, the bourbon pecan, didn’t have much whisky flavor or sick corn syrup sweetness that I want in my southern-style desserts. The peanut butter chocolate and special of the day, a mash-up of chocolate and butterscotch chips, walnuts, coconut and condensed milk like an Eagle magic cookie bar in a pie shell, more than made up for the pecan pie’s relative austerity.

The only true downer was the lack of a liquor license. One-third of my group was very interested in the watermelon wheat beer listed on the menu, the other third doesn’t drink and me, I loathe melons but could’ve stood a beer or two. I will admit that the Boylan fountain drinks with unlimited refills (at least no one was monitoring return visits) was pretty cool even though I don’t drink soda. Never having developed a taste for pop, it’s the only food (is it a food?) I can be self-righteous about (please don’t take away my fat or alcohol) and probably why I don’t get the uproar over proposing no soda purchases with food stamps. Is fizzy fructose a want or a need? When I got food stamps decades ago, I bought crazy shit like smoked salmon and hot cross buns, so who am I to say?

Hill Country Chicken * 1123 Broadway, New York, NY

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Oct 12

La Fusta

While rustling up dishes around town made with blood for a future article, I kept thinking about morcilla, then how I would love to return to Buenos Aires and eat monstrous amounts of beef. That’s not likely to happen in the immediate future. I went as far as checking airfare (also, it’s the only city I’m aware of with a hotel bearing my name, so that gives them an edge) but in the end, I turned to La Fusta, one of a handful of Argentine steakhouses in Queens.

I got my morcilla, a particularly messy and gooey specimen with chewy ribbons spilling from the casing after being cut open. This would not be the blood sausage to covert the squeamish. (Also, I’m still mastering the focus on this point-and-shoot, which is trickier to use than my usual dSLR. I’ve been testing it out at low-risk restaurants and not completely succeeding.)

A little garlic-heavy chimichurri certainly perks up any heavy, meaty item, though.

The half order of skirt steak was big enough to be a full serving and a bargain at $15.50. “You’ll have the mashed potatoes?” prodded our server. No, just the standard French fries.

He then cajoled James, who’d gone with the Italian part of the menu, ordering a veal parmigiana/milanesa napolitana (not sure why the geography changes in Spanish) covered in possibly an entire ball of melted mozzarella. “Linguine?” I liked that the server had such strong ideas about sides…even if I didn’t follow his suggestion.

As if that weren’t enough cheese, we also started with a proveleta, which is a grilled round of provolone. In Argentina, they always held their shape. Here, this wedge seasoned with oregano and olive oil, had oozed and crusted into a giant frico.

And a La Fusta salad to pretend we were eating a balanced meal. Of course, there were chunks of ham and cheese in this, as well as anchovies, which we were needlessly warned about.

It’s rare to end up on Roosevelt Avenue not craving Southeast Asian or Latino food. I rarely stray beyond a Donovan’s burger. But it’s good to have Argentine restaurants (yet another cuisine lacking in Brooklyn for no good reason) as an option.

La Fusta * 8032 Baxter Ave., Elmhurst, NY

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Oct 5

The Hurricane Club

Both refined and junky—broccoli with Cheetos? Yams with homemade ranch dressing?—at Park Avenue Autumn, chef Craig Koketsu cooks the kind of food that I like to eat.

The food at Hurricane Club, a dark, glossy, multi-level restaurant that looks more '70s-art-deco-adaptation than Polynesian, is even more snacky. A few cocktails, a selection of pupu and a shared plate or two is more than enough. It’s a scene for nibbling not a multi-course meal.

In fact, you’re only presented with a cocktail and pupu menus when you first sit down. I would've preferred seeing the other dishes before making a choice. The Imperial Platter showcases a selection (not up to you) of five of the nine offerings ranging from Asian-ish fried, taro-wrapped shrimp to new American near-cliché in the form of beets, toasted walnuts and goat cheese tucked into cones (don’t let Andrew Knowlton and his hair hear about this). The finger sandwiches with peanut butter, guava jam, prosciutto and Thai basil were as distinct as the croque monsieur spring rolls were muddled. Devilled eggs, meant to be Samoan in some fashion, rounded out the set.

Not only are the drinks not particularly tiki (most of the rum is found on a separate list to be taken straight) they were surprisingly unsweet, so much so that it almost felt like they were making a statement with their bitters. Take us seriously, please. The only place I drink sweet, fruity cocktails is at Cheeseburger in Paradise because come on, garnishes a.k.a. garnimals wearing miniature sunglasses? I prefer a stiff drink yet my #17 (Montecristo spiced rum, coconut, lemon grass, kaffir lime and coconut nib bitters) from the Boat Drinks section, teetered so close to savory that I almost felt like I was drinking food. I’m not saying I didn’t like it.

The peking duck-style pork was decadent, an undeniable success—and pricey. Positioned right in the center of the menu like a bull’s eye, the not-so-subtle psychological nudge worked on us. Besides the awkwardness of trying to fit angled chunks into the fluffy steamed buns, the meaty + fatty + crispy skin combination made a more than fitting substitute for the more typical rich poultry. Ginger sauce was an interesting extra, but the traditional hoisin, cucumbers and scallions did the job by themselves.

Sides were a gut-busting mistake with the amount of food we already had ordered. The bean thread noodles with a Thai basil pesto were much heavier than I expected, thanks (or no thanks) to the parmesan.

I loved the Asian patatas bravas, though. I imagined there would be a red blanket of Sriricha to mimic the spicy, Spanish-style tomato sauce but these potatoes were completely unique, fried hard for an extra crisp exterior and cut thick enough to maintain soft middles. I worry about such stubby cuts veering into horrible steak fry territory. A mystery sauce (I couldn’t see it from where I was sitting) is poured over the potatoes tableside and is pure umami. All I know is that bonito flakes are involved and that the liquid is pale, possibly clear—maybe it’s infused oil? An ultimate bar snack, these would probably be even better with beer.

After I knew the score, I went straight to the Strong section of the cocktail list, no playing around with creamy and the fruity. The #88 (Patron Silver, kalamansi, cinnamon bitters and house made triple sec) was like a pleasingly sour, bone dry, margarita (I wasn't expecting a salted rim) with an extra cinnamon hit from the floating roll of bark. It actually paired well with the fatty and rich pork and potatoes. However, the woman sitting at the table next to me sent hers back to be sweetened up.

The Spanish-speaking gentlemen on my other side were sharing a bottle of Chardonnay, so obviously, not everyone was enjoying the cocktails. Much of the Friday evening crowd appeared to be kicking off their night, taking the club part of the name seriously. The wine drinkers, kind enough to offer us some of their sweet potato fries (those sides are heavy!), had Greenhouse in their future. Me, I was just trying to figure out how The Smiths snuck onto the bass-heavy play list. Sixteen, clumsy and shy? Not on Park Avenue South.

The Hurricane Club * 360 Park Avenue S., New York, NY

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Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

On The Border

Lotus of Siam NY

Tadich Grill

Preview: Graffit

Wall & Water

Mr. Bill’s Terrace Inn

Incanto

Hill Country Chicken

La Fusta

The Hurricane Club

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Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

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The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101