Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

Jan 24

Arby’s Brooklyn

twoshovel What? So soon. I can’t believe an Arby’s couldn’t make it on the Fulton Mall. (8/12/10)

Some restaurant openings garner more fanfare than others. This week we had Colicchio & Sons, Carteles and Village Tart. But Brooklyn’s first Arby’s was the only newcomer that spurred me into action.

Their decision to take over the Gage & Tollner space (previously occupied by a short lived T.G.I. Friday’s) brought out Brooklyn’s finest NIMBYism even though Arby’s had to hew to historical preservation standards. No such considerations were given in 2005 when Niederstein’s, Queens’ oldest restaurant, was flat out razed for an Arby’s, oddly enough. Brooklyn has higher sense of self worth it seems.

The end result being what might be the world’s classiest Arby’s. Spacious, with enough detailed dark wood, patina’d mirrors and near-steampunky light fixtures to be the envy every prefab speakeasy in the city. On day four, everything was still tidy, the staff uncharacteristically upbeat and polite for any fast food joint, suspiciously so for one in Brooklyn. If you do as directed by the sign behind the bell at the original revolving doors, “If your service was GREAT, please ring the bell,” the workers break into a song-cheer. This is so totally ripe for abuse.

I’m fairly certain that I have not eaten at an Arby’s since I was in high school. Freshman year I’d get a Beef ‘n Cheddar and a Jamocha shake multiple times per week. The menu now includes salads, gyros, deli sandwiches and “Sidekickers” like southwestern egg rolls and mozzarella sticks. The core roast beef sandwiches now come in three sizes.

This was a regular. Ok, the Beef ‘n Cheddar fills a similar void as Taco Bell, a fun facsimile that can become crave-worthy in its own right. If you want a real roast beef sandwich (I’m picturing Baltimore-style pit beef) Arby’s will not please you. The meat is thin and salty like Land ‘O Frost (I don’t think that brand exists in NYC) and the cheddar is orange and warm like nacho cheese. I happen to love processed cheese in all forms: plastic-wrapped, in a jar, spray can or foil-covered block.

In my day we had Horsey Sauce and Arby’s Sauce, a.k.a. sweet bbq in packets. That was all. Like someone who awakes from a twenty-year coma to givens like cell phones and thongs being standard underwear for women, I was dazzled by the condiment bar with self-pump service. Spicy Three Pepper Sauce? What else have I been missing out on?

Jalapeno Bites were new to me in this venue, but not new in the scheme of things. Poppers are right up there with crab Rangoon in my fried snack pantheon. These are served with a gooey candy apple red sauce called Bronco Berry. It’s like sweet and sour.

Blogging has its privileges; a man who I suspect was the manager (green polo rather than red) brought me a vanilla shake when he saw me taking photos. My loyalties can absolutely be bought, and they come cheap.

Arby’s * 372 Fulton St., Brooklyn, NY

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Jan 23

Jose Tejas

What exactly is the appeal of Jose Tejas, the New Jersey Tex-Mex Cajun chain restaurant that brings a surprising amount (by which I mean one-to-two searches per day—it doesn’t take much to surprise me) of traffic to this site and commands one-hour waits after 6pm?

Without a doubt, it’s the prices. All ending in oddball amounts, nearly every dish is under $10 and the fanciest Patron margarita tops out at $8.50. I couldn’t tell you the last time dinner for two with drinks cost under $40 (ok, that’s not counting the $5.50 house margarita at the bar).

While doing my monthly Wegmans, Costco, Target, DSW rounds in Middlesex County, Jose Tejas won out over Cheeseburger in Paradise (I mulled over Ruby Tuesday, but I have an irrational reluctance to go there after throwing up dim sum in their bathroom a few years ago).

You can have your ceramic dish of melted cheese two ways: Cajun ($6.94) or Mexican ($6.83). This is the latter, an above ground pool of pepper jack with chorizo, onions, tomatoes and mushrooms sealed beneath the surface.

Naively, I thought fajitas might be a minutely healthier entrée than many of the fried, dairy laden options (I don’t even consider the Cajun items because that’s just weird). Grilled meat, vegetables and tortillas, right? Sure, and a whole block of grated cheese on the side. Rice and black beans or jambalaya come with all mains.

I ordered a combination of chicken and beef, pork is nowhere to be seen on the menu and never seems to have a presence at Tex-Mex and Americanized Mexican chains. Why is that?

You are encouraged to wrap everything unfinished to go in Styrofoam containers, even the free flowing chips and tortillas. Even though I’ve been diligent in my carb-limiting, I still packed them all in with my untouched cup of rice because I just can’t blatantly waste food.

I also wonder if part of Jose Tejas' appeal is that it gives the illusion of being a unique restaurant. It's not until you search the name that you realize it's part of a chain whose other locations in Massachusetts and Delaware are called Border Cafe.

Previously on Jose Tejas.

Jose Tejas * 700 Rt. 1 N., Iselin, NJ

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Jan 23

Schnitzel Haus

I've come to this place in life where Friday night I want food I don't have to think about, wait 30 minutes in a bar area with one square foot of personal space or make reservations for. Last week it was bone marrow on toast and stout and Gouda fondue at Bar Artisanal (which I did not blog because I'm trying to value my time more in 2010).

This weekend was kicked off with a pork shank, only made German by its pool of brown gravy and side plate of red-skinned mashed potatoes and sauerkraut tempered by oily nubs of bacon. This is the medium, which will provide a generous dinner, late night snack the next night and a lunch 36-hours later. I have never been witness to the large or extra large. The bone-in meat cudgel will garner stares, of envy or disgust I’m not sure.

All I know is that the skin has been burnished to the consistency of caramelized sugar and that the dark, tender meat and fatty gelatinous folds within are far more exciting than any crème brulee.

Bay Ridge’s Schnitzel Haus doesn’t have the aged charm or impossible-to-get-to-by-subway allure of the Staten Island or Queens stalwarts, but those old-timers don’t have a pork shank. They also don’t have a photo of Donald Trump prominently featured in the front of the room.

Previously on Schnitzel Haus.

Schnitzel Haus * 7319 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Jan 19

‘inoteca

The first time I visited 'inoteca, Frances McDormand was sitting across from me. The last time I dined at 'inoteca, it was wine and crostini with librarians. This weekend I was accompanying Hagan Blount of 93 Plates on his mission to eat three meals a day for a month with food bloggers.

I think he was surprised that I wasn’t Asian. (I was surprised that I agreed to be on video.) There's no use questioning why Asian ladies dominate at photographing and writing about what they eat; it's a given like how there will never be a Staten Island food blog (ok, there is one).

Hagan insisted he saw Glenn Beck pass by, Mike Bloomberg out the window and Dash from The Incredibles sitting at the head of the large wooden table next to us. Ok, the guy nearby did have the in-motion blonde hairstyle down pat. Maybe if you drink enough Aglianico del Taburno dubious celebrities will appear.

Shaved Brussels sprouts, the vegetable of the moment, with walnuts, a funky crumbled fiore sardo and pomegranate seeds started things right. This sweet and salty salad was one of the highlights along with the octopus below.

The scent of truffle oil is impossible to miss when the fancified Italian Popeye sprinkled with bottarga is placed in front you. Oozing yolk and warm fontina melded into a thick slab of chewy bread would be fitting brunch snack. But as soon as the square turns room temperature, all the components stiffen up. It's not for leisurely nibbling—just tear into the thing.

The shapely octopus leg–from the curled charred tip to the meaty end fat as a bratwurst–wasn't just a conversation piece, it was also the hit of the night. The Meyer lemon and olives lent a Greek flavor while the escarole stayed in Italy. Cooking cephalopods with corks to ensure a tender final product always seemed like an old wives' tale to me, but we were told that was the exact method used by the chef.

More of those runny yolks, this time adorning polenta along with hen of the woods mushrooms.

One goat cheese, a sheep's milk and one blend. I preferred the soft runny goat variety that I think was Brunet. It was even better spread on warm toasted flat bread.

Cheese and dessert is really a bit much. Consequently the budino (not pictured—I’m fairly certain this was the affogato, though I don’t recall anyone ordering it) was neglected. And maybe our senses were dulled at this point because the alleged pumpkin flavor was nearly undetectable. Just stick with the cheese unless you can’t stand ending a meal on a savory note.

'inoteca * 98 Rivington St., New York, NY

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Jan 15

Trader Vic’s

So, tiki bars (Painkiller) and restaurants (Hurricane Club) will be the new hotness in 2010? Oh really? (My fingers don’t want to type o rlly.) Because I ushered in the new year at Chicago's Trader Vic’s thinking I was indulging in retro kitsch when I was really being very forward looking. Hopefully, I can maintain this edge till at least 2011.

This location at the base of a condo building (with availability—could you imagine a tiki bar in your lobby? The promotional video calls the neighborhood “Little Manhattan” so you know it’s great) is only a little over a year old, reinvented tiki. The original Chicago Trader Vic's in the Parker Hilton served its last zombie New Year’s Eve 2006 after nearly 50 years in business. There are the requisite bamboo flourishes, fishing nets and Menehune swizzle sticks, yet there is a clean, smoothness to everything, upscale muted and corporate like a Hyatt (I am more Sofitel or Le Meridien as far as chains go).

My main mission was to eat crab rangoon, plain and simple. I am still mad at myself for never trying Elettaria's happy hour version because the restaurant no longer exists and because I don't feel right claming to be an aficionado having never tried theirs. It has become a lonely, sorry-for-myself Christmas Eve tradition to order cardboardy, oil-saturated cheese wontons from Wing Hua at the north end of the same Court Street block where the more attention-grabbing Buttermilk Channel resides. This year rangoons didn't happen because a gift of soft, washed rind cheeses from Murray's and a loaf of lard bread from Mazzola filled that holiday fat-and-carb void.

I got an extra surprise at our hotel (the so-so Dana Hotel—I should’ve just stuck with the Sofitel) when I noticed that crab rangoon appeared on our room service menu, a sure sign that Chicago was the right New Year's Eve choice despite the single-digit temperatures. I vowed to order the novelty along with the "Japanese ranch dressing" poutine, but never ended up being hungry enough in the middle of the night to warrant such snacking.

Drinks. This is a scorpion (rum, brandy, orange juice and I think Amaretto). Next to crab rangoon, cocktails are the most important item at Trader Vic's. I expected the food, particularly the entrees, to middling and pricey, and so they were. As long as you know what you're getting into, it's fine. I expect to overpay for fun on New Year’s Eve. (Originally, I had 6pm reservations at the bizarrely booked-months-in-advance Topolobampo—Bayless has insane star power and Twitter savvy. He even DM'd me to say hi to him when I tweeted my NYE plans. When it came down to it, though, crab rangoon trumped the $125 per person early dinner.)

Here are my little crisp-fried dumplings, served on a silver, light-radiating pedestal, almost angelic. It certainly beats a waxed paper bag. The texture was more delicate than Brooklyn takeout, though the filling was still predominantly cream cheese, despite Dungeness being invoked on the menu. I’ve never had a particularly crabby crab rangoon. However, I do cling to the notion that they contain a trace of crab or crab-like product unlike lobster sauce, which is only crustacean in name.

They are served with traditional Chinese-American ketchup and hot mustard in a dish shaped like a butterfly. We also had a plate of tender bbq spareribs.

I was steered away from non-sweet libations and was even given an unsolicited rock sugar stick with my crushed ice Queens Park Swizzle (made with dark rums not the light ones I see at more modern bars) and the explanation that it might be too strong. I can only guess the warning stemmed from face to face market research. I picture an after work crowd looking for happy hour bargains not cocktail mavens consumed by mixology.

I wasn't sitting at the bar, but I would be very surprised if fresh juice and ingredients were being used. After all, the city really only has one we'll-call-you-when-we-have-a-table, vodka-shaming den, Violet Hour (and it was just way too smooshed on my Saturday night attempt to gain entry—clearly there is a need waiting to be filled). The serious cocktail is still gaining traction. Trader Vic’s would really steam Rick Bayless (I swear I am not obsessed with him) who was recently Twitter-distraught over a fruit punchy Singapore Sling at Raffles. Syrupy and pre- mixed, sure, but worth doing once (I did it) just like Trader Vic's.

I've always wanted to try one of those mid-century curries you often see in old cookbooks. Madras curry powder is always called for, as well as a whole slew of nonsensical accompaniments like peanuts, shredded coconut, bananas, apples and raisins. More like vaguely healthy sundae toppings. And Trader Vic's had this! With your choice of meat. Er, but they were out of lamb and I got the distinct impression that they didn't want us ordering any rendition period. Like I said, this isn't fine dining. In fact, everywhere we ate in Chicago (even The Publican with great food and gracious service) had inexplicable gaps between courses.

So, I went for the peking duck because I was certain the wood fired oven fusion-y mains with wasabi mashed potatoes and the like would be disappointing, plus their claim, “Our ovens can be traced to the Han Dynasty” made me wonder. I had to stop the tableside preparation half-way through because the meat shredding meant to be theatrical was more like mauling. I'm quite certain the staff had had more than a few celebratory swigs of hooch. And well, at this point, I too, had enough rum in my system to halt the presentation and not concern myself with the dryness of the dark meat. Nothing that a little hoisin, a pancake and another cocktail couldn't fix.

Pino frio is a simple refreshing pineapple juice and rum (and sugar, duh) concoction.

Fried rice is fried rice, though it made it up for a sad main. A sweet-glazed grilled pork chop topped with a pineapple ring, James' entrée, isn't pictured and it's for the best. Despite being told it would be medium, the thick opaque cut of meat was dense and devoid of any moisture. Must’ve been those old Han Dynasty ovens.

I’m not sure where all these people came from at midnight. Everyone moved to the bar for a champagne toast. The dining room crowd skewed older and more sequined (I was about to comment on the level of sparkle on middle aged women but was mildly guilty, myself) with the exception of the one rockabilly couple you knew would have to be there.

We moved on to Zebra Lounge, a tiny piano bar, not so much because we wanted to hear American Idol-esque belting-outs of Beatles tunes, but because it appeared to be the least scary place i.e. stumbling, screaming young men in doorways, in the immediate area.

One thing that struck me about the bars, or maybe just the bars I saw, in Chicago was their heterogeneous nature. Much age diversity, something I’ve become acutely aware that NYC lacks as I follow my sequined lady path. My half-baked theory is that educated New Yorkers tend to have kids well into their 30s and 40s, keeping them responsible and entertaining at home until they are senior citizens. Whereas if you’d had kids in your 20s like an average American, the children would already be teenagers by your late 30s and you’d be back out having fun by 40. Not that the grown children necessarily approve or that I would know this first-hand or anything. Ahem.

All my Trader Vic's photos.

Trader Vic's * 1030 N. State St., Chicago, IL

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Jan 12

Mantra

En route to my new favorite discount mall, I got waylaid at what used to be a huge International Food Warehouse/National Wholesale Liquidators combo. Now, the eclectic edibles—Bulgarian cheese, Serbian juice, Italian cookies—are crammed into the corner amidst Windex from Indonesia and bins of irregular Hanes Her Way.

I was saddened by the abbreviated grocery offerings, but cheered a bit when I found a box of spices for something called Kat a Kat. The name had appeal and according to the recipe on the box, the dish contains a symphony of organ meat: kidneys, hearts and brains. Not only did I put the box in my cart, I developed a sudden urge for Indian food. (I do realize now that Kat a Kat is Pakistani).

I did contemplate Bobby’s Burger Palace at the Bergen Town Center, but stuck to my guns: South Asian or nothing. It’s not like Paramus is Edison, teeming with options, however, it did look like there was an upscale-ish Indian restaurant, Mantra, just across Route 4 in a strip mall with a Macy’s Furniture Gallery. I imagined it would be similar to Moksha, and it was, though a bit more loungey–check out the flames popping up in the divider separating the bar, where they serve Desi wings and cheese amigos (inside out jalapeno poppers) from the dining room.

Bhel poori, the spicy-savory puffed rice snack presented while you pore over the menu, tended to confuse the half of the diners who weren’t Indian. Do you use your hands or eat it with a spoon like cereal?

Lamb samosas, nothing fancy. I always feel that the thick shell takes more precedence than the filling. Other appetizers like a balsamic-dressed salad with oranges and pears seemed too pedestrian while the lobster chat, too aspirational.

The Mumbai fish curry was the best dish, very fiery and like a more overtly Indian fish head curry. Chile heat, yes, plus more curry leaf and brown mustard seed undertones. Tilapia isn’t the most exciting fish, but I don’t mind it in strongly favored sauces (in fact, I just used tilapia filets for a heavily spiced tagine).

Mixed tandoori grills tend to be…well, mixed; some chunks are more interesting than others. The bone-in meat was moister than the ground and re-formed pieces. This sampler included mal mal kabab (ground chicken), kesari jhinga (prawns), Lahore seekh kabab (lamb), barrah kabab (more lamb). Not all are pictured because I grabbed first, shot later.

Mantra * 275 E, Rt. 4, Paramus, NJ

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Jan 9

Spoon Thai

Yes, women have been getting irrationally violent over food this week. First it was the McNugget puncher who was shortly upstaged by the burger rampager.

You might not understand that primal rage. I didn’t at first, but now I do. I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t eaten at Chicago’s Spoon Thai on Saturday. Of course there were no fisticuffs or verbal abuse; I was merely howling inside, trying to suppress the Hulk-like anger traveling up from my stomach into my neck when my ground pork and skin turned out to be cubes of chicken breast.

I should’ve known better than to try Thai food in Chicago when they do a million things better (if you want to go “ethnic,” Mexican and Eastern European will soothe not incense) but I was swayed by reviews and photos that seemed so convincing. The northern-style food did indeed look unique and shared many dishes in common with Lotus of Siam, the lauded Vegas strip mall restaurant I dined at twice in one weekend.

And it immediately hit me that Lincoln Park is the German-not-Italian Carroll Gardens of ten years ago; boutiques and cuteness amidst the working class stalwarts, both young couples and pompadour’d men with Cubs jackets covering paunches at nearby Hüettenbar where I had to down a drink (ok, three) to make things right again. But most Carroll Gardens-like were the Thai restaurants clustered on every single block. I spied at least five on the cab ride there. We’d subway’d it everywhere else up until this point but thought we’d save a little time and avoid the predicted six-degree temps, but it just wasn’t worth the $20. I’d rather just play Little Match Girl on the el platform and complain about it.

From what I understand there is a regular Thai menu and a special Thai menu, both are now laminated and official-looking. At some point in 2003 the Thai-only menu was translated by an ambitious Chowhoundy type. I’m not sure how it came to its current form dated 2005. I appreciate such efforts, though I’m starting to wonder if the translations, getting lost in them, was part of the disconnect I experienced (I should’ve taken a photo because I can’t seem to find the Thai menu online anywhere and I’m going to look like a liar with no evidence). You would think that if people were getting different things from what they had ordered it would’ve been detected in the past five years. Maybe I shouldn’t have free-styled it and stuck strictly to what I had seen written about online. I just had faith that everything on the authentic menu would be good.

And the mussel omelet was. Greasy and puffy, lacy and eggy with bean sprouts for crunch, I was confident we were in for more greatness. Hawy thawt is made for drinking, and I had my big BYOP bottle of Stella.

While nibbling on the pancake, our salad was brought out. I was pretty sure the beige blobs were chicken, and even if it was pork, it certainly wasn’t minced as described in the menu and there was definitely no pork skin to be seen. This worried me. We both took a bite; the flavor was right on: sour and hot with a fish sauce undertone. No complaints there. But I didn’t order chicken and started getting anxious when I remembered our curry also would contain chicken. I’m not opposed to chicken if it’s what I ordered but I can’t stand two bland white meat dishes in one sitting.

We stopped after a bite each so that we could correct the mistake and get the salad we’d ordered. I eventually flagged down our waitress and asked about the pork. She brought out the menu and pointed to what I had ordered, no confusion, and insisted it was what we had on the table. Um, no. This wasn’t going anywhere. I am guessing that she could read the Thai but not the English description and the mix-up lied in the translation. To her eyes, we got what we asked for. Attempting to right the wrong felt futile. But like I said above, wouldn’t someone have noticed before that when they ordered ground pork they got chicken breast?

I was disappointed that this would be my final meal in Chicago. It wasn’t what I had imagined at all and a waste of my limited time. I had used up a valuable slot for this and considered just paying up and leaving to try Big Star, The Bristol or Kuma’s Corner, all who didn’t make it into my schedule. But that frangry feeling really enveloped me when our curry showed up.

I was picturing something brothy and spicy akin to a jungle curry, it wasn’t like I was imagining anything creamy and coconut milky since this was northern Thai food. But the menu promised Thai eggplant and bamboo shoots. This bowl was swimming with straw mushrooms, snow peas and carrots. Ugh. Totally Chinesey and not at all what I wanted to eat. The photo doesn’t convey much of anything, I’m afraid, I forgot to take it until the very end of the meal.

I tried a few spoonfuls and gave up. Just not destination Thai food. I’ve never left behind Thai food before (well, maybe at Joya) and our waitress seemed mildly surprised that we hadn’t eaten it all. But I’m such a pussy that I said I was full. I’ve never really had to deal with a situation like this before and was completely baffled how to deal since it started feeling like a joke was being played on me. James at least asked, “Was this supposed to have Thai eggplant?”

“It could,” our waitresses responded.

Er, or it could not. WTF? I’ve always taken menu listings to be more than just guidelines. If you ordered something that was supposed to come with bamboo shoots and Thai eggplant or ground pork and pork skin, isn’t that what should appear on your table?

Like I said, I can’t find the Thai menu online anywhere, but this is our bill. I wonder how two of these three dishes translate because they’re not at all what we thought we were ordering.

Nearly a week has passed and I’m still confused and unhappy about this place. Of course it’s not like I went hungry; a piece of chocolate cake was consumed at a diner near the Belmont stop (unintentionally, something about the shocking cold weather made me unable to hold my pee and while waiting for the red train back to the loop I had to run downstairs and find a bathroom at the nearest place, which happened to be this diner) followed by a double cheeseburger at Billy Goat Tavern.

Touristy, sure, and we’d been there before but Spoon Thai had been my bright idea so I had to go along with James’ Billy Goat choice to be fair. I’d rather eat a cheeseburger than blech chicken breast, any day.

Spoon Thai * 4608 N. Western Ave., Chicago, IL

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Jan 6

Convivio

No more Convivio or Alto. (3/4/2011)

One-day's notice won't have you dining at Marea or Scarpetta earlier than 10pm while Convivio will grant you 1,000 Open Table points during all hours not just at geriatric 6:45pm, the exact time I willingly paid a visit to the Tudor City restaurant, glowing warmly from afar on a snowy, otherwise lifeless block. The only other time I've been that far east on 42nd Street was to meet with a library recruiter (they exist) in the lobby of her coop. It’s that kind of neighborhood.

Beyond salumi, sharp cheese, crostini maybe with chicken liver or fava puree and little dishes of marinated vegetables eaten with inexpensive red wine, I never initiate an Italian meal. Something about the holidays and drop in temperature, though, demanded not just pasta but hearty Southern Italian, the same cuisine I avoid like landmines near my apartment.

The $62 prix fixe (two sfizi or one antipasti, pasta, meat or fish and dessert) is really a good deal and a substantial amount of food (which didn't hit me until I stood up and had to think twice about eggnog at The Campbell Apartment. It turned out that don’t serve it anyway so my system was spared the creamy beverage…temporarily. A glass of eggnog did end up in my hand at Waterfront Ale House later) and the wine list was also friendly to those with little interest in pricy mature reds. I chose a bottle of Occhipinti SP68, a Sicilian Nero D’Avola/Frappato blend ($55).

polipo/grilled octopus, chickpea panissa, olives, red peppers

Both the chickpea cake and octopus legs were light; the cephalopod with just enough chew and the panissa especially flaky. I could see this being done with polenta, but that would bog the whole thing down.

rigatoni/marsala braised tripe, cannellini beans, spinach, pecorino grand cru

Rarely a pasta-craver, rigatoni would never be an obvious choice to me because the fat tubes are a lot of noodle. It’s always about the accompaniments, though, and I’m glad that I didn’t shy away from what appeared to be the humblest of the ten available pastas offered. Gelatinous rectangles of honeycomb tripe—a cut I associate strictly with menudo or dim sum—definitely held up to the rigatoni. There was a lot of crunch from miniature cubes of celery and carrot, which worked against the softness of the cannellini beans.

scottadito di agnello/grilled lamb chops, salsa verde, escarole, beans

It’s hard not to love a medium-rare lamb chop ringed with a few bites of charred fat. The vinegary salsa verde cut a bit of the richness. Ack, but those cannellinis again. (Nothing against the beans—I just used them tonight along with canned tomatoes and frozen fish in a lowerbrow version of Eric Ripert's roasted cod with white beans, tomato and truffle oil. It was the best I could come up with since I haven't gone grocery shopping since before Christmas.) I mean, it did say beans in the description, I was just imagining a different legume from the rigatoni. And while I am loathe to admit food aversions (it makes you look narrow minded) cooked tomatoes, the main reason why I'm prejudiced against Italian-American food, ever excite me. I feel the same about Provençal dishes like ratatouille. I wouldn’t even see the movie with the same name. Ok, I’m a fussbudget.

So, the lamb was near perfect and the side and sauce were dull according to my biases. If you love tomato sauce and don’t order a starter with cannellinis, you’ll probably enjoy this greatly.

tartaletta di caramelle/valhrona chocolate ganache, salted caramel, vanilla gelato

I was swayed by the salt and caramel, but this firm little tart was also very much about the thick chocolate layer. The gelato added an overall creaminess but the vanilla flavor was a little quiet. Would caramel gelato be overkill?

Chef Julian Medina was seated with a group in a nearby curved banquette and was the only person who seemed to notice when my camera came out (never with flash and always lightning fast—no attempts at professional quality are made). A mildly consternated expression crossed his face insinuating, "Eh, bloggers." I am the enemy.

Convivio * 45 Tudor City Pl., New York, NY

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Dec 30

Gustav’s Pub & Grill

Did I love it? Not as much as The Rheinlander next door.

There are two reasons to go to The Rheinlander: fondue and Victor Meindl. Gustav’s, the adjoining cuckoo clock-free bar-centric offshoot (now a chain), only has the melted cheese in its favor.

Victor Meindl was the gangly Christopher Kimball-looking gentleman in lederhosen and a jaunty Tyrolean cap that roved around the restaurant playing accordion on our almost annual Christmas visits in the ‘80s. He was still there when I celebrated high school graduation at The Rheinlander. And he was still there when I was in my mid-20s and I thought I was too cool for him when he asked if had any requests. I brushed him off with a “No, thank you” then irrationally changed my answer to “Do you still play that Consider Yourself at Home song?” (Oliver—and Victorian England in general—always gave me the creeps) While being serenaded the confusion between kitsch and genuine love overwhelmed me and my nervous laughing turned to tears. That was over a decade ago, and the last time I saw him.

The Rheinlander wasn’t always the source of joy. In college my sister and I came along with my dad and his new family for dinner. The rotund druggie (I’m not svelte but I’ve also never been a meth addict and assumed the two went together) step-sister who wore Tasmanian Devil t-shirts down to her knees, demanded extra mushrooms in brown sauce and they actually brought her more in a little dish and her uncle got rowdy and angry when the waitress wasn’t familiar with a whiskey/beer drink he’d had in Germany while in the service. I wasn’t 21 yet and couldn’t drown my sorrows publicly but you’d better believe that when we had to spend Christmas with these folks my sister and I pillaged their well-stocked liquor cabinet (at the prompting of our step-sister who showed us where her wealthy grandparents—millionaires from the garbage business, trash genuinely—kept the booze).

Why didn’t I check in on Victor on my no-longer-recent Labor Day weekend visit? I think I was scared that he wouldn’t be there. But I also didn’t have the time to commit to a full-blown German meal. I was meeting one of my oldest friends before flying back to NYC in a few hours and The Rheinlander is only five miles from the airport. I thought I’d give Gustav’s a go once I saw online that you can simply order the fondue and that it would be happy hour.

Ah, the fondue, simple, sharp, creamy and served with a mix of pumpernickel and paler bread, none of that healthy vegetables and apples nonsense. If I’m correct this was the $4.99 version from the happy hour menu. There is a mini pot for $2.99 and you can also order add ons like sausage an pesto. As an old-timer pesto is just wrong. I’m torn on the new-to-me Dungeness crab and roasted red pepper version because that could be good if done right.

Imade fondue twice in the past two weeks and went totally classic: Emmental, gruyere, kirsch (ok, no Chasselas—I can’t even pretend to be highbrow now that you know I used Charles Shaw Sauvignon Blanc) and obviously good enough to prepare for two different sets of people. The Rheinlander’s version contains only Swiss cheese and no cherry brandy, and it doesn’t even matter. You’ll eat it and you’ll like it. This is Portland not Geneva. Wow, it’s all coming back to me; chef Horst Mager, used to (and still does for all I know) regularly appear in cooking segments on local morning news shows. It looks like he even has a self-published (Portland, always with the diy spirit) cookbook on Amazon.

The fondue is all you need to know about the food at The Rheinlander. The rest is just not that remarkable. However, I still went wild with a pre-flight repast ordering up a slew of bar snacks that I don’t recall from the original stodgier menu. Things like schnitzel fingers with honey-mustard, ketchup and thousand island. Both the fries and cutlet could’ve been crisper.

The potato pancakes with smoked salmon, chopped hard-boiled eggs and capers and sour cream were pretty good. I got these to share but no one seemed interested in them.

James picked a sausage trio (brautrust, weisswurst and smoked bier sausage) with potatoes and two types of cabbage.

What I learned from Lema, the only person I’ve known for over 25 years that isn’t family: the last time she was in the Philippines she and her mom visited a mystic four hours from Manila whom they call Angie. She made them turnaround and drive back to the city for a belt to use in a spell. Details are blurred but I think it was her dad’s belt and he stopped cheating after the ritual was performed so it was well worth it. Also, her 80-something grandfather has a 30-year-old girlfriend, which no one questions. Supposedly, she wooed him with her cooking, though I imagine his US citizenship has something to do with it. Her aunt, who had been trying to come to America since the ‘80s, was finally granted permission, got here, hated it and promptly returned to the Philippines.

Meanwhile, I’m toying with idea of going to Manila in February. Years ago Lema told me that she knew someone who had his hand outside the window of a car and a passerby chopped it off to get his expensive watch (she also has an unbelievable tale about a prostitute and a randy tapeworm). I don’t wear a watch.

The tenuous Filipino/German connection: When I ate German food in Hong Kong I ordered the monstrous pork shank like the Filipinos at the table next to me (not like the Filipinas on stage singing “We Are Family”). They stared at me in a possessive way that questioned, “That American likes lechon?” But see, it wasn’t lechon because it was German food in Hong Kong. Neither of us owned it.

Gustav’s Pub & Grill * 5035 NE Sandy Blvd., Portland, OR

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Dec 29

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Financial District Baoguette

When I spoke to the unstoppable Michael Huynh for this Metromix year-end trend piece, he was envisioning Baoguette as the new Subway. And sure enough the still-rough-around-the-edges storefront in the Financial District is just a few spaces over from a Subway. Five-dollar foot-longs had better watch out.

In the nearly three years I've worked way downtown pho has been high on my list of edibles missing in the neighborhood. I think I would be more jazzed if we hadn't been barraged with so much Vietnamese food this year. It is still a novelty in the Financial District, though. My only other venture to a Baoguette, the one on St. Mark’s, involved the beef soup not banh mi and it wasn’t half bad. Now that it’s brutally cold, soup seems smarter than sandwiches. But it wasn’t to be. Even though pho is on the menu, it isn’t being served yet. They did have some prepared summer rolls in the refrigerated case, but it’s hard to get excited over the chilled cylinders as long as it's wintry.

The brown awning with an air conditioner punched through bore the Baoguette name held in place by blue tape. The long-necked lighting wasn’t having a good time either. Inside, the dry erase board on the wall was still shiny and unsullied. Same with the chalkboards above the counter. Rows of goldenrod Café du Monde coffee cans and full bottles of green-tipped Sriracha were the only design elements.

My old hard rule about $5 lunches shifted to $6 somewhere in the recent past and even that gets broken at least weekly for a Pret a Manger salad. Even those pick-a-mix salads where short little guys toss it in a plastic container for you come in around $7. It doesn’t mean I make a habit out of it, though. But hey, I had a little Christmas gift cash burning a hole in my pocket. I could spring for the $7 for a catfish sandwich…just this once.

The flavors were an untraditional mishmash (honey mustard and sweet pickles?) not dissimilar to certain swampy Thai curries. I only saw a few jalapeño slices and no obvious red pools of Sriracha, but mouthfuls were hot, a dirty spicy that was compounded by the catfish’s natural earthy taste and tempered slightly by the strands of pickled red onions and sweet cucumber relish. I liked it more than I thought I would.

The catfish sandwich is akin to Num Pang's (which I never blogged about, oddly) and in some ways is preferable to me because I like a drier sandwich and this one uses honey mustard while the Cambodian one bulges with mayonnaise. It’s hard to disassociate honey mustard from chicken fingers, but the condiment wasn’t that jarring, just tangy. I only recommend not trying on candy apple red lip glosses at Sephora on the corner right before biting into one of these sandwiches.

Baoguette does serve better food than the than closer-to-my-office banh mi cart and both charge $6 for the traditional Saigon sub (though I notice it’s only $5 at the Christopher St. Baoguette/Pho Sure while the catfish is $7 at both). I’ll likely return to check in on the pho at some point but as long as it’s in the 20s outside I’ll probably just walk the one block to the cart instead of the seemingly long (lots of tourist-dodging–I’ve given up on politeness and now barge through everyone’s posing in front of the Stock Exchange photos) five blocks to Maiden Lane.

Clearly, I’m not the only one who likes appropriating The New York Times' banh mi cross section photo.

Baoguette * Maiden Lane, New York, NY

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Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

Arby’s Brooklyn

Jose Tejas

Schnitzel Haus

‘inoteca

Trader Vic’s

Mantra

Spoon Thai

Convivio

Gustav’s Pub & Grill

Financial District Baoguette

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