Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

Dec 2

Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken

Charles Gabriel’s fried chicken is one of those fundamentals that every food knowledgeable New Yorker is supposed to be familiar with. For burgers the benchmark has become Shake Shack, though I was late to that game too with my first visit being in September (I’ve still never been to the Madison Square Park location). DiFara is a big duh pizza-wise, but I haven’t been in years because I’m impatient. And by years I’m merely talking early 21st century; no one would believe me if I claimed my fondness began as a Jewish boy growing up in 1960s Midwood.

So now that Charles’ Southern Style Chicken has been reopened as Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken and the city has become frenzied over wings and thighs, I really needed to go straight to the source.

A wiser soul would’ve gone during the weekend buffet and made sure to get a fresh batch straight from the skillet. I went on a random weeknight and figured that if the chicken had already been sitting awhile under heat lamps that another 45 minutes to the fancy $18 fried chicken enclave of Carroll Gardens wouldn’t cause much further damage. (I still can’t explain how a 14.3-mile ride from 155th St. to Brooklyn only takes five minutes longer than my daily 4.4-mile commute to Whitehall, the southernmost R/W station in Manhattan. I would take a cheaper, further, express train neighborhood any day and have been trying to convince the person I live with of this for years.)

What I’m taking a long time to say is that I know my fried chicken wasn’t at its peak. And it was still moist, crispy edged and covetable at room temperature. The skin was sturdy not heavy with a light, flaky powdered quality. I devoured a drumstick walking around (I never eat standing up) getting out plates for the collard greens (made smoky from turkey rather than ham hocks), soupy black eyed peas and leftover Thanksgiving sweet potatoes driven up from Northern Virginia.

Sitting down with a breast and my sides, I was glad that we’d ordered what I initially thought was too much chicken for two. I still have a wing I’m holding onto for today.

My only recommendation is to not eat 95% of a slab of red velvet cake in one go. Normally, I share such things. As someone whose sugar intake is limited by necessity not choice, I go overboard when faced with my favorite form of glucose: a hefty, wincingly sweet slice of super-American layer cake frosted and filled to the nines. I didn’t even remember to take a photo. This is all that’s left.

Before going to bed I quickly clicked on the New York Times dining section and there Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken was getting the under $25 treatment. I made up to Harlem just in the nick of time. ( I also cracked open the new Saveur this morning only to be faced with a feature on mezcal, a subject I researched in Oaxaca last week, written by the Fort Defiance gentleman. Not that I was looking to publish in Saveur and not that they would let me, but I feel a quiet, nervous attachment to the subject in the same way I get anxious when I read others’ blog posts about chain restaurants, which thankfully isn’t a daily occurrence.)

Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken * 2841 Frederick Douglass Blvd., New York, NY

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Nov 19

Great New York Noodletown

twoshovel New York Noodletown, or Great New York Noodletown as they’ve been calling themselves for some time, has always been a Chinatown standby and not just for late night. I haven’t been drunk in the vicinity of lower Manhattan in years. Murmurs of its decline have come and gone for ages.

Me, I’ve never had a problem with the food, though I never stray far from roast pork wonton soup, roasted meats with rice or salt and pepper soft shell crabs (though in a recent Travel & Leisure article that gathers a bunch of chefs to eat at Noodletown and discuss late night eats, David Chang declares the ginger scallion noodles his favorite—maybe I should branch out?) That’s it. And brusqueness in this genre of eatery doesn’t bother me.

I recently went straight after work before seeing The Box on opening night for reasons I can’t yet determine, not so much that the movie was weird/slow/unsatisfying but because I rarely even see movies, let alone on opening nights. Like I said, I wouldn’t call efficiency and lack of smiling brusqueness, and the burgundy-vested waiters hear everything. They’re on it. We were speculating to ourselves not loudly whether we should order the soft shell crab and were cut off by a waiter walking by, “No soft shell crab!” Ok, roast duck it was.

I forgot to take a photo of the duck, which proves how tastiness of the meat and crispiness of the skin. Or maybe I was just starving. I have to admit, though, that my soup was a little troubled. The broth was hot, maybe a little less complex and rich as ones I’ve had there before, but clearly the noodles and pork had just been sitting out as they were coldish, not even quite room temperature. The noodles were still springy and the pork had a nice charred flavor but warm would be better.

The wontons? Maybe I’ve said this before and I still can’t determine where the flavor is coming from since they look simply like shrimp encased in dough, no herbs, but they taste like marijuana. Just subtly and I’m no stoner but I swear they are like pot dumplings, if such a think existed. I’ve never heard anyone else ever say that so maybe it’s how my tongue processes a certain taste, in a soapy cilantro manner.

Previously on New York Noodletown

Great New York Noodletown * 28 Bowery St., New York, NY

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Nov 8

Mercat Negre

3/4 I’ve only been to Mercat on Bond Street once when they were having one of their visiting Catalonian chefs cooking a special menu. I liked the few things I ate well enough. How would the restaurant translate to Williamsburg?

It hasn’t exactly. The menu is much smaller, no cured meats or cheeses at all, though the room is airy, high ceilings, lots of wood and white brick. The service was typically Williamsburg—amiable, though harried and forgetful no matter how empty or busy—which I always mentally prep myself for and am rarely proven wrong.

Sure, it’s new and quickly became bustling. When I first entered there was only one other couple in the then cavernous, nearly Medieval looking room, The Boy With the Arab Strap played in entirety. Soon enough, though, the bar stools filled, the din rose and two large parties had descended, one in the private second floor space and another group of fifteen inches from us at a long row of cobbled together two-tops.

The food is hit and miss. Stick with the fried snackier items and you’ll be fine. The croquetas, here spinach, pinenut and raisin in oblongs and shrimp in balls, were the highlight. Nearly greaseless, their crusts were perfectly golden with a arm oozy interior. I even liked the croquetas at chain restaurants in Spain, though, so maybe I’m easily impressed.

The bomba wasn’t what I expected at all. Described as a chicken and pork meatball, I still wasn’t picturing one large ground meat orb coated in mashed potato and fried. Minus the aioli, there was something almost British about this. All it needed was a scattering of green peas. That’s a sobrassada and cheese empanada hiding in the background. I will say that the prices are fair. Empanadas, though tiny, were only $1 a pop, croquetas $2 each, same with the bomba.

The patatas bravas were done in a thick handcut potato chip style rather than in more traditional cubes. I did see huevos rotos served like this in Madrid earlier this year so it’s not a completely un-Spanish thing to do. I like tasting more of the potato’s softness, but these were still enjoyable.

Cocas are thin, cracker-like flatbrads treated like pizzas. This one was minuscule—it’s not even visible in the photo—and overwhelmed by the topping of vinegary sardines and escalivada, a.k.a. red peppers and onions grilled to sweet softness and dressed with olive oil.

There are two rice dishes: one seafood, one meat, available in two sizes. This is the smaller one, which contained rabbit and pork. The grains weren’t fully cooked, some mostly scattered on the surface were completely white and still opaque, and the meat was a little greasy yet not in a way that moistened the rice. This was the dud of the batch.

Taste is subjective, though. James ordered a Ward Eight, which I’ve never had before so it’s hard to compare. After a sip I did comment that it wasn’t very sweet, meant in a positive way. I’m not crazy about sugary beverages, alcoholic or not. The woman sitting next to us later ordered this same drink and a few minutes afterward asked the server for more simple syrup, which they brought to the table no problem. It’s never even occurred to me that you could or would doctor a cocktail. Then again, other than fries, I never salt or pepper my food at restaurants either. And I didn’t say anything about the crunchy rice.

Now that I look deeper, though, a Ward Eight doesn’t typically contain sugar, just a touch of grenadine, and Mercat Negre’s version goes primal with straight pomegranate juice. My conclusion: the cocktail isn’t meant to be particularly sweet. The customer’s always right?

While assessing our meal–James thought this was a one-shovel restaurant while I thought it was more two-shovel with kinks to work out–he commented, “I liked that tapas place by the BQE better.”

What tapas place by the BQE? Zipe Zape? That was just a few blocks from this place and it’s gone. “Do you mean Allioli?! Grandpa, you do realize how long ago that was?”

I had a vague idea just how long ago that truly was because I remembered debating whether or not I should watch the Daniel Pearl decapitation video a few days before this dinner (nay won over yay) then got squeamish about eating a baby octopus’ head at Allioli when normally I’m not troubled by such things.

And that is one beauty of blogging about food before food blogging was such a thing, I have a record of practically everywhere I’ve dined since the dawn of the millennium (as well as non-dining at Zipe Zape in its previous incarnation, Kokie’s). I can also concede that caving and buying a smartphone does have benefits, primarily being able to look up crap from the past on the spot. What was at 291 Grand Street now, anyway?

We strolled down Grand on our way to the G train, and it turns out that the space is now that Caracas Arepa Bar offshoot. Yet another indie chain.

Mercat Negre * 65 Grand St., Brooklyn, NY

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Nov 6

Henry Public

1/2 I was, and still am, more interested in the edibles at recently opened Henry Public. Cocktails are great too, but it's not as if we're suffering from a shortage of old-timey libations in this corner of Brooklyn.

But 11pm on a Friday is no time for sampling bone marrow and these so-called Wilkinsons I keep reading about (not so much the turkey leg sandwich). Too new, too crowded. Instead, I bolstered myself with some Italian salumi and cheeses at Bocca Lupo down the street first.

Almost closer in style to an early 20th century ice cream parlor than saloon, the booths—or at least the bench closer to the entrance—are also bygone era in size. James and I side-by-side were smooshed tighter than when an ample bottomed commuter wedges their way into the subway's middle seat during rush hour.

This is an Eagle's Dream (gin, lemon juice, sugar, egg white and Creme de Violette). I always order a cocktail that uses Creme de Violette, especially if it's not an Aviation (nothing wrong with the latter—I just like seeing what they can do beyond the classic). True to form, this drink was more silver-gray than the lavender I always crave based on the royal purple liqueur in the bottle. I can't wait for the new Creme d'Yvette in the works (obviously, because I just mentioned it last week).

The drink was like a muted Sweet Tart candy even down to the chalky finish, attributable to the egg white. Pleasant and breezy enough, though I switched to a more straight ahead sweet-tart option, the whisky sour, for my second glass. I do love the small, dark homemade maraschino cherries I've been encountering lately.

Henry Public * 329 Henry St., Brooklyn, NY

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Nov 3

White Manna

Did I love it? Sure. Then again, I love White Castle. No burger snoberry here.

Technically, White Manna isn't a chain because it's not affiliated with the Jersey City location with the missing N, White Mana. Close enough for me, though.

Perhaps to my detriment, I’ve never been one of those single-minded bloggers who can focus clearly on passions like pizza or hating cilantro. In this case, I’m talking about burgers, the everyman foodstuff of the moment.

Recently my attention has been drawn to Nick Solares’ New Jersey slider posts on A Hamburger Today not because I’m slider-crazed but because I’m in this part of that state, specifically Linden, at least once a month if not more getting my share of mall culture and classic late 20th century chains. And I’d never paid any mind to these still thriving (well, some of them—the Linden White Diamond closed right after I read about it) relics I drive by on a regular basis.

White Rose System in Roselle was a bust because I became inexplicably car sick on the way there and couldn’t appreciate my full-sized ketchup-heavy kaiser roll slider (slider doesn’t equal mini burger, it is specific to the griddle steaming process) and crinkle cut fries, and these places almost always serve crinkle cuts.

The following Saturday on the tail end of an unusally burger-filled week (Thursday I had a cheeseburger at Waterfront Ale House—they’ve always done right by me but on this occasion by medium-rare came out medium-well. Maybe that’s why I forget my uneaten half in the car overnight and didn’t even feel pain when I tossed it in the trash) we decided to try the no-secret-to-anyone (heck, Guy Fieri’s graced the compact red-and-silver diner with his outsize presence) White Manna in Hackensack, a little further north than my usual stomping grounds.

Two seats opened up at the counter after we arrived so we weren’t relegated to the midget seats in the window. I know Americans have grown since the ’40s, but a whole foot? This was the perfect spot for viewing the cooking procedure, which takes a little longer than you might think. Compared to McDonald’s (I was going to say White Castle to be more apples to apples but a person could go gray waiting for a combo there) this is not really fast food. It can take ten minutes for the naked balls of meat to make it from the right side of the crammed griddle to the left, potato roll on top, cheese melted, steamed through and through.

The finished product is a bit more substantial than a White Castle slider, and the meat’s texture is less baby food mushy. If you order yours to stay you add you own pickles, ketchup and/or mustard. The only off part to me were the onions, which are thinly cut rings instead of chopped bits. There’s no way to take a bite without a strand or two of onions pulling out while you try to gnaw free.

Every other fry was cooked a shade beyond golden, which was just right. There’s nothing worse than pale mealy frozen fries.

White Manna * 358 River St., Hackensack, NJ

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Nov 1

Sriphraphai Long Island

Sripraphai is one of the few restaurants that I’ve eaten at so many times that I can detect subtle differences in dishes on each visit. I’m not that astute normally. I know some believe that the quality—and spice level—has decreased proportionately with the increasing size of room, but I don’t tend to agree. However, I did wonder how the food would translate to their random (to me, at least—maybe staff or owners live nearby? It doesn’t appear to be a Thai-heavy community either, but more Italian, middle eastern and Indian based on businesses we passed) Long Island location that had been teasing me on their homepage for what feels like a year.

So, my Halloween day plan to finally try the Red Hook Ikea that’s only 1.9 miles from my apartment was shifted at the last minute to Hicksville, just a few towns over from Williston Park, home of the brand new Sripraphai branch. Brooklyn Ikea can wait.

Yes, there was a crowd out front around 8pm, though not nearly as dense as the eaters that swarm 39th Ave. All resemblances ended there. For one, there was a parking lot adjacent to the stand alone building (we still had to street park). And more importantly, a bar with a few tall chairs on the short side near the front window that were completely open. A cocktail (ok, a Singha) while waiting for a table? How civilized. Oh, and we discovered that they also take reservations and credit cards (though the machine was broken). After only a few sips of beer a two-top became available.

The menu appears to be the same, at least the same as the relatively compact spiral bound one with small photos of nearly every single dish that was new on my last Sripraphai visit. Some of the servers were the same too. Unsurprisingly, the clientele was a little more white and suburban with way more rambunctious kids than I’m accustomed to seeing in Queens (not so, in Brooklyn). Large Chinese families were the second most represented group, which meant just about everyone was eating with chopsticks. Not a single table within eyeshot was lacking a plate of pad thai and another of fried calamari (the child-pleaser of choice, it seemed).

It wasn’t clear to me if the diners were there due to Sriphraphai’s reputation or if they just wanted to try the new Thai restaurant in their neighborhood. I would say a majority were familiar with the establishment. We got nods of approval from our server, ”very popular dish” with our orders of crispy watercress salad and chinese broccoli with crispy pork, which was unusual considering we’ve had this same waiter a million times before and he’s never acknowledged our ordering prowess.

Determined to branch out from my usual picks, I still had to glom onto a few control dishes. My initial assessment was that the crispy watercress salad was minutely different. I’m not sure if it was because I was looking for aberrations and minute tweaks would’ve slipped past me in the original location, but visually the liquid that pools at the bottom of the white plate was more orange than usual though not spicier as the color indicated. And nearly everything we ate seemed a touch saltier. The big difference was the watercress clusters. They weren’t warm, as if they’d been fried earlier, though not soggy either. If anything the batter was crunchier and more substantial. There was a lacy delicateness lacking even though the overall flavor of the salad was almost identical to the version I’ve come to love. Only a nitpicker would have a problem with any of this.

Nine times out of ten we order crispy pork with chile and basil instead of the fatty strips as a mere accent to Chinese broccoli. This is a good dish to pretend that you’re getting in some healthy greens while also getting a dose of pork skin.

I’ve never had a whole fish at Sriphraphai so this whole snapper with chile and basil was a radical departure. This is why we didn’t order our usual crispy pork; the fish became our substitute meat. You can also choose from a small or large trout. Another fried dish, obviously what I enjoy about much of this food is the contrast between crunchy and soft (the only downside being the inevitable leftovers lose any crispness). The white flesh stayed moist and the skin was wonderfully crackly and bubbled. Also, the light heat was offset by a touch of sweetness.

Though the balance was skewed with one of my favorite curries of duck, bamboo shoots and Thai eggplant. Once again, the sauce was more orange when normally this conglomerate is more swampy and served in a bowl. The flavors are usually mysterious and dark more like a deep body of water far from land, this was sunny like a tropical lagoon. I’m not saying I didn’t like this dish, but knowing the original it’s hard not to compare.

The most striking difference was the inexplicable and very fleeting likeness to the preseasoned pork tenderloins from Costco that I don’t like because they have a barely discernible pastrami flavor. This duck had a tenderloin/pastrami undercurrent that I think might be attributable to cumin. Cumin is fine when it blends into the scenery. It personally creeps me out a bit when it stands out, though. That’s just me. There is definitely a different curry paste being made (or maybe not being made in-house, which is the issue) at this location.

Thankfully, they have replicated one of my favorite aspects that you don’t always find in Thai restaurants: the refrigerated cases and metal shelves full of snacks. I also like that the desserts have glamor shots and names in the menu now, which cuts down on awkward browsing in the busiest part of the restaurant (at the original location—here, they’re off to the side). I took a plastic container of pumpkin custard squares to go and being Halloween, this parting sweet was fitting. Good as these creamy cubes are, I still felt a little deprived that I never got any fun sized candy bars on this holiday.

For being a new operation, service was efficient and good natured (though similarly harried and forgetful as the original location), and the food was still many times more enjoyable than what exists in South Brooklyn. I’m never ever in Long Island (NJ is my suburb of choice) so it’s doubtful I’ll make a comparison visit in the near future. It’s nice knowing they’re there, though.

Sriphraphai * 280 Hillside Ave., Williston Park, NY

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Oct 30

Tipsy Parson

1/2 I’ve been indecisive and forgetful lately, which isn’t the optimal state of mind for choosing and assessing restaurants. I couldn’t come to a conclusion while mulling over which new spot to try mid-week so I had to stoop to superficial criteria. One of the Tipsy Parson’s owners happens to share my last name and in a recent photo appeared to be transitioning from brunette to gray. It’s absolutely impossible to find an attractive (or homely—I’ll take what I can get) New York woman in her 30s who doesn’t dye silver strands or entire locks into submission. That settled it. I was going to Tipsy Parson.

Also superficially, I loved the trompe l’oeil bookshelf wallpaper. I had my eye on a similar motif a few years ago but I’m not sure how to handle wallpaper in a rental.

And to the forgetful: I lugged my damn SLR around all day in anticipation of going out after work only to realize after sitting down (I made 8pm reservations and we were seated fairly promptly in the tightly packed bar area, not a problem, as the back dining room where we had a choice of waiting for wasn’t particularly more luxurious in terms of space) that I’d left the memory card in my laptop at home. Urgh, an obnoxious food blogger’s worst nightmare.

It did allow a showdown between the photographic capabilities of the iPhone vs. the MyTouch. While a million miles from food porn-creating, the iPhone crushed my android powered device. Do keep in mind that these are sad little camera phone photos presented here.

Fried cheese curds beat mozzarella sticks any day. This little $5 pile was served with a chimichurri sauce. A spicy or creamy sauce would come to my mind first, but parsley and olive oil worked too. The thing is, I can barely remember the cheese. Char No. 4s version has more presence.

At the last minute we switched our minds from lamb ribs to chicken livers (I would’ve ordered both but as you’ll see below, I knew I was already in for a meat overload with the pork shank). The opposite of neutral cheese curds, these breaded organs stood out: creamy, a little funky, not for everyone. The tart green tomato marmalade cut through the richness and made a perfect grilled toast topping.

MyTouch

iPhone

I will always order the pork shank when offered, no question, which isn’t that often outside of German restaurants. And how often does one eat at German restaurants? Ok, maybe I do more than the average New Yorker considering that even when on vacation in Hong Kong last November I tried an eatery called King Ludwig Beerhall where I ordered a pork shank that could’ve fed an entire family of four.

Where many of the dishes lean towards snacky and sharable at Tipsy Parson, the hunk of pork that our server quoted it as being around a pound and half—do keep the bone heft in mind—is certainly an attention-grabber. There was plenty of tender dark meat and a few welcome gelatinous bits coating the ends of the bone. I almost forgot about the apple puree beneath the club-sized but of meat that I think was spiked with bourbon. The only thing that would’ve made this better would be the inclusion of crackly skin. Shank is as much about the skin as the flesh.

A grilled trout stuffed with thyme was also eaten. Though not by me.

Tipsy Parson is a cute restaurant that I can’t compare to Little Giant because I’ve never eaten there. It does feel a little Brooklyn, or maybe it’s that the casual, seasonal style just isn’t typically Chelsea.

Tipsy Parson * 156 Ninth Ave., New York, NY

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Oct 19

Sue Perette

1/2 Sue Perette, a play on superette, and possibly an homage to JOE'S S PERETTE down the street, home of famous prosciutto balls and missing letter U signage, recently opened on Smith Street in the former Café Dore space (which used to be a crepe place that I ate at back in 2001, way before I knew anything about Carroll Gardens and rapidly got a lesson in the laissez-faire, children run free local parenting style that wouldn’t be tolerated in Sunset Park where I was living at the time). At least it’s not another Thai restaurant.

Periodically I feel like a bad person for my lack of enjoyment in living in a desirable neighborhood and then resolve to try new things in hopes that I’ll discover something to make me excited about Carroll Gardens. It’s yet to happen. Sue Perette, thankfully, didn’t add to my negativity, though.

At 7pm on a Wednesday, I was surprised that we were the only diners, and remained so until the very end of our meal when three groups slowly trickled in. I pegged Smith Street as an early bird zone considering that if you stroll around after 10pm on a weeknight you can literally hear crickets. A lot of passerbys did peek in the window and at the menu posted out front. I, myself, am hesitant to take a chance on an unproven restaurant with entrees over $20. Price could be part of it. Also new Wing Stop across the street might be more mid-week speed for many.

While a bit nondescript in looks, Sue Perette is more personable than generic–you know, the Luluc’s and Bar Tabacs of the strip. It’s one of those rustic, canning jar, no fear of lard restaurants. In fact, bread is served with both butter and pork fat.

I didn’t know that until after I ordered pastifret, a pate-rillettes hybrid, or else I might’ve thought twice about all the congealed white porcine products I would be ingesting and chosen something healthier. The creamy soft meat was served with traditionally sour accompaniments: pickled onions and cornichons.

The menu is brief and not radical in any way; it’s French country cooking that doesn’t stray too far afield. I tried the double duck, a crispy rare breast cut into thirds atop scattered Brussels sprouts leaves glossy from chunks of confit. My original plan to only eat half and save the rest for another meal didn’t work out. One, despite the richness, I still wanted to eat the whole portion, and two, duck is never the same after reheating, there’s no way to preserve the skin and keep the meat from overcooking and turning livery.

I might be inclined to return and cobble together a meal from the snack section of the menu. The Brussels sprouts with duck confit can be found there served minus the breast. Polenta fries with parsley aioli also sound like they have potential.

We passed on dessert and had a nightcap at Brooklyn Social Club instead. Part two in my quest to ignite the flames of Carroll Gardens passion. I did like my Brooklyn (I just like rye—I wasn’t going overboard in borough boosterism) but I wouldn’t go so far as to say love.

Sue Perette * 270 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

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Oct 16

Calexico

It’s not really Calexico’s fault that I’ve been so reluctant to try them. The neighborhood seemed excited to have their first bricks and mortar shop taking over the former Schnack space. I kind of miss Schnack and rarely have the craving for Ameri-Mex food.

Ok, technically this is Cal-Mex, and big burritos containing rice just aren’t my thing. I’m still trying to pin down what Americanized yet served in Mexican-run taquerias style I took a shining to in Portland. These burritos were dense, compact and greasy, the size of a frozen grocery store burrito and crammed with meat like carnitas, sautéed onions arne refried beans, no cheese and definitely no rice. Very much not Mission-style. I miss these gut-busting anomalies.

Calexico serves perfectly acceptable burritos with bold distinct seasoning. My only half-hearted beef was the uneven ingredient distribution; rice was on one side, beans on the other, and sour cream was all balled up at one end. I ordered mine filled with pulled pork that had an sweet-smoky flavor like the meat was bbq-sauced (I’m pretty sure it wasn’t) and nice vinegary tartness from the pickled onion, but I’m not sure if it’s that’s what I want in a burrito. However, I could imagine this pulled pork being great on a torta or cheesed-up in a quesadilla.

I’ll probably try them again. Calexico is close to my apartment and inexpensive. This hefty fare is good for the cold weather that has set in coupled with lazy television watching. Sedentary stoner food, really. I’ve been so burnt out and tired lately—so much so that I forgot to take a photo of my burrito’s insides—that pot is the last thing my body needs. But if it’s your thing, you’d probably enjoy a Calexico burrito as part of the experience.

Calexico * 122 Union St., Brooklyn, NY

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Oct 12

Belly

Even though I was only in Eugene for less than 24 hours, there was no way I was going to let any hippie food into my system. Brown rice, tempeh and soyrizo have a way of creeping up on you.

Not me. Instead, I sought out Belly, a pork-centric, small plates restaurant that had an Aviation on the menu. Could I get the same without leaving Brooklyn? Sure. At least I thought so initially. Now that I think about it, we don't really have a restaurant like this in my neighborhood or else I would go eat there and stop whining about Carroll Gardens. Belly is smaller and more rustic than, say, Buttermilk Channel.

I dined with five others and shared a few dishes. Even the vegetarians were happy with options—that might be one difference between Eugene and NYC where you’re likely to only find a token dish or two free of meat or else get used to eating pasta and salad.

The pile of stacked baby back ribs were served with a spiced molasses sauce that was actually pretty heaty. The cornbread was good for soaking (the word sopping kind of creeps me out) up the pool of sauce.

These might be the only vegetables I got in my system that whole week. Shredded beets flavored with mint were refreshing. While yogurt makes sense, I’m fairly certain the white dollop was crème fraiche.

My main dish was a bit hearty for late summer oxtail-stuffed tomato with spaetzle. I liked the tender shreds of meat against the springy pasta. I’ve never thought of oxtail as being an oddball meat—it’s beefy—but it seemed to freak out an old college friend I was eating with and I happened to catch part of My Life on the D-List where Gloria Estefan took Kathy Griffin and Rose O’Donnell out to eat Cuban food and they were completely traumatized by the idea of eating oxtails. Flan, too, for that matter. That’s just weird.

Belly * 291 E. Fifth Ave., Eugene, OR

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Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken

Great New York Noodletown

Mercat Negre

Henry Public

White Manna

Sriphraphai Long Island

Tipsy Parson

Sue Perette

Calexico

Belly

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Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

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The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101