Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

Jul 14

Eleven Madison Park

I'm not sure which is more embarrassing–to be pegged as a blogger or a tourist. I've always felt a little bit dorky breaking out the camera during meals, especially at higher end restaurants. It does become a compulsion, though, and one I’m not fully ok with. The conundrum is that no one has the attention span or wherewithal to actually read what a blogger has to say about a restaurant; people just like to scroll through photos. In fact, I'm wasting precious keystrokes this very second.

So, I found out that tourist feels worse when asked by our waiter if "we were visiting from out town." Dude, not everyone taking photos in restaurants are rubes. Er, or maybe I am a yokel in denial. Either way, it set a discordant tone for my leisurely day-off lunch.

I never take a real lunch. Usually I brown bag it and walk around the block for air, rarely taking more than 30 minutes of my afternoon (many males in my office take one-hour-plus lunches going to the gym. I would appreciate knowing how women manage that without having to shower and re-do hair and makeup because I hate wasting time after work at the gym). So, for pre-holiday July 3, I thought it would be fun to try an upscale prix fixe lunch. Jean Georges has a good deal with two courses for $28, additional offered for $14 apiece, but I was there for Valentine's Day and wanted to go someplace I'd never been. Eleven Madison Park wooed me with their two-course $28 deal. Apparently, $28 is the going rate for these fancy mid-day offerings.

It's a good thing we didn't go all out with the $68 tasting and $45 wine pairing, which I initially thought I might want. The more retrained option was sufficient, and as it was, I’m not certain that five courses would’ve been more enjoyable. Despite the room being about half full, the pacing felt off and there were minor distractions. I'm not a fuss budget (unlike the Louboutin lady next to me who sent her $10 supplemented lobster roll back for reasons I couldn't discern, then nibbled maybe two bites of the second rendition and left everything on her plate—maybe she was practicing that three-bite diet rule I still cant wrap my head around) but there were little things like not being brought any silverware to eat our entrees. It also would've been nice to have had our cocktails with the warm cheesey gougères, butter-enrobed baby radishes and cucumber-salmon rounds, but they awkwardly came right before the first course despite having ordered them before even focusing on the small nibbles.

I did like my Oaxaca 747, though, a smoky take on the Aviation that used mezcal and agave nectar in addition to the usual gin, maraschino and crème de violette. I'll order practically anything using crème de violette even though the deep amethyst color in the bottle always translates as gray in the glass, not even mauve. Once again, I encountered the big ice cube.

Eleven madison park tete de cochon with pickled vegetables

One thing is certain; their presentation and use of color is beautiful. Instead of feeling fussy, the baby vegetables and tiny bursts of pink and orange on this plate of tete de cochon provided more dazzle than was hinted at by mere “pickled vegetables.” The tartness of the radishes, onions and carrots and chopped parsley-onion condiment helped offset the richness of the pork, whose comforting texture reminded me of corned beef hash, not in a disparaging way. I couldn’t determine what flavor the ivory-colored gelatinous cubes were.

Eleven madison park skate with capers, cauliflowers, almonds

I wasn’t expecting such a golden exterior on the skate but it was fortuitous because sometimes I find fish too delicate (subtlety is often lost on me). This gave it enough heft to stand up to the strong, Spanish-ish accompaniments. I chose this specifically for the sweet-salty components: briny stem-on capers, oily Marcona almonds, neutral cauliflower, golden raisins and a few croutons that seemed to be rye.

The additional set of appetizer and main course that I didn't sample:

Eleven madison park poached egg, asparagus, hollandiase, parmesan

Slow Poached Organic Egg with Asparagus, Hollandaise and Parmigiano Reggiano

Eleven madison park suckling pig with broccoli rabe, pickled mustard seeds

Suckling Pig with Broccoli Rabe and Pickled Mustard Seeds

Dessert was the biggest disappointment. Not that there was anything wrong with the lemon meringue pie. I’m just a sucker for trolleys and when the desserts came wheeling by I felt compelled to pick one. Soon after, though, I began to covet the plates of parting mini macaroons in unusual flavors and pastel shades that the non-dessert orderers around us were presented with. Unless you’re dead set on a particular pastry, I wouldn’t spend the extra $12 (strange, that I don’t normally discuss pricing so much—maybe the economy has finally sunken into my consciousness).

I will say that I liked the young British sommelier whose looks and uppercrust accent reminded me of John Brisby in the Up series circa 28 Up. He seemed genuinely excited to talk about Rieslings even though I was only ordering one by the glass. And the 2005 Hofgut Falkenstein, Niedermenniger Herrenberg Spätlese Trocken, which he claimed to enjoy as his after work drink, was pleasingly zesty and fruity. I’d like to track down a bottle.

The food was quite good but the experience didn’t do much to enhance it. Maybe this was just the result of Friday before a holiday afternoon sleepiness. Then again, maybe we were getting tourist treatment.

Eleven Madison Park * 11 Madison Ave., New York, NY

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Jul 8

Rye

I'm old fashioned in some ways, not in that I appreciate tin ceilings and uneven wooden planked floors, but how I kind of like the appetizer/entrée convention. I sound like a grandpa but small plates and big plates commingling on the same menu confound me at times. I never know how much to order and often overdo it.

I did start appropriately with a whiskey old fashioned, though. The cocktails are definitely one of Rye’s strengths and you know they're serious because they're doing the big ice cube. You know, the giant solid square that fits the tumbler perfectly. Ideally, to keep the drink from watering down, though the more shrewd might say it's so the drink looks bigger despite only a few ounces of alcohol. Me, I like the big ice cube. There has been some experimenting with concocting them in my household lately.

Neither of us felt up to doing a full on main course. There was something about the room, despite its grand size, that made me antsy. Maybe it was the absence of air conditioning, an overall lackadaisical sensibility, who knows. So far the entrees are neat and tidy, just five: chicken, steak, vegetable lasagna and two fish. The smaller stuff just seemed more fun.

So, the grill section seems ok for sharing, and if I'm correct the portions increase along with prices as they descend down the menu. The sardine crostini, lying on spinach, had just enough char and good acidity from the vinaigrette.

Pork belly probably shouldn't be eaten as an entrée. Of course, I didn’t let common sense stop me. This was intended to be shared along with the meatloaf sandwich but slabs on bread hefty enough require tackling open-faced don't lend themselves to splitting. There was sufficient contrast between the thick slices’ browned edges and softer centers. The bitter broccoli rabe and light mustard seed-dotted sauce did help counter the fattiness, though eating more than two rectangles can still be overwhelming.

The substantial meatloaf sandwich with herbed mayonnaise and topped with thin onion rings. Assorted pickles, both cucumber and otherwise, were a nice touch.

I can see Rye as the type of place you might pop into for a drink and a snack–maybe oysters or duck rilletes–if you live in that inbetween stretch of Williamsburg. But it doesn't strike me as a destination restaurant; they're more of a General Greene than a Buttermilk Channel.

Rye * 247 S. First St., Brooklyn, NY

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Jun 30

Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napoletana

For not being much of a pizza aficionado, I managed to try two very good, very different Neapolitan pies in one week. First Brooklyn’s Motorino, then New Haven’s famous Frank Pepe. I know I was just bemoaning the lines at Lucali (Saturday at 5:25pm there were already about eight people out front and they don’t even open until 6pm) so it might seem nonsensical to drive two long hours in a violent rainstorm in order to stand in line at a potential tourist trap.

But it all ended up being worthwhile, the 35 minutes or so, mostly under an awning, didn’t kill me. (I didn’t partake, but I did like that drinking bottles of beer from paper bags while waiting outdoors seemed perfectly acceptable.) And the pizza was better than expected.

The non-New York-ness of being in a genuine pizza parlor–spacious wooden booths, enormous $11 pitchers of beer and big metal serving trays clanging around–was refreshing. I perked up immediately; the second I picked up the laminated one-page menu, I felt less bedraggled and damp. Or maybe it was the heat of the coal oven that they claim burns at 2,200 degrees Fahrenheit.

The menu was kind of baffling in the amount of variations offered. Maybe I'm not used to choice. Small, medium and large then fresh tomato pie or original tomato pie, mozzarella or not, toppings were grouped into different prices and you could also go half and half. We were confused because there’s a pricing matrix at the bottom of the menu as well as prices listed at the top. We had to pull out a calculator to determine if they were the same (they were).

Getting a clam pie was a given, but if we drove all the way up there we needed to try another style too, so we piggishly ordered two mediums: a white clam pie with no mozzarella and another with spinach and bacon. I guess that’s a weird combo but the novelty of bacon on a pizza was impossible to resist and the clumps of greens gave the illusion of a healthy counterbalance. The other vegetables like mushrooms or broccoli just didn’t seem right. I have a hard time with broccoli on a pizza. As you can see above, there is a fair amount of cheese on these pizzas.

There's nothing delicate about a Frank Pepe pizza. The browned crust is stiff and more than a little chewy. These are filling irregularly shaped slices. The squiggles of briny clams are substantial as well, with nice chunks of soft garlic, rivulets of olive oil and a dusting of parmesan that all meld into one oozy layer. I think mozzarella would've been too much, though the popular addition of bacon I could totally get behind. But it's best to experience tradition before going wild with extras.

I'm not sure if this original location is the best (there are currently branches in Fairfield and Manchester) but I didn't want to take any chances. Pizza-loving gamblers should note that they will be opening a Frank Pepe location inside Mohegan Sun this coming Wednesday. In some ways that makes more sense than transporting Rao's, Bouchon and the like to Las Vegas. At least they're keeping it local.

Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napoletana * 157 Wooster St., New Haven, CT

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Jun 27

Motorino

Motorino was one of the two new wave pizzerias that made The Village Voice blog’s (not sure why I can’t just say Fork in the Road but it doesn’t sound right) recent top ten list. I can see why. I’d swap it for Lucali, mere blocks from my apartment, if such feats were possible. With its overly eager patrons huddled outside, that Henry Street star has completely discouraged me from paying a visit for quite some time. Now, I assume all well-regarded pizza places will be equally prohibitive. Not so, Motorino. On a Wednesday evening there were plenty of free tables, no problems, no nonsense.

If you ever read lame diet advice for fun (I’m still not cool with epicurious recommending only eating three bites of your food to lose weight. Yes, duh, but really?) you’ll be familiar with all the menu descriptors that signal you should stay away from an item—obvious stuff like crispy, smothered, breaded, etc. I’m certain that bacon-wrapped would make such a list but everyone knows that phrase usually signals deliciousness. This creamy, salty and gooey appetizer was a promising start. Hmm, and realistically these figs enrobed in smoked porky strips dotted with crumbly goat cheese fit the three-bite restriction if divvied up amongst three diners like I had at my table. We followed up the tiny decadence with a simple arugula salad.

I do like that both purist and non-traditional pies are available because I lean more toward the latter. Of course, I can also appreciate the simplicity of a margherita, and we opted for the version with flor di latte rather than mozzarella di bufala. The proportions of ingredients seemed just right with nothing dominating. I guess the crust was a little puffy (I happened to be with a crust avoider and didn’t think about this until I saw the uneaten remnants sitting on his plate) and took up space that could’ve been devoted to more toppings. The pizza was overwhelming good, despite a bit of sog in the middle of the pie. The flimsiness didn’t even detract. And I certainly ate more than three bites.

The soppressata piccante also used cow’s milk mozzarella, as well as spicy sausage, garlic and chile oil. The little charred rounds of soppressata added character you don’t get from pepperoni and the spiked oil added a layer of fresh hotness that complemented the sausage. When we asked for crushed pepper we didn’t only receive a small dish of flakes but also extra slivered red chiles in oil.

I would like to try the cured meats and cheeses so another visit is definitely in order. I left feeling happy (though that could’ve had something to do with the $5 glasses of pinot noir), happy enough to check out goth night at Legion up the street. I’m still coming to terms with 40-something men in full-on make up, teased hair and brooches spinning Siouxsie and the Banshees for 22-year-old guys in denim shortalls and espadrilles.

Motorino * 319 Graham Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Jun 21

Nurnberger Bierhaus

1/2 Like many rewarding experiences in life, the most fun are often those you never saw coming. While errand running in New Jersey I didn't imagine that by 11pm I would be surrounded by karaokers in a Staten Island German restaurant. It happens. Relying on a GPS for food advice has rarely panned out. With its perpetual crowds out the door, cheap Tex-Mex go to, Jose Tejas, is unapproachable before 9:30pm. We turned to the Garmin Nuvi to find other nearby Mexican/Spanish options (I'll never understand why people think burritos and paella come from the same geographic region) and were directed to downtown Linden. I love the township's down and out fading Polish main drag and was once lured into a tavern, but wasn't sure I wanted to eat in the neighborhood (I only recently read about White Diamond and can't figure out why I hadn’t encountered them yet). It turned out that both recommended restaurants, Don Alex and suspiciously named, The Mexican Restaurant, were nowhere to be found. Thanks for nothing, GPS. Apropos to nothing, I decided I could use something porky and big mug of beer. Easy, we have to go through Staten Island to get back to Brooklyn, anyway. My only sadness with Staten Island German (Killmeyer's being the other) is that they don't offer pork knuckle, one of the finest examples of porcine extremes: the crackliest skin housing a mound of tender, moist meat. I just realized that I've bemoaned the lack of pork knuckles and shanks in practically every German write-up I've ever posted. I guess I really like pork knuckles. They do a great rendition at Bay Ridge's Schnitzel Haus and possibly the best version I've had was at King Ludwig's in Hong Kong. Yes, Hong Kong—I can't live on congee and dumplings, alone. Instead, I settled for kassler rippchen, smoked pork chops. They’re nothing like a knuckle, all soft and yielding with little textural contrast, but there is charm to salty smokiness buffered by a scoop of mashed potatoes and a bed of mild sauerkraut. Hmm, I thought we asked for the game sausage trio, the same appetizer we had on our last visit, but were presented with three all-the-same sagey links that I figured out where rostbratwurst, baby brautwurst. I'm not sure if we were misunderstood or if after 10pm (the remaining tables were all wrapping up by the time we sat down) you get what you get. As we finished up leisurely, half the waitresses began changing out of dirndls and into street clothes and some of the staff began pushing dining tables to the edge of the wall and setting up speakers and lights. A new boisterous crowd, composed of quite a few revelers who barely looked out of high school, supplemented by a few middle aged men, slowly started trickling in. Laminated spiral bound books were being placed on tables. Ah ha, karaoke. "Ok, time to go" immediately popped out of James mouth. Not so fast. I wasn’t feeling so quick to flee. "No, we have to stay for at least one song," I pleaded. "This is going to be bad," James countered, not instilling confidence with his kill joyness. "No, this is going to be good," I affirmed. And another beer would certainly improve matters, so we shifted to the bar to watch from a safer distance. I don’t sing. I will admit to brief hesitation, my only ever NYC neo-nazi encounter occurred in an outer borough German bar attached to a restaurant, but I can judge each far flung German bar in the city as an individual. Would it surprise you that the first song was "99 Red Balloons?" Thankfully, that was the bulk of '80s nostalgia, things sped rapidly into the '90s with the exception of an older gent's rendition of The Eagles' "Take it Easy," a song I always associate with being made to jog in circles around the gym in grade school. (In a similar not terribly blood-pumping vein America's “Ventura Highway,” somehow managed to get on my iPod shuffle I use at the gym and nearly conjures P.E. nightmares.)No pork chops after 11pm, that's when the bar menu inserted on the front page of the song choice guide, becomes standard. I’m still marveling over the concept of "Bavarian Bizza." (6/14/09)

Jun 17

Bamboo Pavilion

I'm happy that Brooklyn has real Sichuan restaurants at all, the strange thing is that both of them happen to be in unlikely spots (and if you're aware of more than these two, please spill the beans). Bay Ridge's Grand Sichuan House has always been good to me but I've been meaning to try Bensonhurst's Bamboo Pavilion for eons. I finally got around to it this weekend and I still can't declare either a winner; the food is comparable. I would only give GSH the edge for being slightly closer to me.

Neither is big on atmosphere, though both are a small notch up from typical Chinatown fluorescent bulbs and formica. Actually, Bamboo Pavilion has an interesting solution to keeping the tabletops free of impossible-not-to-splash chile oil: a plastic hospital-green disposable tablecloth that they grab all the plates up in bindlestiff-style.

The most tangible difference was that BP seemed to have a lighter hand with the Sichuan peppercorns, or a weaker batch, perhaps. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, the Sichuan food I've had in Hong Kong (I've never been to Chengdu…one of these days) is so wildly metallic and buzzy that you lose all sense of taste.

The "banchan" (I don't know the word for small Chinese dishes that come with a meal) was an unexpected extra. I've never received more than peanuts at any other Sichuan restaurant. Here, there was also cold, smoked duck and pickled bean sprouts.

Bamboo pavilion tongue & tripe in chile oil

The tripe and tongue in chile oil was spicy and perked up by the cilantro and chopped peanuts, but like I said, no extreme mouth numbing effects.

James always orders dan dan noodles, though I'm content with just a plate of chile oil drenched offal to start. These were served warm. I've never been able to get a clear sense of optimal dan dan noodle temperature since I've encountered hot, room temperature and cold versions. Even sticking to ground pork or beef isn't consistent. This was pork.

Nobody can beat the cumin lamb at Little Pepper, but I'll always give a lamb dish a chance. This was hot and contained lots of oil-softened leeks and red pepper slices but the meat needed some char. It appeared to have been coated in flour before sautéing but didn't get enough time in the pan, which resulted in some doughy patches.

Bamboo pavilion fish with hot bean sauce

We wanted seafood and were hesitant to try the fish with hot bean sauce after being told, "Americans like this one." That made me want to pick one of the piscine delights only labeled in Chinese characters that was displayed in the free standing photo flip menu, instead. I actually have no idea what species this white-fleshed fish was, but it was what I expected: delicate meat smothered with a strong chile sauce, toban djan. Don't expect the saltiness of fermented black beans, the beans here are favas. Favas seem so greenmarket and now, and well, European, but they grow in Asia too.

Green beans with pork are a basic, always welcome vegetable. You have to have at least one non-meaty item. The whole back page of the picture menu was devoted to dishes using wild mushrooms. The strict focus on fungi was kind of cool but I balked at prices in the mid-teens because I am cheap that way. I would consider swapping a mushroom creation for a fish preparation if I go again.

Bamboo Pavilion * 6920 18th Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Jun 10

Rhong Tiam

I don't want to overstate their case, and I'm wary of mid-teens pricing, but Rhong Tiam definitely has some of the best non-Queens Thai food I've had recently. Dare I say even a bit Sripraphai-esque?

I think I'm responding to the Bangkok styles they both produce, which I've interpreted as rich curries cooked down to a thickness that ingredients stick together, spicy with balanced sweetness. I have heard that Bangkok's cuisine is considered sweeter than in the rest of the country, though I doubt that means Brooklyn-style sugary pad Thai. Just that the food is sweet in comparison to the austere lime-chile-ness of a northern larb or a fiery hot-and-sour southern fish curry.

You'll be fine as long as you stick with the Thai dishes. I wouldn't cross over into Vietnamese summer rolls or salmon teriyaki, though I'll admit I was curious about the Thai nachos using shrimp chips. I'll save that nonsense for visit number two.

Obviously, they just like using familiar lingo, hence this "Thai chorizo." It's crumbly mild grilled pork sausage that doesn't taste like anything Spanish (or German or Italian, for that matter). I ate little bites of chile with mine but the slabs of sliced ginger were too much for me. It is traditional, though.

Yes, “pork on fire,” dark, possibly soy sauced cubes of meat, with forward chile heat and a hint of lemongrass, is spicy but hardly as punishing as hyperbole on other blogs would lead you to believe. You just need a small pile of jasmine rice, here, molded into a conical shape, to cushion the blow. All of the components are discernable through the heat, which is a good sign. If you want to have your ability to taste obliterated with a burn that surrounds your mouth, grabs your tongue and creeps into your ears, you should try the Southern Curry at Sripraphai. It's a bit much, frankly. Crispy (I'm still not sure why that word is an irritant to Robert Sietsema—I’m just defensive because I’m a crispy/tasty/perfect abuser) fried basil, lime leaves and onions add both texture and mellowed herbaceousness.

This catfish preparation isn't for the impatient, there are a lot of fiddly bones to contend with in these fried cross-sections. I always thought that the little bones were rendered edible with this style of fish. I hope so, because I eat them. Maybe I've been doing this wrong all my life. I also eat shrimp shells. Roughage, right? The absorbent green Thai eggplant halves added more crunch and the slew of krachai shreds lent a fresh bitter sweetness that I prefer over sometimes too pungent ginger.

Rhong Tiam * 541 LaGuardia Pl., New York, NY

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Jun 7

Iron Hill Brewery

After a grueling afternoon of outlet shopping in what felt like the middle of nowhere, Limerick, Pennsylvania, an early dinner was in order. The on site Ruby Tuesday wasn't calling to me so we checked to see what the GPS might come up with nearby. There appeared to be a cluster of restaurants in two towns: Royersford and Phoenixville. I wanted to avoid already-known-to-me chains and was wooed by Texas Roadhouse and Iron Hill Brewery. The latter sounded classier so off to Phoenixville.

Along the Schuylkill River, Phoenixville was quainter than expected with a cutesy main street inhabited by outdoorsy types. I was willing to be swayed by any restaurant along the strip. The thing is, independent doesn't necessarily mean good cooking. The little hamlet was rife with tapas abuse.

One restaurant, 101 Bridge, with colored strobe lights and a disco ball beaming from the second floor of the historic Victorian house, was advertising $16 "tapas" of chicken marsala and rigatoni. Ok.

Just down the way was The Fenix, "Phoenixville's only martini and whisky bar" offered tapas that included, California rolls, lobster nachos and a peculiarity called shrimp lejon, which you'll soon see is a favorite of the area.

I also wasn't sold on New Orleans pizza whatever that might be. So, we ultimately ended up right where our car's oracle suggested in the first place: Iron Hill Brewery, a bright clean suburban-style restaurant with vague upscale tendencies (lots of $20+ entrees and steak) and an almost comical seriousness about their beers. It really wasn't terrible in the least, though unprompted you will get a lengthy description with lots of flowery tasting notes if you ask about a beer. To their credit, they'll also give you juice glass-sized tastes if you show interest in a particular brew. We ended up with full servings of the Abbey Dubbel, Pig Iron Porter and Extra Special Bitter.

Always a sucker for a cheese plate, we had a cheddar sampler and honestly I don't remember which each wedge was. The crumbly aged variety in the middle was a favorite. Extras included grainy mustard, pear compote, dried cranberries and cinnamon-sugared walnuts.

Ok, here's that shrimp lejon again. I pronounced it lehon like it was Spanish and was corrected to lezhan. Apparently lejon is the combination of shrimp, bacon and horseradish, here in the form of a pizza. I ordered it because it was so foreign. I've never heard of this creation in my life. I'm assuming it's regional, much like that frightening Goeslin coiff, which I did see on a woman in the dining room. I'll concede that the flavors combine well, the creamy mildly hot horseradish sauce instead of tomato helping balance the double richness of bacon and shrimp. I still think it's weird, though.

Fish and chips in a beer batter, of course, their Vienna Lager.

Iron Hill Brewery * 130 E. Bridge St., Phoenixville, PA

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Jun 6

Amada

1/2 I don’t really eat at places like Amada in New York. There's something Meatpacking District about the popular Philadelphia Spanish restaurant and its environs, which also includes sceney mega-eateries like Buddakan and Morimoto (both now with NYC outposts). I wouldn't go so far as to say Amada is style over substance; the food was solid but I don't think the bulk of their clientele is serious about what on their plate.

The small collection of kitchen-side counter seats a few steps higher than the rest of the room seemed to be the foodie section, and tellingly occupied by diners a good decade or two older than the rest of the couples and groups of men dressed in mirror image uniforms of untucked patterned oxfords and jeans like the sales guys in my office. I didn't even notice the women.

I also had my eye on Cochon, a pork-centric French BYOB, but settled on Amada because I like Spanish food. (Though it might’ve been folly since we were just in Madrid—do you really want to compare a cuisine on its on turf to a second or even first tier American city's version? I did.) Plus, Ecuadorian chef Jose Garces, who's developed a mini empire based on the cuisines of Spain, Mexico and Peru (with a dash of China), had just won a James Beard best chef award for the Mid-Atlantic region. That must say something? I haven't even eaten at The Modern and Gabriel Kreuther was our winner.

I hate to say no when asked, "Have you dined with us before?" because it's not likely I'm going to be enlightened by whatever is coming my way. In this circumstance, I acquiesced and we were prodded to order three-four dishes per person. That initially seemed a bit excessive. Then next thing I knew we were picking wildly from the menu, trouble that stemmed from a 9:45pm reservation without a proper lunch to cushion the two pre-meal gin and tonics at a dive down the street (perhaps I should've compromised with a single $12 violet tequila martini called Talk To Her—yes, the cocktails are all Almodovar inspired). "Small plates" can wreak havoc when ordering on an empty stomach. In the end we definitely picked too many—seven items in total—and easily could've done with one less dish, probably two, and should’ve asked for our cheese at the end.

No dainty amuses here, this was a tuna-based dip, akin to something you might see stuffed into a pequillo pepper, with crackly flatbread triangles. It got ignored because within minutes everything non-cooked came out in overwhelmingly successive waves. There was too much going on.

Serrano ham was fine but nothing special. We didn't really need this. The accompanying cornichons, mustard and caper berries were totally Gallic and a little off-kilter even though they suit cured fatty meat.

Caña de cabra with fig-cherry marmalade, Manchego with lavender honey and Roncal with black olive caramel. I guess we didn't have to order three cheeses but I like sampling a variety. I expected to be drawn to the olive caramel (which I can't even remember and blurred with the fruity jam) but was surprised at how amazing the Manchego with honey was. Normally, I’m kind of creeped out by the gooey cloying sweetness of honey and I never would eat it straight (I felt doubly vindicated after recently reading Ruth Reichl doesn't like the bee product either, doubly because I had read that sentiment before) and I hate eating flowers too, but something about their pairing created a magical savory reaction. We ended up using it for all the cheeses and futilely looked for a jar among the many Amish stands at Reading Terminal Market selling honey (and separately, lavender flowers) but clearly it's not a specialty of the region.

Deconstructed patatas bravas were reminiscent of the tiny filled cylinders we just had at Sergi Arola Gastro in Madrid. These were fatter and rougher, a lot more potato per aioli dollop, though not mealy like the traditional version can be.

I will never not order a sweet-meat combo even topped with cheese so the coca with duck and dates was impossible to ignore. It was certainly classier than a ham and pineapple pizza but the concept isn't all that different.

The paprika-dusted rounds of octopus and potato were tender and zapped with flavorful char around the edges. We could've eaten twice the amount. I do need to look into why squid is always cheap but octopus is often pricey.

Ok, we had to squeeze some vegetables in. Warm limas and favas in a vinaigrette were substantial and had great texture. Who knows why lima beans have such a bad reputation.

The breaded lamb chops stuffed with goat cheese and sitting atop blobs of romesco came late in the game so I didn't have the appetite to appreciate them. One of the most expensive dishes at $19, these weren't a necessity. Now I know.

Way too full for dessert (but not for a midnight run to both Geno's and Pat's) we were sent off with a simple thin almond cookie.

Amada * 217-219 Chestnut St., Philadelphia, PA

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Jun 3

Geno’s & Dalessandro’s

1/2 Some Americana I love (cheeseburgers), some I could live without (hot dogs). Cheesesteaks are definitely in the love category. Lots of goo and grease, less tame than a burger. Even though I haven't detailed it extensively, I've tried quite a few Philadelphia specimens over the years. Of course, Geno's and Pat's numerous times, Tony Luke's, Chubby's (second choice after a no go at classily named Chink's) and now, Dalessandro's.

On my most recent visit, I did a taste comparison between South Philly drunk-magnet impossible-to-miss Geno's and the cramped Roxborough no frills lunch counter, Dalessandro's (which is across the street from Chubby's). (We also picked up a cheesesteak at Pat's, but James ate it before I could get a photo or even a bite.) At the latter, it felt like everyone was known by the staff, but that might've just been because they ask for your name when you place an order. There is a few minute's wait because everything is cooked on demand.

Geno's is more of an assembly line with their gruff schtick and pre-made subs that are instantly slid across the counter toward you. Geno's doesn't sell alcohol while Dalessandro's has refrigerated bottles of beer—I spied Yuengling and Labatt. Beer makes sense with cheesesteaks.

Dalessandro's just feels better (unfortunately, I didn't take any photos inside or outside) which is why my conclusion pains me. I actually prefer the "touristy" sandwiches like Geno's above (cherry peppers not my doing). It's the style more than quality. Both are good in their own ways, but they are different breeds. I will give them both two-and-a-half shovels because three just seems weird for either (though looking from my 2001-02 perspective I deemed Pat's worth of three shovels—it was a younger, gentler time).

Dalessandro's chops the meat fine where Geno's uses Steak-umm-like thin strips. I prefer the solid pieces of beef to the crumbles. Of course, you can ask for Cheez Whiz, American or provolone pretty much everywhere but Geno's screams whiz, just look at that orange façade. I didn't specify what cheese I wanted at D'Alessandro's and was given provolone by default. Sure, provolone is classier but it melts away to nothing and is subtle amongst so much beef . Provolone is perfect on a roast pork sandwich (which I'll get to later) but for me a cheesesteak needs the sharp, unmistakable tang of viscous processed cheese.

Dalessandro's is definitely a better value, the sandwich is nearly twice as big, a giant hoagie completely stuffed to the bun’s limits and costs $5.94. Geno's is petite on a cut roll and a little skimpy for $6.75. My ideal would be a massive sandwich with steak slices and plenty of whiz. Onions too. And while you can find a bottle of now all-American sriracha (my cheesesteak condiment of choice at home) at Dalessandro's, it's worth trying a few small spoonfuls of the chunky hot chile sauce at Geno’s. It burns like crazy, so much so your mouth numbs and everything starts tasting like dirt. I never said it was a positive experience.

How they are wrapped to go. Paper-lined foil and logo-covered paper. The foil keeps the heat in better for immediate eating.

Pardon the unappetizing display of these halves. I'm a leftover freak. What I learned the hard way was that the foil isn't a good idea if you’re saving the sandwich for the next day. Dalessandro's uses a softer bread and the sandwich had steamed, sogged and adhered to the wrapper. After re-warming both, I had to rip off the formerly crusty exterior of the roll to get the paper off. Eat Dalessandro's sub immediately. Geno's, maybe due to all the processed ingredients, held up just fine.

Geno's * 1219 S. 9th St., Philadelphia, PA

Dalessandro's * 600 Wendover St., Philadelphia, PA

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