Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

Sep 4

Zabb Thai

1/2 “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me” was all I could spit out while approaching Roosevelt Avenue. Even from a block away I was getting an unpleasant eyeful of at least 40 diners-to-be swarming the sidewalk in front of Sripraphai. Seriously?
I know the place’s popularity seems to grow exponentially each year and that you get what you’re asking for on a Saturday night even on a holiday weekend, but no, I wasn’t buying the insanity. It’s not Sripraphai’s problem that they’ve become such a success but I can’t tolerate the hour waiting thing even for my most favorite salad in the world (next to Resto’s crispy pig’s ear). I felt tired and defeated without even stepping into the fray.
Quick plan B: Zabb just down the road. No crowd, and in their favor they keep late night hours and are BYOB (which I didn’t realize until we’d already sat down). Curries aren’t their strength, as the focus is more Northern Thai, but fiery herby salads and stir-fries are good too.

Moo dad. I was thinking these would be crispy like skin-on pork belly in little chunks, but these pork strips were breaded and fried and served with chile sauce. This could’ve been heavy and greasy a la chicken fried steak but the coating was light and the meat was juicy. And I really liked that we got a full container of the sauce with our leftovers. I’m always disappointed when I bring home uneaten steak from Argentine parrillas and there’s no chimichurri included in the bag.

I always mean to order the catfish mango salad at Sripraphai but can never forgo the crispy watercress, it’s a catch 22. I love how the fish has been fried unrecognizably into fluff. I once made this at home a million years ago. Getting the catfish into this state wasn’t the hard part—it was shredding the mango properly. I need a tool like this. Crisp, salty and fatty hit with sweet fruit and rich cashews? I love that combination.

No, this duck salad wasn’t a replacement for my beloved awesomely rich duck, eggplant and bamboo shoot curry. The flavors were all there, maybe I just wanted those particular vegetables mixed with the poultry.

We weren’t asked about spice levels and forgot to make any mention. The chicken larb was the only dish that seemed too mild.
I have zero business sense but judging from the freak show in front of Sripraphai there is clearly a market for authentic Thai food for non-Thais. And even though there’s a glut of so-so Thai already in my neighborhood, that would be my target area. If I knew how to open a restaurant and import cooks from Thailand I would channel my inner Chodorow and make it happen.
Which reminds me, I’m 99% sure I’m going to Thailand later this year. I’d been planning on Malaysia but had my mind changed at the last minute. Why not Thailand? At least I that’s what I thought until all hell broke loose this week. But I went to Singapore during the SARS scare, particularly because the flight was dirt cheap. Maybe I can work this civil unrest thing to my financial advantage. Ha, there's always the free food for protesters angle. (8/30/08)

Aug 25

Ba Xuyen

Some foods gain universal adoration and acceptance, despite once being obscure. I understand why banh mis have such a stellar reputation. I’ve loved the mixed up sandwiches ever since I accidentally stumbled on a $1.50 Portland version what seems like a lifetime ago. I had no idea what it was at the time but the idea of something called a French sandwich in a Vietnamese takeout joint was too incongruous to pass up. I was hooked.
And they’re still a value at $3.75 in Brooklyn, even if that’s 75 more cents than my last posting on the subject. I forget the bounty of Sunset Park and really took living in the neighborhood for granted. Who knows, there might come a time when I look back fondly on the so-so Thai and French I’m surrounded by now. Perhaps I should soften my stance.

I don’t think I’ve had a Vietnamese sandwich once in 2008 and broke my dry spell this afternoon at my favorite, Ba Xuyen. And I hate hyperbole, but I swear the #1 was better than I remembered. I’ve experimented a bit and bought a #4 meatball for James, but I like the more is more approach. I also prefer everything bagels over plain or single ingredient.
Maybe because I’ve been eating lighter recently, but the one thing that struck me was how rich the pate was, like they added a little more than usual and mixed with the slightly sweet mayonnaise, created a new velvety condiment. It might’ve been overwhelming if it weren’t for the pickled carrots and daikon and jalapeno rounds lending sharpness. I’m honestly not sure what the different lunch meats are exactly, you can’t mind the cartilagey bits, though; they just add texture and the row of ground pork adds meaty springiness.
I only intended to eat half of my sandwich since this impromptu lunch didn’t take place until after 5pm and I was planning Sri Lankan food for dinner, maybe around 9pm. But I ate the whole thing anyway because it was that good. (And I have another one to look forward to tomorrow--I always buy a second sandwich to bring to work for lunch.) Ba Xuyen’s version is a bit heartier than some others so this might’ve been a mistake. I have zero interest in cooking now.
Ok, I could just leave my banh mi missive like that, happy go lucky and to the point. But I can’t or else it wouldn’t be me. I can’t because while waiting for my sandwich I encountered the convergence of two subjects that garner the angriest comments here: my impatience with know-it-all white foodies showing off their love of ethnic food and my suspicion and dismissal of the seriousness of food allergies. I rarely get comments period, I guess I’m more of a blabber than a cultivator of community, but yes, these are two topics that never fail to elicit vitriol from strangers. And this is how they come together in one interaction.

Twenty-something redhead: Does the #8 have peanuts?
Perfectly nice counter woman with adequate English skills: You want peanuts?
Twenty-something redhead: No, I don’t eat peanuts.
Perfectly nice counter woman with adequate English skills: The pork sandwich has peanuts.
Twenty-something redhead: I can’t eat peanuts. I have allergies.
Perfectly nice counter woman with adequate English skills: Allergies. Ok…
And this devolved into a back and forth with no resolve. The counter woman understood what allergies were but the redhead was getting more exasperated and sniped, “this is really turning into a drama.”
I think the problem was that the counter woman didn’t get what the girl was asking for. To me, it seemed that she wanted a different sandwich than the one she had ordered, sat down with and had started eating and now wanted to know which of the eight choices were peanut-free but she wasn’t really articulating this well. So then, her Asian-American (not Vietnamese, I’m fairly certain) boyfriend came up and reiterated the exact same thing like that would help matters, then announced that he’d just swap his #1 with his girlfriend’s #8 and that would solve peanut-filled sandwich problem.
While waiting for my sandwich, the counter lady was conferring with the cook lady in Vietnamese and every few words you could hear highly accented, allergy huffed with derision. I caught her eye and shared a smile—I didn’t want her want her lumping me into the difficult white lady camp. I’m no trouble-maker.
Sure, I’m guilty of being white and loving to eat food that I didn’t grow up with. I’m all for everyone sampling cuisines of the world. But I have issues with two types: loud, braggadocios who either have traveled extensively or lived in a foreign country and suck the air out of restaurants with their unbridled knowledge (not this couple’s M.O.) and the culinary explorers who expect all conventions of American, particularly neurotic New Yorker, eating quirks to be anticipated and respected.
As a diabetic, I’m careful about avoiding sugar but that’s my problem. If I blindly ordered a foodstuff from an inexpensive storefront, oh, let's say an iced coffee from a Vietnamese establishment, and the beverage I was handed was beige with sweetened condensed milk because that’s what Vietnamese ice coffee is like, it would be my own fault for not asking what it contained first. I wouldn’t expect the business to make me something else due to my mistake. I don't expect Danny Meyer levels of hospitality for $3.75.

Back to the important matter: Ba Xuyen makes the most awesome banh mis in the city. Just watch out for the bbq pork, a.k.a the #8—it’s sprinkled with crushed peanuts. (8/25/08)

Aug 22

Botanica

I feel like I can’t talk about places and things without photographic backup. People, including myself, don’t have time for words anymore. It’s all I can do to scroll through my work RSS feeds during the day while trying to squeeze in a few non-work feeds on the side. Particularly with food blogs, photos and headlines get the point across, and then you move onto the next.

I didn’t even start taking snapshots until 2006 and I’ve been writing on the web since ye olde 1998 so it’s creepy that photos have become so essential so quickly. Yeah, yeah, it’s all about video now…well, that’s never going to happen on my watch.

Maybe I’m regressing (some would say evolving) or maybe it’s just the lazy days of August when all NYC media tries to make you believe that the entire city is summering someplace full of fresh air that’s insanely fun (I’m indifferent to fresh air) but I haven’t been inclined to detail everything I eat and drink digitally.

I didn’t take as single shot at Grand Sichuan last week and only two or three at Boca Junior on Saturday. I did attempt a few pictures of my negroni at newly opened Botanica in Red Hook but flashless photography is futile while drinking outdoors at night.

Yes, there’s already a perfectly established bar with the same name on Houston Street, so that is weird. And yes, old-timer fave, Sunny’s is just down the street. I don’t see why the established and the new can’t coexist. No matter how much gentrification talk gets bandied about, the neighborhood is hardly bursting at the seams. The streets are still dead at night. Three cats prowling around the sidewalk at intervals was about the sum of the foot traffic I witnessed this weekend.

I’ve never felt more like I was in Beijing while ordering a drink at Botanica. Well, there weren’t any mute assistants with bowl haircuts working behind the bar when I was in China, but in both places I experienced pricy cocktails for the environs painstakingly made, i.e. slooowly from a binder of recipes. I’m all for perfection but the trick is making it appear seamless. I tend to be a bit twitchy and nervous as it is; I can’t spare the stress on my heart to be nervous for others too.

Now that I think about it, the awkwardness might’ve been compounded by a lack of bar seating and a big unfilled space between the bar and the row of tables against the wall. It feels strange to be standing eye to eye with a bartender when the room is nearly empty and you’re the only one at the counter. Or maybe it was the quirky African (or was it African-influenced? It was most definitely wasn’t Vampire Weekend, thank God) music playing that threw me off.

Normally, I’m violently opposed to sitting outside but Saturday the temperature was abnormally tolerable while the bar itself was hot and stuffy despite all doors being open and nary a crowd emitting body heat. My only fear was being targeted as a douche for drinking a double-digit-priced cocktail at a candlelit (make that glowing plastic votive thing) sidewalk table on Conover Street. And funny, because I overheard one table trading war stories with another table about the good ol’ days when the area was so scary it was safer to walk in the middle of the street.

The emphasis appears to be on freshly muddled fruit. A row of martini glasses filled with blackberries, cherries, and the like are prominently displayed on the bar (like this). I wasn’t up for a blueberry martini or anything sweet so I went completely bitter and dry with a negroni. Those herbal aperitifs like Campari have only recently begun to grow on me. Maybe it’s an aging thing; James mentioned that his father’s favorite drink is a negroni and the man is twice my age.

Botanica hasn’t hit its stride yet, and one drink was sufficient to get the gist. $10 lighter and seven mosquito bites later, we moved onto Brooklyn Ice House (formerly Pioneer Bar-B-Q). I do prefer beer and Van Halen chased by a free shot.

Botanica * 220 Conover St., Brooklyn, NY

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Aug 16

Tailor

While settling into a post-birthday dinner at Tailor with my friend Sherri, conversation turned to her recent Portland excursion. I am from Portland. She is not. I was wowed by all of the photos of trendy restaurant food she had taken because it’s not my Portland. It’s not that upscale dining didn’t exist pre-1998 (though the food scene has hipified radically), it’s probably more that I tended towards the “grubbin’” side of cuisine. Horrible, horrible word, but it conveys the message: cheap, filling drunk/stoner food, exemplified by rice-filled (abhorrent) burritos big as your forearm.

To say Tailor is anti-grubbin’ is an understatement. Which isn’t to say that it’s not enjoyable. If price were not a concern, I could’ve sampled peculiar ingredient combinations on plate and in glass all evening long. It’s fun. I even gave into a bell pepper dessert (not so the bell pepper lemonade), despite the sad vegetable being on my bad side (strangely, the green menace had also shown in my Pret a Manger gazpacho at lunch earlier).

Cocktails, kind of Tailor’s selling point, were an immediate must. A lightly sour, gender-neutral hibiscus 7up, rye and key lime beverage for me and the insane prettiest pink Bazooka, that yes, relies on bubblegum liqueur and tastes exactly like it looks though maybe one notch less sweet. I do wonder where the color comes from. Could it possibly be natural?

Despite ultimately sharing, I picked out the veal, which came thinly shaved and cured like prosciutto. The whiter more gelatinous spheres were marrow, rightly rich and fatty, the denser orbs were composed of parmesan. Once again I was taken with color, apparently so much so that I can’t even recall what ingredient created the intense emerald green swoosh. The culprit was obviously herbal and tasted like a shot of wheatgrass. Paired with huckleberry drizzles and purple leaves, the result was pleasingly foresty, nothing like this scary forest.

Coriander-crusted sweetbreads were more straightforward and creamy almost like foie gras. A salsify base was neutral while the beer foam added bitter punch.

There are very few things more compelling than pork belly. Normally, those fatty striated slices would’ve been my first choice but the starchy component of “skate frites” snapped me to attention. Tater tots would’ve been good enough on their own because I love them (though not quite enough to craft a vest from Ore-Ida bags). But purple tater tots?! This had to be seen. To be honest, they didn’t have much flavor but they came atop a pool of ketchup and well, the looked pretty cool. The skate was formed into scallops and accompanied by a mayonnaise tarted up with malt vinegar and pickled shallots.

If mixing and matching were allowed I would’ve tossed a few purple tater tots into the pork belly bowl and created a giant plate of awesome. The butterscotch miso is the perfect blend of caramely and savory, almost like a salted palm sugar. I can see why Dale copped it for his own on Top Chef; unfortunately, it led to his downfall. Even the addition of artichoke made sense when bathed in this sauce.

I’ve said it before, but I am fairly conservative when it comes to desserts. Herby granitas and poached fruit bum me out. But that’s primarily because they’re unfun. I don’t really mind cerebral as long as I’m entertained. So, I gave into the bell pepper cake with cornbread ice cream topped with a pea frond. I mean, it makes sense that this trio would be compatible. Cornbread is frequently sweet and cake-like anyway. This could just have easily been a starter.

In some ways, the kumquat confit finisher was more challenging because I have a hard time associating deep, brown European caraway and pumpernickel flavors with sweets. All it needed was the addition of dill or sauerkraut and I might’ve lost it. The candied fruit paired with thin crisps and earthy rye-like ice cream made me think of what would happen if I took my usual Wasa crackers and slathered them with jelly instead of laughing cow cheese. I don’t think I’ll do that anytime soon.

The flavors of these two cocktails have merged in my brain because I was drinking them at the same time (don’t ask). On the left is a maté sour using yerba mate and while tea-like at first, an astringent, not unpleasant dirt-like aftertaste stuck with me later. The other is a blood and sand using scotch, sweet vermouth, cherry ale and an orange foam, which was smoky and orange peel bitter.

Tailor * 525 Broome St., New York, NY

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Aug 11

Circus Drive-In, Wharfside & Shrimp Box

I’m acquainted with two people who grew up at the Jersey Shore and they seem reasonably normal (ok, one thinks you need to carry a gun if you’re going to go to Philadelphia but whatever). So, despite the recent guido brouhaha, I decided to pay a brief visit last weekend. I pretty much stayed off the beach, away from boardwalk amusements and did my drinking during daylight hours. I wasn’t asking for any trouble.

One of my biggest surprises was getting to visit a newborn Costco. Seriously. We arrived at the old Brick, NJ location only to find a sign directing us to a different location a few miles up the highway that had opened the day before. A one-day-old Costco? I love nothing more than a nice big clean and uncrowded chain store so this was almost too much to bear. I really only ended up with a case of seltzer water, rotisserie chicken and too many cherries to eat in a week, but actual groceries were almost beside the point.

The true raison d’etre for this excursion was tracking down a softshell crab sandwich at the Circus Drive-In that was featured on the Food Network recently. Embarrassing source of edibles intel or not, I like the idea of a spidery fried crustacean on a bun. And it didn’t hurt that the big top theme was highly entertaining. We only missed a performance by Macaroni Anne Cheeze the clown by a few hours.

The only questions are platter (with fries) or sandwich and tartar or cocktail sauce. Sandwich only (we wanted onion rings) and tartar sauce. This is no frills, just a little side of coleslaw and condiments by Kraft. The single-minded sandwich forces you to focus on the crab and had just enough sweet meatiness to prevent a crusty batter and bread starch overdose.

I only attempted a few sips of James’ milkshake (there will be no There Will Be Blood joke) and was thwarted by the solidity of the vanilla ice cream. These are serious shakes. I was holding out for a hot fudge sundae at aptly named regional chain Sundaes down the highway. I made myself so ill off of the cherry ice cream concoction that I didn’t take any photos and didn’t even finish my size small dish. My tolerance for sickly sweet has diminished greatly this year, which should be no reflection on Sundaes’ products.

Point Pleasant was our final destination, which we reached by late afternoon (we didn’t leave until after noon, hoping a violent flood-inducing rainstorm would pass). I just wanted a drink since the crab sandwich hadn’t had time to settle yet. We ended up at the random outdoor patio next to Wharfside restaurant. Luckily, it was dinner time so the lines were at the proper restaurant and it was too early for the party crowds (there was one bridal shower going on). We avoided the carding and wrist band procedure that was occurring by the time we left.

Since we took a table, I think we had to order food. A spicy crab dip that wasn’t really spicy kept us busy for a while.

I would’ve gone to Red’s Lobster Pot, as the little white shack seemed like the most charming of the lot in the corner of town that we had driven to, but waits are super long to sit inside and they close at 9pm. Maybe next time if we get it together earlier in the day.

We ended up at nearby Shrimp Box, which I knew was a middling but perfectly sufficient choice. I was a little bummed because the dated nautical décor on their website had been lost in a renovation from earlier this spring. Now, the overall effect is neutral ‘90s Holiday Inn. They did still have a salad bar (the photo is from their site—it doesn’t look exactly like this now), a dying breed, at least in my day-to-day culinary existence. And a great slogan, “we overlook nothing but the harbor!” Indeed.

I couldn’t stomach a full dinner so oysters on the half shell and coconut shrimp suited me fine. Oh, and a fruity blue martini. I think colorful cocktails are acceptable once you've crossed New York state lines.

Circus Drive-In * 1861 Rt. 35, Wall Township, NJ
Wharfside * 101 Channel Dr., Point Pleasant, NJ
Shrimp Box * 75 Inlet Dr., Point Pleasant, NJ

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Aug 8

Eton

3/4 I’ll temporarily stop boohooing about the state of Asian food in Carroll Gardens. Eton is a small step for the neighborhood, small in stature and in menu, and only works if you’re craving Chinese dumplings.

No, you won’t find any five-for-a-dollar (isn’t it four in a few spots now?) deals, as Sackett Street is no place for such bargains, but $3.50 isn’t exactly extortion. And anyone who’s had their fill of the standard pork and scallion will appreciate the variety served here.

I tried all three staples: pork, beef and cabbage, chicken and mushroom and vegetarian. I really didn’t notice the vegetables in either meaty dumpling. The fillings are substantial, dense and almost meatbally, with very little extra space left for the blobs to float around inside the dough, which is a good thing. You can choose from a variety of sauces in little plastic to-go containers. I would recommend both sriracha and soy sauce drizzled on these two dumplings.

The vegetarian is a little odd though not un-tasty, using celery, tiny tofu squares and lentils, I think, but you must make concessions for local tastes. I heard that initially there were complaints before the vegetable dumpling became purely vegetarian. These matched well with the ginger-soy sauce on offer.

Shrimp dumplings were the special on my few visits and they might’ve been my favorite, at least interspersed with a few pork and beefs because those can bog you down. I was expecting a mousse-like puree, but the seafood is chopped roughly and tossed with edamame beans, which provides more texture to chew on. I would pair these with chile oil.

Dumplings are a fine enough Chinese snack (though I’ll always have a soft spot for the greasy, cardboardy crab rangoon from Wing Hua—or is it Ting Hua? I always forget which is the one on Court Street) but what I’m really looking forward to are the noodle soups that will supposedly be on the menu in October. I love a good Asian noodle soup so I’m hoping that what ends up being served isn’t the equivalent of the sad black-charred pizzas coming out of not-so-far-away South Brooklyn Pizza. All I was told is that they will be Asian-ish, not totally traditional, and that short ribs will probably play a role.

Yes, so Eton currently has two menu items. Hawaiian-style shaved ice has equal billing with the dumplings but I don’t eat things like that so I can’t speak to the snocone-esque treats. I’m really not supposed to be eating sugar (yes, they have four sugar-free syrups—I just don’t like fruity icy things, except for maybe halo halo and that’s just because it looks insane) and when I do I save it for something over the top like the hot fudge sundae that almost put me into a genuine coma at the Jersey Shore last weekend. Sweetened ice just isn’t enough to sway me. I do like that the toppings range from mochi to marshmallow fluff, though.

Eton * 205 Sackett St., Brooklyn, NY

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Aug 3

Poodam’s

Poodam’s has reminded me once again of the lameness that is Brooklyn Thai food. Even an unassuming corner spot in that weird part of Astoria not far from the multiplex theater serves better food than any of the attention grabbers in Cobble Hill.

I’m almost certain that I’ve relayed this tale before but it clearly annoyed me enough that it’s still stuck in my craw more than a year after the fact. An extremely volatile, know-it-all former coworker with an MBA (who got fired shortly after I quit of free will) insisted that Joya in my neighborhood served the best Thai food she’d eaten in NYC. And I was like, “You’re nuts” which prompted the oh so sassy, “Have you even been to Thailand?” Uh, yeah I have, and then I thought she was crazier than I already did.

The Issan menu (they spell it e-san but I like it with an I) is what makes Poodam’s unique. When I see Northeastern Thai specialties, I stick to salads over curries.

I tend to imagine Thai sausage as grilled, stiff yet crumbly like this from a random Poodam’s diner. Yet whenever I order a salad with Thai sausage (which has only been twice, the other instance being at Lotus of Siam in Las Vegas) the style used is pale and boiled-seeming, more akin to weisswurst or bologna. I don’t mind these soft sliced links but it’s something to remember. Obviously, I enjoyed this rendition with tomatoes, red onions and a tart-hot dressing or else I would’ve remembered to have taken a photo before half of it was gone.

Normally, I prefer my duck a little fatty, crispy skin intact, but it also makes for a rich larb ingredient. Typically, there’s no added fat in a larb preparation (just broth) so a gamier meat than chicken works well. I’ve been known to make healthier larb at home with chicken breasts but that’s not something I’d want to eat in a restaurant.

The fried fish was more Chinesey in flavor though I can’t put my finger on what made it so. Maybe it’s soy instead of fish sauce? I’ve noticed this effect with certain basil and chile preparations. Whole, crispy bass is a treat.

Drunken noodles just because. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t order noodles with a Thai meal because they seem like a distracting thing unto itself.

My Poodam’s review for Nymag.com

Poodam’s * 44-19 Broadway, Astoria, NY

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Jul 30

Dovetail

I tend to think people who have a hard time navigating Brooklyn, or rather flat out refuse to visit Brooklyn, are on the retarded side. But maybe I should lighten up because I’m clueless about the nuances of navigating anything uptown. On my way to my birthday dinner, I managed to end up at 125th Street when I only meant to go to 81st.

Normally, this wouldn’t be the biggest deal– how many times do you arrive on the dot for a reservation only to be made to wait at the bar–but it turns out that Dovetail is persnickety about punctuality. It was just frustrating because I’m always on time, if not on the early side.

Well, my sweaty and late arrival at 7:15 (by my watch—7:20 according to James) was tardy enough that our 7pm table was given away to walk-ins. Fine, do Friday evening business as you must. However, what was kind of offputting according to James was that the hostess (who oddly dressed like a woman in her 40s but was probably two decades younger) apparently gave him the once over, then asked in so many words if his date was really going to show up. Like it’s been 15 minutes, are you sure that don’t want to just give up this waiting charade? I don’t know that that’s the best way to start off a customer’s dining experience.

So, I was initially soured a bit. I try to separate service from food but when you’re spending hundreds of dollars the two are kind of inextricable. You start thinking in more critical terms. I will say that the servers were professional and gracious, though we both got paranoid when a besuited gentleman we hadn’t seen all night, likely a manager, came over towards the end of the meal to check on us and took our dessert order. We became convinced that we were being watched, bugged and/or expedited for taking too long at the table.

Amuses: a mini taco-like crepe, turnip, and salmon with crème fraiche.

I was excited about the deconstructed muffaleta and wasn’t disappointed. I would never think to batter and pan-fry a lamb’s tongue and serve it with ham, salami and provolone, thinly sliced olive ovals and a capery mayonnaise. But I’m glad that someone else thought of this creation.

Compare the striated meat and cheese cross section of a classic muffaletta to Dovetail’s more refined roulade of layers that they call presse.

I’m not certain what cut of pork this is. The chop contained nice amounts of fat and char, and there’s a crispy strip tucked behind. I wasn’t imagining the chickpeas and fennel united in a chunky Indian-spiced puree, or the peaches at all. The meat was so good, though, that I didn’t ponder the slightly unharmonious side components.

I recently discovered that my birthday falls on National Hot Fudge Sundae day. I do love a sundae but that’s the type of dessert you can only ever find (at least in a straightforward fashion) at chain restaurants or Luger (no, you’re not going to catch me saying Luger’s). Instead, I shared a super buttery brown sugared bread pudding. It was the bacon brittle and rum ice cream that sold me.

Curry marshmallows and fudgey squares were our parting treats.

Clearly, I’m more provincial than I’d care to admit. I like to imagine that I’m intrepid but in the future I’ll probably limit special occasion dining to restaurants that are less than an hour away by subway. But I wouldn’t hesitate recommending Dovetail to anyone residing on the Upper West Side or vicinity.

Dovetail * 103 W. 77th St., New York, NY

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Jul 23

James

1/2 Do you think people are swayed by businesses with the same name as their own? I would because I'm a cornball, but the only establishment I'm aware of that falls into this category is the Krista Hotel I recently saw in Buenos Aires.

I didn't choose new restaurant James simply because I was dining with someone named James, though it's possible that I was lightly influenced. Really, I was thinking of not terribly far away Brooklyn neighborhoods I rarely dine in like Prospect Heights, Fort Greene and Ditmas Park. I'm just not sold on South Brooklyn as neighborhood even after four years here so I'm testing the waters through restaurants.

James is pleasant in that handsome dark wood, painted white brick and pressed tin ceilings punctuated by hanging filament bulbs style that's been au courant for a few years. Nearby Flatbush Farm isn't a wildly different animal. The area can definitely sustain two seasonal restaurants with prominent bars, though.

Sure, there are small plates…and proper entrees too (mostly above $20, for what it's worth). I'm all for a normal dinner-sized portion but something about the wilting humidity combined with offerings that just sounded ok, not amazing (I can't define an amazing sounding entrée but I know it when I see it, and I will concede that James the dining companion's lamb with big fat white beans looked good) prompted me to order the burger. I never order the burger.

The grass-fed beef was juicy and flavorful, perfectly medium-rare. Topped with sharp Cotswold cheddar and served on toasted brioche, this was a more elegant burger specimen. My only complaint is that the patty was a little stubby and tall, and not wide enough to fill up all of the bun. I cut the sandwich in half and this caused the patty to bunch up at the flat cut edges, so that when you tried to grip the half-circle the meat kept sliding out. I don't think it's overly fussy to want your patty to stay put.

I envisioned a cocktail with our shared starter of prawns with a lemony sunchoke puree and a glass of Syrah with the burger but they brought out all of our food at the same time, which is a pet peeve I didn't realize I had. Maybe I'm fussier than I thought. It doesn't just throw off the balance of a meal and lets food get cold, it's physically tough at a two-top. It certainly wasn't the end of the world.

The ginger fizz with rhizome-infused vodka and mint was refreshing. I've always preferred ginger in beverages than in food where sometimes it's jarring. I would've passed on dessert but if one is ordered and put in front of me I can't not take a few bites.

Described as ricotta beignets, the blobs were more like coconut-crusted fritters. Fried, sweet and cheesey is a hard combo to resist. A raspberry-red wine coulis tarted them up.

James is a perfectly likable restaurant, but with so many worthy spots competing for attention in the city I wouldn't feel compelled to return in the immediate future. But it's definitely worth stopping in if you happen to be in Prospect Heights, maybe for a cocktail and a few small dishes.

James * 605 Carlton Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Jul 21

Cafe Hon

I've never quite understood why lampooning certain white folk stereotypes like rednecks, hillbillies, guidos, WASPs and I guess hipsters is considered fair game for anyone but poking fun of other ethnicities or religions is off limits. Really, I think everyone should be made fun, but that's neither here nor there.

I wasn't sure what to make of the whole "hon" phenomena in Baltimore (and apparently, a backlash is growing, so I'm not alone in my feelings). There's a fine line between homage and parody, and I realize the reverence for a gum chomping, cat-eye glass wearing, big-haired, working class archetype that's fading from the city's fabric is a harmless form of kitsch gone mainstream.

But it's strange. I couldn't imagine a New York version. The best example I can come up with would be if a younger, wealthier more educated demographic moved into, say, Bay Ridge (Staten Island might be more fitting after this incident) and started a guido movement complete with festivals where guys showed up with orange tans, waxed eyebrows, hair gelled into impossible spikes, gold chains, smooth muscled skin encased in form fitting tank tops.

And then someone opened a place called Café Guido and decked it out with lots of marble, Greek columns and lion statues. Actually, that would be kind of funny. But I don't know if would fly because guidos are steroidal and aggro. And you know, buildings have been known to mysteriously burn down.

So no, I don't think Café Hon is offensive, I just like tangents about strange snowballs of appropriated culture. And don't think that the clientele is mostly youngsters (though here, and nearly everywhere I went had at least one large group of Asians. I came to the conclusion that they must be Johns Hopkins students because the girls looked nerdy studious not quirky cutesy like the ones white dudes in Brooklyn like to date). When I was there for brunch, there were plenty of cranky old people. One gentleman with an oxygen tank couldn't get over the fact that there were no hot dogs or hamburgers on the brunch menu. He'd have to wait until 4pm for the burger on the dinner menu and hot dogs weren't going to happen at any hour.