Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

Jun 17

La Brigada

La Brigada wasn’t on my original itinerary, but after taking such a shining to grilled grass-fed beef we had to add another parrilla to our eating plans at the last minute. I wasn’t crazy about San Telmo, which seemed to be a favorite tourist neighborhood and felt mildly sketchy. But La Brigada (along with El Desnivel) appeared to be the biggies in the area and seemed worth at try.

In hindsight, maybe we should’ve tried El Desnivel because our meal ended up being pricey. Not even close to NYC pricey (my steak was like $16 but I was aware that 50 pesos was hefty by local standards) but still like you were being gouged for choosing a foreigner’s greatest hits type place. Well, except the food was good.

Trying to find a source of comparison between La Brigada and La Cabrera (my favorite), I would say that La Brigada is like a Little Italy restaurant if those restaurants actually served quality food, and that La Cabrera would be more like an outer borough creative place like, say a di la. Don’t ask why I’m using Italian food to compare Argentine steakhouses.

I was starting to get nervous because my time in town was running out and I hadn’t tried a provoleta yet. This had to be rectified since it was our final dinner. When gorging on beef isn’t enough, one must make an appetizer of grilled provolone cheese rubbed in olive oil and herbs like oregano (you can buy these ready to cook at grocery stores—we picked one up and ate it cold before realizing its intended purpose). And I must say that this was even better than I’d imagined in my head. Only a freak doesn’t enjoy melted cheese. The edges were crusty and added a whole other dimension of aged tanginess. This was no processed slab of dairy. Provoleta is definitely a candidate for best low carb snack ever.

Ok, so I accidentally ordered the bife de chorizo, generally an expensive cut, when I really wanted to try tira de asado (short ribs cut like for kalbi) but first asked a question about the size of the bife to gauge whether full portions here were too much for one (they weren’t anywhere near La Cabrera dimensions, one hungry person could handle them) and because of language confusion our waiter wrote down bife de chorizo as my order and I just went with it because I’m even more passive in Spanish than in English.

James ordered the lomo (filet mignon). We knew what this was but it was another weird Argentine wording just how bife de chorizo has nothing to do with chorizo the sausage. In NYC at least, lomo usually means pork.

These were some classy cuts of meat and tender beyond belief, as was demonstrated by our waiter who cut the damn things in front of us using spoons for effect. I would never ever utter wretched phrases like “melts in your mouth” or “cuts like butter” but yeah, the spoon cutting was kind of impressive.

Honestly, I prefer gnarlier cuts of meat because they have more flavor. I like fatty blobs, bones and burnt bits on the edges. These steaks were almost too pure for me.

Papas fritas, of course.

And panqueque number two. I couldn’t bear to branch out beyond the dulce de leche filled crepe even though everyone else seemed to be enjoying Don Pedros (ice cream topped with whiskey). The waiters divvied everything up here on individual plates.

Afterward, we decided to walk over to Puerto Madero and find someplace to have a drink. I couldn’t imagine what this area was like but from descriptions it seemed like a classier Atlantic City boardwalk (the insanely designed Faena Hotel is over there). In reality, it seemed like Battery Park City, and at 11pm on a Thursday, a total ghost town. We could never figure out all the hype in guidebooks about partying and drinking all night. Perhaps we were in the wrong places at the wrong times (later as our cab approached our neighborhood, bars were so packed people were pouring into the street) but things seemed dead everywhere we went and were closed by 2am.

I think we were already fueled by quite a bit of Malbec because we became convinced that the strip of flashy restaurants and new high-rise apartments couldn’t be all there was to Puerto Madero. Then James insisted that the Rio de la Plata was just beyond this development and we should go see it.

We ended up along some well-manicured parks that might be nice during the day, but felt eerie when empty. We only encountered a priest, then one lone dog, no owner in sight, standing at the top of a big grassy hill and barking mournfully into the night. I’m not scared of dogs but he was giving me the heebies. I wasn’t sure if it was ok to be in this area at night. There weren’t proper streetlights and just the occasional car passing by.

But then a lit café with some lingering patrons appeared in a grassy patch and I was all for just stopping there and heading back. But James was convinced the water was just across the road. There was a cement promenade that had a few makeshift stands grilling meat. This was kind of cool because I hadn’t seen any street food to speak of in Buenos Aires and am still sad I never tried a choripan. But we were full from dinner. There were a few guys hanging around in folding chairs but I still wasn’t sure if this was an ok place to be wandering around in the dark.

The promenade looked like it should be overlooking the sea but as it was pitch black we couldn’t see the horizon until we got right up on it and there was only dim grasslands. Huh? I guess the Rio de la Plata was further than we thought. There was nothing more than a big marshy pampas patch that creeped the hell out of me. There were big, wide stairs to go down closer but I was afraid creatures might jump out. Or more realistically we’d stumble upon random sex acts—it was then that I noticed anti-prostitution graffiti stenciled on the cement.

Later, I figured out that this is an ecological preserve and looks much less ominous during the day.

I never know when to be genuinely on guard in foreign cities. After getting robbed in Vancouver B.C. (seriously, Canada?!) years ago, the only city I’ve ever visited where anything bad has ever happened, I’ve learned not to be a cocky New Yorker (where you can’t always judge a neighborhood’s dangerousness based on how ratty it is). If you have a bad feeling you should trust it.

So, we hightailed it back to the populated well-lit docks and couldn’t find anyplace suitable for a drink (everything seemed about to close or more of a restaurant than bar). In desperation, I singled out TGI Friday’s where I was treated to an expensive margarita that barely tasted alcoholic and was rimmed with table salt. But at least I got to fit one American chain into the vacation.

La Brigada * Estados Unidos 765, Buenos Aries, Argentina

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Jun 15

Cafe Tortoni

1/2 Sure, Café Tortoni is touristy but it’s also historic (the oldest café in Argentina—we just don’t have that many 150-year-old establishments in the US) and I didn’t feel bad for stopping in for a traditional breakfast of espresso and medialunas. It's not even close to being the Carnegie Deli or Magnolia Bakery of Buenos Aires.

I assumed the croissants would be buttery and French, but this specimen at least, was crackly and sugar glazed more like a flaky cookie. I was more interested in all of the new-to-me fracturas (pastries) but you can’t really order them from your table if you don’t know their names.

James ordered a ham and cheese sandwich. I really like these simple jamon Serrano bocadillos like you find in Spain. Cured meat is so much more exciting than deli ham.

Café Tortoni * Avenida de Mayo 825, Buenos Aires, Argentina

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Jun 14

Bar de Gallego

No, this isn’t chicken fried steak. It’s not a schnitzel either, though it could be. This blobby, pounded, battered and pan-fried beef cutlet is a milanesa, and they’re quite popular casual fare in Argentina (and other parts of Latin America too—it’s a common filling for Mexican tortas).

I had to try one, and old-school Bar de Gallego, holding-out on a corner in gentrifying (fied?) Palermo Hollywood, seemed like the right place to try one during Saturday lunch, mere minutes after we arrived in town. I saw quite a few milanesas coming out of the kitchen, some decked out with melted cheese and tomato sauce, napolitana-style with giant mounds of mashed potatoes on the side. I had to draw the line and stick with the lemon juice-only purism. French fries are part of the combo. French fries are always part of the combo.

This was my first meal in Buenos Aires and I noticed a lot of things. One, women were eating seriously hearty food, leaving no leftovers and they were all quite svelte. Argentines challenged my notion that only Asian girls can eat whatever they want. In fact, I’m more convinced than ever that pretty much everyone else except me can eat whatever they please to no ill effect. Two, no one eats ketchup with their fries. I’m ok with this, but I don’t recall ever seeing a bottle anywhere and papas fritas are on like every menu in town, high and low. Three, Argentine food is essentially meat and potatoes to the point where the blandest American palate wouldn’t be offended.

Which isn’t to say that the cuisine is flavorless, they just don’t like spicy food. Neither do Spaniards, Swedes and plenty of residents on the planet. (As an aside, I’m not sure where the notion that all Latinos eat hot food comes from. Mexican food certainly is picante, and other nationalities use chiles, especially in condiments, but I wouldn’t characterize most of these cuisines as fiery. And I don’t know that all Argentines even consider themselves Latino, which is a whole other aside.)

So, my thin crisp slab of meat and surprisingly crunchy, non-mealy steak fries (normally, I don't like fat fries) were satisfying, and perfect as is, I was just speculating that if I were eating them at home I know I would break out the Sriracha. Maybe I’m afraid of naked food.

To me, costillas are ribs, but here they turned out to be deliciously meaty, properly fatty ‘50s-style pork chops. None of that lean other white meat business. And for approximately $5 we weren’t expecting two slabs. Also with fries, of course. I only had one (ok, two) bites because this was James’s dish.

I’d much rather be downing a breaded cutlet and bottle of Quilmes than the peanut butter toast and iced black coffee I’m looking at this Saturday afternoon.

Bar de Gallego * Bonpland 1703, Buenos Aires, Argentina

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Jun 13

La Cabrera

1/2 La Cabrera is the perfect starting point for Buenos Aires restaurant rehashing (which I’m trying to keep short and sweet) as it’s where we wildly indulged in steak on the day we arrived and the day we left the city. Of the four parrillas we tried, this was easily our favorite.

It’s definitely baffling because they kind of embody much that I hate: long waits, stifling crowds and rickety tables cramped closer together than the worst Manhattan perpetrator. And normally, being passed over when all the other customers waiting outside for seats were being handed free glasses of champagne would’ve been the last straw. But yes, the fact that we returned six days after our first visit is a testament to their allure.

It did have the advantage of being a ten-minute walk from our apartment, just across the railroad tracks, but that was just a happenstance bonus.

The steakhouse is not traditional in that it’s a touch more stylish them some (though not slick). The décor is typically woody and rustic, but the music is more ambient techno than acoustic guitar folksy, and instead of standard papas fritas on the side, you’re plied with baker’s dozen of ramekins containing pickled and creamed vegetables and starches, banchan-style. The portions are enormous, completely high quality and were priced well below our expectations ($61 for meat, sides, dessert, bottle of Malbec and glass of champagne, all for two). It set the standard for the rest of the week where meat wasn’t always so monstrously sized, wine glasses weren’t filled so tall and desserts not as decadent. We practically peaked on night one.

Bread basket and pimento cheese spread. Southern hemisphere meets the American south.

We couldn’t gauge portion sizes based on price because everything seemed reasonable by NYC standards. We initially ordered a bife de chorizo (sirloin) and an ojo de bife (rib eye) and thankfully were told that that was insane (I think my Spanish classes are finally starting to pay off—while I still can barely speak coherently, I understood way more on this trip compared to Mexico City last May, and had little trouble communicating). Instead, it was suggested that we order media portions of each, which still ended up being gargantuan at half-size. Being big leftover advocates (which is kind of frowned on here, but I just can’t waste food), we were excited to learn that para llevar is completely normal in Buenos Aires and we were offered doggie bags throughout the week for things that even I wouldn’t normally bother wrapping up.

The sides on the plank include white beans two ways, one with parsley the other with tomatoes, an eggplant caponata, endive with creamy dressing, baby potatoes in another creamy sauce and the only accompaniment that scared me: cold rice tossed with what I suspect was mayonnaise.

As you can see the ojo de bife on the right is a little pinker because I asked for it “jugoso.” I’d heard horror stories about overcooked meat, but that never turned out to be a problem even when doneness wasn’t specified.

Clockwise from the top: whipped sweet potato, mashed potatoes, black olives in a tomato sauce, creamed mushrooms, roasted garlic, raisin applesauce and onions pickled in red wine vinegar in the center.

Here’s what I hate to admit: I swear I can’t tell the difference between grass-fed beef and our corn-fed style. I don’t doubt that I could detect nuances in a side-by-side taste test but I only eat steak in the US maybe two or three times a year so the flavor wasn’t easily conjurable.

I’ve never been beef-crazed, but while in Buenos Aires I found myself wanting more and more meat, seriously, even while chewing I was already planning ahead to where we could try more the next day. When I thought for sure I would burn out after two meals and the opposite occurred, I realized something unusual was going on.

Most beef here is just boring, that’s the problem. This meat had some chewiness, the flavor strong and pure. Much of the wow came from the contrast between outer char and inner tenderness. I do think they trim their meat less, leaving desirable (to me) pockets of fat.

I love dulce de leche filled crepes, a.k.a. panqueque. This was a fancy rendition with fresh cream, peach slices and ice cream that tasted like nutmeg and cinnamon. For someone who’s not supposed to be eating sugar, this is the type of tooth-achey concoction I’ll make an exception for because I like my desserts super-sweet and gooey, all or nothing.

We did receive a complimentary glass of champagne after dessert, which nearly made up for being alcohol-slighted during our 45-minute stint outside. Yes, even while trying to relax on vacation I hold grudges.

* * *

Luckily, we were able to squeeze in a lunch before having to head to the airport and I finally got my morcilla. The dark innards inside the casing were very moist and soft and slightly sweet. If they weren’t called blood sausages, I don’t think Americans would be so scared of them. Ok, I guess the blobs look scary, too. They cracked out chimichurri (which doesn’t come with most steaks in Buenos Aires, contrary to the condiment’s ubiquitousness in US Argentine restaurants) as well as an oniony tomato puree.

We ordered half an ojo de bife. Interestingly, the sides weren’t exactly the same this time and included hummus which was a tasty oddity. And yes, we took the steak remnants to go, packed them in a suitcase and ate them for dinner back in Brooklyn. Quite possibly the best souvenir ever.

La Cabrera * Cabrera 5009, Buenos Aires, Argentina

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Jun 10

Annabelle’s

Twelve hours after returning from one of the most spice-adverse cities I’ve ever visited, I was dying for Sichuan food. I always end up back in NYC wanting something I couldn’t get while on vacation no matter how great the local food was. But not everyone shares my enthusiasm for Chinese food and Bay Ridge dining, so instead I convinced a friend to check out Annabelle’s in the former Lillie’s space in Red Hook, almost directly across from the about-to-open-Ikea.

I’m not sure what I think about the restaurant and I’m not sure that it knows what it’s trying to be either. I would say that it’s more of a bar, despite not having their beer taps up and running yet. But they started closing up at midnight, which is no hour for a drinking establishment to shutter.

Around 10pm on a Saturday the dim room (so dark that my photos are next to useless—I’m only including one here, but there are a few others) was nearly empty, but we were committed to eating. The service is friendly and earnest, and while the handsome space has lost a lot of the kitsch, it retains a retro aesthetic. I didn’t see the reported garden because the heat lightening and drizzles kept me inside.

The menu leans towards seafood dishes and po boys, which isn’t surprising since fish is the chef’s thing (I’ve never eaten at Petite Crevette, but I did try Bouillabaisse 126 once during a blizzard). The trouble is the pricing seems a bit skewed for the environs. This still isn’t an area for destination dining even though The Good Fork wins accolades and 360 was an upscale pioneer while it lasted. Entrees hovered around $20 and sandwiches were in the low teens. Perhaps they’re banking on a new crowd hungrier for more than Swedish meatball combos and willing to shell out for it. Degentrification clearly is not fazing them.

With that said, the food wasn’t bad. I would even say that it was good but it would’ve tasted better for a few bucks less (though to be fair, I recently spent more at Bonefish Grill, but I have different standards for chains and “real” restaurants). Lots of butter and lemon juice can work wonders on anything. At least it did for my soft-shell crab, shrimp with cubed pan-fried potatoes and shredded zucchini and peppers.

I don’t doubt that I’ll return for a drink at some point but I’m not fully sold on the restaurant concept. In a way Annabelle’s sums up Red Hook: high on quirk, pricier than it should be and full of potential.

p.s. Ok, now I'm utterly confused. I just stumbled on this bit about Annabelle's being the bar half and La Bouillabaisse as the attached restaurant. I swear to god I didn't see a proper restaurant anywhere. Was I completely jetlagged and blind? For what it's worth, I'm fairly certain we were eating off of a restaurant menu and not an abbreviated bar menu. I think I would've had different expectations if had I been eating in a dining room.

p.p.s. I was told that Bouillabaisse would be opening in two weeks, which probably means more like two months. (6/18/08)

Annabelle’s * 44 Beard St., Brooklyn, NY

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May 21

Grayz

Grayz is very much a grown up restaurant, though that Z at the end has always struck me as an ill conceived youthful affectation. It only recently occurred to me that it’s a homophone, tweaking the chef’s surname to play on the on the small plates grazing concept. Ok, I get it, but I’m still not crayzee about the name.

So, Grayz is grown up in that they serve pricey fancies masquerading as bar snacks (and that the average diner’s age prime time Saturday hovered in the 50s). I’m not in the habit of dropping $39 on finger food (rebate check burning a hole in my pocket or not) but I found my cobbled together dinner more enjoyable, or should I say awesome (it was our waitress’s favorite adjective) than expected. Civilized has its place every now and then.

James insisted the room reminded him of some Atlantic City Trump restaurant where we had a middle-of-the-night burger a few Fourth of Julys ago. There were some tame chandeliers, mini-banquettes and recessed lighting peeking out of undulating ceiling cutouts but I wouldn’t call the earth toned townhouse garish. It’s not my taste, but it’s hardly Trumpy.

I’ve been obsessed with crème de violette, mostly because of its intense color. I meant to track some down around Christmas to make an Aviation but never got around to it, so I was happy to see this cocktail on their list. It’s hard to tell from the photo (the dim lighting was murder, as you can see) but the color is a pale ever so slight periwinkle. I was expecting a cherry, but they garnished with orange peel. The flavor was more bitter than sweet, in a quinine way, but my taste could’ve been skewed from sucking so many sugar free cough drops last week.

Bread basket with yogurt dipping sauce. The herbs might’ve been fresh oregano.

Complimentary lamb sausage amuse. The fluff was similar to baba ghanoush.

What I hadn’t anticipated was how Asian many of the ingredients and preparations would be. A special involving the words fish and dumplings caught our attention, but these little patties were straight up tod mun pla. Funny, because fish cake would’ve kept me away—they’re one of the only Thai treats that I’m ho hum on.

Ceviche was composed of kampachi and fluke squiggles rather than chunks or slices. The citrus was meyer lemon, which kept the acid level tame.

Weisswurst was a fun diversion. Why not plump ghostly sausages with sweet mustard? I wisely lost my carb consciousness for a warm pretzel.

Here’s the $39 prize. Well, they were very satisfying short ribs, but yeah, spendy. The sauce was flavored with tarragon and horseradish but I swear garam masala was hiding in the mix. There was a distinct earthy Indian quality to the beef.

We probably didn’t need a dessert, especially since I wasn’t bowled over by what I ordered anyway. I’m old fashioned about sweets and when I hear white chocolate brownie I envision homey and rich. This creation was sharp and crumbly like eating shortbread and pineapple. If I had known that we were going to be gifted with two truffles (coconut and possibly passion fruit) and a tuile at meal’s end, I would’ve skipped this course.

Read my extremely condensed version for nymag.com

Grayz * 13 W. 54th St., New York, NY

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May 19

Saint Germain

I don’t brunch even in the most brunchy of neighborhoods so finding someplace inoffensive to eat a late breakfast/early lunch in Bay Ridge kind of threw me. No, it didn’t have to be Bay Ridge or nothing but I’d decided to take the exciting task of finding a new kitchen trashcan to Brooklyn’s Century 21. Why not combine such fun with a nearby meal?

We were quoted 45 minutes at Tanoreen, my first choice. And if I’ve learned anything about estimated waits it’s that they always exceed reality (except at chain restaurants where they’re eerily accurate). I got out of there pronto.

We naively crossed the street to check out some nondescript place across the street but had the crap scared out of us by a sea of neighborhood Mother’s Day prix-fixers. Without reservations we were offered a table through two dining rooms, in a tent on a heated patio. That was not going to work either.

After a drive and a walk we ended up at Saint Germain, a cute, well-intentioned café with good enough food and frighteningly scatterbrained service. As long as you’re not in a hurry it’s fine, and with only garbage can finding on my agenda, this was within the realm of acceptability.

This also appeared to be a Mother’s Day hotspot but we weren’t forced into any mandatory set menu. We did opt for the prix fixe, though, which includes eggy things and croque monsieurs, coffee, fresh-squeezed juice (at least I think) and a dessert from the glass case near the door. For $16.95 you might expect a morning eye-opener, but mimosas and the like (I don’t understand mojitos and caiparinhas at Frenchie bistros) were extra, and frankly, a drink was the last thing I needed.

I expected a dainty omelet but this was American in proportions. Really it was more egg than anything and not overstuffed in the least. Thinly sliced ham, melting brie and large tangles of spinach stayed tidy and tucked inside. The combination was pleasant but I regretted not ordering something with hollandaise. Since I never eat breakfast food I like doing it was gusto. The potatoes were surprisingly good and unmealy. In fact, they almost tasted deep-fried they were so crispy.

The post meal dessert seemed to be their calling card; everyone appeared genuinely excited to get up and peek in the case to make their big decision. The rational part of me wasn’t going to partake in that course but after seeing all of the little cakes and pastries I lost my nerve and joined in.

Hopelessly unnatural or not, I love the vivid fake greens used to signify pistachio. The marizipan-like goo’s sweetness was offset by the pears, which were more fruity texture than cloying. I think it was a good use of sugar, carbs and all that.

Because I know you’re wondering, Century 21 was a bust. You have no idea how difficult it is finding a simple Rubbermaid-like foot pedal garbage canister and not one of those $100+ stainless steel ones. Already on a ridiculous goose chase, we ended up at the polar opposite of Carroll Gardens: bizarre planned community Starrett City, home to the borough’s only Bed Bath & Beyond. Oh, and the only Tuscan-style Olive Garden I’ve ever seen in the city (yes, I'm obsessed with America's Tuscan obsession). It was worth the journey for a peep at that stone-clad monstrosity, alone.

Saint Germain * 8303 Third Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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May 13

La Mancha

La Mancha’s the weirdest place. It almost feels hidden in plain sight or at least ignored, not innovative enough to ride the Spanish new wave and lacking the history and rundown charm of the West Village holdouts. The food is straightforward, hearty, a bit stodgy and not inexpensive (though portions are generous). I felt kind of bad for not returning in over three years, though I never have such guilt over avoiding also nearby Smith Street restaurants.

And after having lackluster dining experiences the past two Saturdays, I was determined to have a pleasant evening this weekend and thankfully succeeded (three glasses of Tempranillo might’ve helped--I did notice my photos becoming progressively blurry, a final interior shot was completely unfocused and useless). James is the one who declared Ghenet and Kimchi Hana to be busts and insisted on making 9pm reservations this time, despite my protests that this was strange and unnecessary.

The room couldn’t possibly be teeming and it wasn’t. Maybe 40% full, there was a family with small children, one couple, one solo diner, a few groups and then a foursome who stomped in loudly and a woman in their party proceeded to fall out of her chair. Were they drunk? Or at least that’s what I thought until I realized it had collapsed beneath her, which normally might be funny but somehow wasn’t especially when I noticed how wobbly mine was too.

Pickled vegetables, like giardiniera (I just like that word because it’s so close to giardia) but probably escabeche to be properly Spanish.

Green salad with an aioli dressing comes with entrees. This touch, as well as the warm bread with little foil-topped plastic packets of butter is what make the meal seem fusty. These are trademarks I associate with an older audience, requisites that are expected of a sit down restaurant dinner.

Picada, a tapas sampling worked out well because ordering three individual items would’ve been too much to spend and eat. Jamon Serrano, nicely fatty around the edges and not paper thin either. I’m reminded of how salty and boring prosciutto is when compared to meaty, substantial Serrano. I’m honestly not sure what makes a ham prosciutto or Serrano and if it’s related to the pig or the processing (I’ve fantasized about curing my own ham, and it looks like a fellow Brooklynite recently did just that). Triangles of manchego, green olives and sautéed garlicky chorizo rounded out the plate.

I just wasn’t swayed by any of the meat-centric entrees, which revolved around veal, chicken or steak. They might be good but descriptions involving wine, garlic and olive oil (yes Spanish, staples) just seemed kind of blah and continental. We went the obvious route with paella Valenciana.

It was a fair enough rendition, the grains of rice neither mushy nor overly firm, with plenty of chorizo, clams and octopus. I always worry about dry chicken (when I’m eating it, not all the time) and yes, the hunks of breast meat had a little too much life cooked out of them. The serving for two easily could’ve fed a few more if you were sharing other main dishes.

The food isn’t dazzling, but the mood is easygoing and service friendly. It’s resolutely a neighborhood joint and I wouldn’t want to fool anyone into thinking it’s a destination restaurant. But as far as the Henry/Atlantic nexus is concerned, you could do much worse.

I later trotted across the BQE onramp and over to the weirdo side of Carroll Gardens that's only three blocks from my apartment (no, that's not Red Hook) where stroller madness in bars has yet take hold, and for good reason: the hodgepodge area is brimming with old school freaks. While sipping a few pints of Brooklyn Lager at Moonshine, I was fascinated by brothers who had to take turns coming and going due to restraining orders. But most baffling and frightening was the human personification of Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force. I’ve never heard such a pitch perfect voice, yet with a ponytail attached to the balding noggin.

Thankfully, he wasn’t harassing me because I’m old and attached, but the ladies sitting at the bar next to me got a detailed cooking lesson about how to make a steak (add balsamic vinegar) and mashed potatoes (don’t use a blender). This imagined meal riled up Carl, he got all crazed and spouted, “I want to take a bite out of crime…and you’re crime!” then after a pause, “But not in a sexual way.” Because that would just be wrong. (5/11/08)

May 10

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Kimchi Hana & Bon Chon Chicken Staten Island

Coordinating out-of-the-city errands isn’t always easy. I wanted drivable Korean fried chicken but that would involve Queens or Northern New Jersey and neither of those were places where I wanted to shop (Union and Middlesex counties).

Then I remembered Bon Chon Staten Island, which would be en route to my desired part of the Garden State. Initially, I didn’t believe there was such a branch, but more than once I found those keywords misguidedly bringing searchers to this site so I had to investigate. Yes, there’s Korean fried chicken in Staten Island. Weird. For all its bravado, Brooklyn certainly lacks in the Asian food arena, multiple Chinatowns or not.

But I wanted sit-down rather than takeout, which was the impression I’d gotten about S.I., so fried chicken was nixed and general Korean was substituted into the schedule. I’ll admit that I’m kind of a Korean food idiot having never ventured past the obvious like bbq and bibimbap. I do like spicy and pickled so there’s no reason why I should avoid it, it’s just never around.

Based on some internet randomness, I settled on Kimchi Hana in South Plainfield’s Middlesex Mall. Now, Middlesex Mall is only a mall in that there’s a row of storefronts; some are empty, others occupied by the likes of Dollar Tree, Radio Shack (which saved my life with in-stock earphone pads. Do you know how difficult it is to find replacement pads for earbuds in stores? I ended up ordering from Amazon and incorrectly buying the wrong size, which were the circumference of an oatmeal cookie) and a more busted looking Macy’s than the one on Fulton Mall, which also isn’t a real mall. I knew what I was in for after reading a local resident’s lament.

What didn’t occur to me was to make a reservation. I clearly don’t have the suburban know-how down because I don’t equate strip mall restaurants with advance planning. And it was busy at an early-ish 7pm, but not insanely so. No one was waiting in the lobby when we showed up. We weren’t asked if we had reservations, though, just whether or not we wanted a bbq table. It seemed like getting a grill would be a problem, plus I trying to expand my culinary horizons, so we went the easiest route and agreed to any table available, which ended up being a standard four-seater in the back half of the smoky room.

This was fine for about ten minutes while we tried to interpret some language on the menu. There was a section of grilled meats but it said you could only order those at bbq tables (though later we noticed cast iron plates of kalbi and the like on grill-free tables. Perhaps they meant you just couldn’t cook it yourself?). While pondering, a woman who seemed to be the boss, came over and told us that we needed to move because someone had reserved this table.

Here we go…the Saturday night nuisance again (and I don’t need anonymous assholes telling me to stay home, thanks, everyone’s entitled to a reasonable dining experience). I don’t mind sitting at a two-top but I could already foresee a problem with fitting dishes into the abbreviated space. The banchan alone (which I do love about Korean cuisine) would take up a majority of the open area.

There were seven dishes, a spinach-like vegetable was off to the left. Those pictured included kimchi, baby bok choy, bean curd, octopus, radish and seaweed.

And sure enough, after ordering two appetizers and two entrees we were admonished, “That’s a lot of food.” No, not really. We were ordering a reasonably sized meal and it was now up to them to figure out how they were going to fit all of the dishes.

Sashimi came first, and the raised wooden board wasn’t too much of a hindrance. These were some hefty slabs of fish and considerably fresher than the disconcertingly room temperature slices I’d been served the previous day at Gold St. in the Financial District.

The girthy pajun arrived soon after. Pan-fried cakes can get a little doughy, though this seafood-stuffed one maintained a fair amount of crispiness. I will admit that these greasy treats are probably better divvied up between more than two diners, especially since it doesn’t lend itself to leftovers.

The seafood hot pot was a bit problematic to eat because of broth’s high temperature (the photo is steamy) and the weight of the vessel. Normally, I would ask for two small bowls as other tables seemed to have but there was nowhere to put them. So, I had to carefully rearrange the other dishes and scoot the little cauldron near me, trying not to splash, eat a few bites, then maneuver it back towards James so he could have some.

The soup was black pepper and chile flake hot, the type that doesn’t hit until you swallow and get the urge to cough. A little of everything was included: shell-on crab chunk, clams, tiny shrimp, hefty tofu squares, wedges of fish and decorative pink-rimmed fish cake slice. It seemed right for a spring day that had turned chilly and wet.

Chicken was a misstep. I still had fried chicken on the brain so those two words jumped out at me from the kan poong gi description, but as you can see it was essentially sweet and sour chicken. There was a hint of heat and a scattering of bizarrely firm peas and carrots. It wasn’t horrific by any means but wasn’t what I was craving.

The danger of not eating what you wanted is that you (ok, I) will just end up double dinnering to make up for that empty feeling (in your soul, not your stomach, duh). But really, would two measly midnight snack wings harm anyone?

May 5

Bar Q

Another short-lived venture. (2/09)

I’ve yet to be swept up by the bbq mania that’s taken hold in NYC over the past few years. That could be why news of Bar Q’s opening didn’t initially motivate me. I’m not unfamiliar with Anita Lo’s refined Asian cooking and am aware that she wouldn’t be mesquite smoking brisket and slathering KC Masterpiece with abandon, but the words Bar and Q just dissuaded me.

Luckily, all it takes is a friend suggesting a food-related outing and I’m game. Sherri, my Momofuku Ko companion, tends to be my partner in dinner splurging. Small and pricey isn’t an easy sell for everyone (but then, I’m someone who balks at spending more than $30 on an item of clothing).

The cacophonous white-on-white space was full when I arrived at 8:30pm for a 9pm reservation. I was banking on a table opening up sooner and one did shortly after ordering a Filipino Spritz at the bar. This was sort of a joke to myself (I was out trying to kill time because James’s mom was in town for some Hispanic conference and spending the night at our apartment. The woman is insane beyond words, not in a funny way, and totally baffling in that she looks completely white, but was born and raised Filipina yet has weird disdain for the culture and claims to be Spanish, which appears to be her first language. So, James has this bias against Filipino things because of her influence, which just makes me like them more. I’d go to Manila in a second, he even has an office there, but it’s just not happening) but the prosecco, calimansi (which I falsely predicted would be big in 2004. Elderflower is hands down the cocktail ingredient of 2008, and yes, it was on the menu), aperol weren’t sugary and cloying, just slightly sweet and a touch bitter.

We ignored the raw bar menu (is the fish on Monday taboo still relevant?) mostly because everything cooked sounded so appealing. Ultimately, we split two appetizers and two entrees. Words like stuffed, fritters, crispy and tea smoked are magic to me. This is my favorite type of restaurant food; super concentrated flavors thanks to savory fish sauce, pickles, Chinese sausage and lots of pork. But portions are sparing enough that you don’t feel bogged down or overly monstrous. I guess Fatty Crab and Ssam Bar are cut from the same cloth, but there’s something so personality driven and over hyped about those two that I can’t bring myself to relent.

I hate breadbasket haters, it’s so Atkins 2004 but uh, I’m not supposed to be eating bread (I interpret this self-imposed dietary restriction semi-loosely, especially when it comes to things like pork buns) so marginally less starchy crackers were a boon for me. It’s not like I’m saying shrimp chips are healthy, but psychologically it deluded me since it wasn’t a hunk of French bread. I can take or leave pappadums, though.

unagi scallion fritters with a sweet soy dipping sauce. The problem with fritters is that sometimes the batter just clouds the ingredients. The eel was a bit subtle for me and got a little lost in the puff.

spit-roasted pork belly with kimchee, takuan and steamed buns. The pork buns more than made up for the fried nothings. It’s not soft unctuous pork belly but crackly like lechon (with the Filipino again) or chicharrones. Tartness always compliments fat, so spicy vingared kimchee and daikon added appropriate fresh crunch. I don’t know what the green sauce was.

stuffed spareribs with lemongrass bbq, peanut and thai basil. Tender boneless ribs were hiding out under a tuft of what I want to say was shaved daikon, and were stuffed with a blend of citrus from lemongrass, something funky either fish sauce or shrimp paste with a touch of peanut sweetness for balance. The combination was Thai-ish but not hot.

tea-smoked long island duck breast with chili and lemon. Chile (I can’t spell it chili) and lemon doesn’t fully explain the components, especially since sesame noodles are almost equally prominent as the medium-rare duck. I know some people lament surprises on the plate, but who is put off by noodles? I wasn’t, though I would say this was one of the more preciously sized dishes.

warm walnut soup with malted rice crispies. I only had a small bite of the dessert but it tasted like earth tones, kind of cinnamonny and graham cracker-ish. I’m not sure how fond Americans are of dessert soups, but at least there weren’t any Asian riffs on molten cakes.

Bar Q * 308 Bleecker St., New York, NY

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