Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

Jul 9

Fatty Crab

I finally broke down. Twenty-two months seemed like sufficient elapsed time to try Fatty Crab, a restaurant I was certain would make me grumpy. I first read about this soon-to-open meatpacking eatery while in Kuala Lumpur. Making Malaysian food palatable, nay, trendy to a Manhattan audience would seem no small feat so I was intrigued. But I was bothered by the name (why would you name a restaurant after a popular place that already exists in its home country? I would have the same problem if a Malaysian opened an upscale hot dog joint and called it Gray’s Papaya) and pedigree (Zak Pelaccio’s short-lived Chickenbone Café was one of my most loathed dining experiences in world history).

But I’ve been on a mission to try more new restaurants and not-so-new ones that I’ve intentionally overlooked (like Dressler last night—likeable food, mildly creepy crowd, at least in my section) and Fatty Crab definitely fit the latter category. So, I sucked it up and went in with an open mind. And…it was really, really good, ok?

I could get past the prices. It never makes sense when people complain about reinterpreted street food inflation. Of course in KL nasi lemak costs $3 (or less) not $16. And $3,000+ rentals aren’t normal there either. There’s Chinatown dim sum and Chinatown Brasserie’s version. It’s a choice, and I like both low and high (though I’m inclined to eat the cheapie renditions more often).

I was even able to overcome my severe melon aversion (I will concede that watermelon is the least offensive all melons) in order to try the watermelon pickle and crispy pork salad. Initially, I thought that I could’ve eaten way more of those luscious singed, blubbery cubes but I was quickly proven wrong after two (and about an hour later I developed a serious stomachache—I hope I’m not turning into those killjoy elderly folks who can’t handle anything rich or spicy). The sour rind coupled with the crisp sweetness of fresh fruit was kind of perfect with the meat.

I was bummed to note that laksa was no longer on the menu. I would’ve been good with a bowl of pungent fish and noodles. Instead, I settled for the skate panggang, which was appropriately hot and shrimp pasty (thanks to the sambal udang kering). Shrimp paste is the one ingredient that I thought would be a tough sell for New Yorkers. The first thing I noticed when entering the cramped nearly empty (it was 3:30pm–there was no way I was subjecting myself to a late night wait) dining room was the light perfume of toasty fermented shrimp. I like the odor but it seriously smells up a house (James can’t stand it and makes me keep my block of belacan wrapped tightly in plastic in the downstairs refrigerator crisper drawer).

We really overdid it with the fatty duck, which wasn’t my idea. The soy-based preparation was more Chinese in nature and also came blanketed with strips of pickled vegetable and slivered chiles to offset the poultry’s obvious fattiness. I don’t think I’ve typed the word fatty so many times in short space.

I’ll never be able to understand Zak Pelaccio’s absurd over saturation (Chodorow partnering? London? Ratatouille #1, Ratatouille #2. And I’m still not ok with all those mentions of his parents’ loft in the New York Times last summer) but sambal belecan with a Bloc Party soundtrack? It kind of works.

Fatty Crab * 643 Hudson St., New York, NY

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Jul 8

Rayuela

1/2 Cocktails might just be the star at Rayuela-at least that’s what the few reviews I’ve seen so far say–and I can see why. I tried three drinks and was most swayed by the simply named sherry, and not just because of the pyrotechnic flaming orange zest. The gesture wasn’t all flourish; a distinct bitter citrus flavor permeated the cherry heering, pomegranate syrup, brandy and Palo Cortado sherry. I would never think to combine those components (nor the ginger ale, Mountain Dew and Sprite in their sangria—that’s a lot of soda).

I guess pan-Latin and Nuevo Latino are over. Rayuela is mixing those 90s concepts with modern Spanish flair and calling it Estilo Libre Latino, a.k.a. Latin Freestyle. (Alex Ureña also leans this direction, though his food is more creative than trendy.) And for the most part, it works.

I rarely attend press dinners, not out of any ethical obligation, I just don’t get invited to many. It is kind of hard to be fair, even in a casual blog, when plied with a good portion of the menu and warmly treated by all levels of staff. So, of course I had a nice time.

I’d be curious to see how the bite size hor'dourves I sampled translate to their proper portioned salads and appetizers. The plantain encrusted oysters with poblano aioli and served on the half shell was hard to manage without cutlery. But the bolo de mofongo atop pork vaca frita was kind of genius. Tackling a full size mofongo will put you in a carb coma, but when miniaturized you get lots of crisp and softness, not just bite after bite of porky mash.

Of the three ceviches: tiradito de scallop, lobster revolution (the name made me guffaw a bit) and tuna in watermelon, you’d think the lobster would stand out (at least to me—I’m swayed by descriptions like ginger, sage, lemon leaf, and lemongrass infused coconut water and Uruguayan caviar, even though I have no idea what that type of roe might be like or why the coconut water needs so much infusing) but the general consensus was that seemingly odd matching of scallop with kiwi was the best of the three. The sweet-salty balance and texture (the lobster was a little mushy) was just right. What I thought were bacon bits on top turned out to be crispy Serrano.

It seemed that the churrasco con cangrejo (grilled beef tenderloin, oven roasted Peruvian potatoes, wild mushrooms, bone marrow, crabmeat chimichurri and Tetilla fondue) was the crowd favorite. Unless you’re a vegetarian it’s hard not like a medium-rare steak. But I was more excited about the other entrée, pato con arepa (breast of duck marinated in sugar cane, confit of duck leg, spinach , quail egg and pan seared foie gras on a yellow corn arepa) because I love, love sweet and meat, and this preparation was borderline candied. I would’ve chosen it if given the full menu. Not seeing prices, I pegged this dish at $28. I’ll admit that the actual price of $30 is on the high range of what I would normally pay. For me, that’s more of an occasional dinner, not a mid-week meal. But how often do you get to eat arepas with foie gras?

Desserts came in two waves: regular and boozy. Despite the interesting hyper-basil and lemongrass ice creams, the standards were nothing to yell about (obviously, since all I can remember are the tiny scoops of accompanying ice creams and not the chocolate and coconut cakes they were meant to compliment). The tequila-chocolate injected strawberry was a hit. The simple pisco gelee was refreshing. I would’ve liked more avocado flavor from the shot. It was appropriately pale green but if no one told you it was avocado, you’d never guess.

The strength of these fun alcohol-fueled sweets, smart cocktail list, creative appetizers and pricy entrees tend to point towards a lounge-driven clientele. And the modern design centering around show-stopping live trees sprouting through the bilevel room is built for that scene. I just hope that the cuisine doesn’t get overshadowed because it feels like a lot of thought went into it. The half-breed Latina in me wishes culinary success for Dominicans (chef Maximo Tejada and pastry chef Bruni Bueno) and Mexicans (mixologist Junior Merino) because lord knows we have enough dishwashers and prep cooks.

Rayuela * 165 Allen St., New York, NY

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Jul 5

Five Guys & Bonefish Grill

3/4 It was an unexpected New Jersey chain restaurant bonanza this weekend. My original intent was to simply head over to Edison and hit all my favorite box stores but food always figures into an afternoon to evening excursion somehow.

But first it was Costco because they close at 6pm, too early for people who can’t get up and out of the apartment until after 2pm. I don’t know how it happens, but grabbing things like Larabars, spare ribs, seltzer water, chicken thighs, garbage bags, frozen shrimp and scallops, honey wheat pretzel rods, Laughing Cow cheese, and apparently more, eventually lead to a $300+ bill. Costco is dangerous. We spent considerably less than that at Trader Joe’s and that included seven bottles of wine, and not all Charles Shaw, mind you.

Even though I loathe gardening, we also stopped at Home Depot for flowers that James can plant in the front communal patch of concrete and dirt that he’s possessive of since we live on the first two floors. I’m not even sure that he enjoys the pastime or if it’s just a bizarre territorial thing. At least it’s prettier than marking with spays of urine.

I rarely check out Wal-Mart, not out of any moral superiority, they’re just not on my mind. But the Linden location just past the Home Depot and a small airport was surrounded by all the lowbrow greatest hits: Lucille Roberts, Fashion Bug, Dress Barn, Radio Shack, Dollar Tree, Sears Essentials and International Food Warehouse. All that was missing was a Petland or Rainbow.

Wal-Mart did provide me with my favorite, non-fancy but hard to find Hanes underwear, teeth whitening gel, mini coffee grinder, AAA batteries and a $10.46 purple knit belted tunic (I love that the sizes are so skewed that I can technically wear a L instead of an XL).

Apparently, a Five Guys just opened semi-reasonable walking distance to me in Brooklyn Heights, but as is my way I turned my back on local offerings for a 33-mile drive to Edison, NJ. New York City, Brooklyn in particular, does horrible things to chains. I actually dread the Ikea and Trader Joe’s (I’m not even counting the Whole Foods because it’s not in my realm) that are eventually coming because they’ll inevitably be mobbed and under stocked. It doesn’t seem right to have these national treasures in your own zip code and be forced to leave the state for sanity’s sake.

I’m not an Americana food fanatic, i.e. pizza, hot dogs, burgers. I like two of the three very much (sorry, wieners) but I don’t go around the city taste testing or taking fastidious notes even though I admire others’ efforts. I can’t expound upon the burger-ness of a burger but I was curious what all the Five Guys fuss was about. And I was pleased that the restaurant was located in a familiar strip mall, Wick Plaza, that also contains my bank, North Fork, Sally Beauty (Miss Clairol in sable tends to be out in NYC because I guess everyone has dark brown hair. Plus, I’d forgotten to bring any lip gloss on our journey and I only had to spend 99-cents on their house brand to remedy this) and Hometown Buffet.

The menu is short and sweet and the french fries are freshly made so I can see the comparisons to In-N-Out. But the burgers aren’t really the same. If anything, I’d say they look and taste homemade, assuming you had good cooks for parents. There’s nothing uniform and assembly line about them. And a great deal of their taste has to do with your choice of topping.

This caught me off guard. Even though there was no line because it was suburban New Jersey, I got flustered with their fifteen choices and only asked for mustard, ketchup and fried onions. Basic lettuce and tomatoes eluded me. Another thing to keep in mind is the difference between burger and little burger. I found out that the standard burger contains two patties, which was only worrisome because I was saving some appetite for another chain later.

Though I prefer medium rare, I wasn’t insulted by their well done only policy. I was more put off by the signage about neighborhood children and allergies and not allowing peanuts off the premises. One of their trademarks is boxes of shell-on peanuts to scoop and eat while waiting. I can’t imagine that introducing peanuts into the wilds of New Jersey could possibly have the effects of sneaking ecologically unsound flora and fauna of foreign environments.

I was most impressed with the quantity of fries doled out (and that they offer malt vinegar and Mr. Pibb). Even though we dined in, they bagged everything up and not only filled our cups but threw in a full extra cup into the paper bag. As a scrounge, I actually brought all the extras home to warm up later. Thankfully, health got the better of me the next day and I forced myself to toss them.

I was fine with Five Guys, but James impressed me by thinking of Bonefish Grill and tracking down the nearest location in East Brunswick. Last year when I was doing competitive research on major restaurant chains for work, I discovered that Bonefish is the one to watch. A supposed upperscale and healthier alternative to Red Lobster that was spreading like wildfire, just not in NYC. In an effort to get our fingers on the pulse of America, we needed to get our asses to Bonefish pronto.

This location in a mall parking lot was fused with a Carrabba’s (another OSI property—same company as Outback Steakhouse) and being 9:30 the usual insufferable lines were more like trickles. Oh, this was a classy joint alright. Sure, you get the standard beeper but they have a neutral toned, wicker and ceiling fanned outdoor lounge to wait in. It felt like a tasteful Florida beach resort. A waiter comes around to take drink orders and push pomegranate martinis on everyone. I always assume drinks are going to be around $10 and get pleasantly shocked by gentle suburban prices where glasses of wine can be had for $4 and even over the top cocktails are only $6.90.

The dusky, warm evening was made perfect when New Order’s “Thieves Like Us” began playing. As a teenager, I couldn’t imagine first hearing this song in Pretty in Pink and seeing myself twenty-one years later being serenaded by it in a New Jersey mall parking lot. Glancing across the potted foliage at the looming glow of a Kohl’s, it felt like twisted paradise. Everything was so wonderfully incongruous that I started getting chills. Or maybe that was just the sun going down.

But the spell was broken before we could get a drink; our table was ready. It all went haywire upon entering. Nothing was coordinated with usual chain-like precision. The drinks we eventually ordered didn’t come for over fifteen minutes, our water and bread didn’t show up for a solid half hour. They’d run out of clean glasses. Our order wasn’t getting taken. I don’t get mad about these things because I don’t expect French Laundry, but for people who view this as a serious night out–some were celebrating birthdays–get very antsy and indignant. Multiple tables were complaining. All I could think about was this mystery diner side job I almost took a few years ago. Every little misstep gets critiqued and reported. It wasn’t until I overheard an apologetic waitress explaining to a group that this was the first Saturday they’d been open that it all made sense. Wow, we’d hit up the hottest new restaurant in East Brunswick on opening weekend.

We got a strangely stoic young waitress who wouldn’t make eye contact yet still engaged in classic overexplaning and attempts at being perky. While pouring olive oil in a dish speckled with pepper and spices, “I call it EVOO but not everyone knows who Rachel Ray is so they don’t get it. “ Oh, I get it all right.

“Do you have any questions about our menu?” No. Grilled seafood comes with a choice of four sauces: lemon butter, Mediterranean, mango salsa and pan-Asian. I felt guilty not engaging her, then capitulated and allowed her to expound upon the Mediterranean sauce being full of omega-3s. I was just going to go for the less than healthy lemon butter anyway.

We were surprised at the hotness of one of our crab cake sauces, adorably swirled into hearts. So, we remarked on it, attempting to be friendly chatty diners:

James: That was spicy
Waitress: fumbling for a second…it’s Sriracha
Me: Oh, rooster sauce
Waitress: Yeah, there’s worcestershire in it

Wha? No matter, I’d be a wretched waitress so it’s not for me to mock. After discovering they’d only been open five days, I let everything slide. The food was actually done well, my grilled shrimp and scallops were lightly charred and tender. The portions were absolutely sane and nothing was dripping cheese a la Red Lobster. The vegetable of the day was sweet and crisp fresh corn dotted with bacon. I had textbook garlic mashed potatoes as a side. Even my inexpensive Riesling seemed just right with the sweetness of my seafood and corn (or maybe it was because of multiple glasses of Riesling that I felt so soothed). I didn’t see a dessert list because we weren’t offered one (not pushing more food is a chain faux pas) though I did notice bananas foster on a specials menu.

Bonefish Grill is one of those concepts that might not fare well in New York City–it’s not as if we’re lacking for quality independent seafood options. But the gap between Le Bernadin and Long John Silver’s is vast so there’s probably room for this manufactured sophistication somewhere in the five boroughs. Me, I wouldn’t bother unless I could enjoy a key lime martini in a parking lot lounge.

Five Guys * 561 Rt. 1, Edison, NJ

Bonefish Grill * 335 Rt. 18, East Brunswick, NJ

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Jun 29

Coox Hanal

It doesn’t make any sense that this would be the last Mexico City restaurant I write about because it was one of our favorite, though incomprehensive, meals we had on vacation. Sometimes there’s not a lot to say about the satisfying so I’ve kept mum.

I have no idea how to pronounce Coox Hanal (“let’s eat”) as it’s not Spanish but Mayan. I don’t imagine the first word is like kooks. And accordingly, the food hails from the Yucatan. We only tried two snacky dishes, which was unfortunate, because this style of cooking is unique. NYC is very Pueblan so there are many regional styles I rarely get to explore. I’d also intended to visit a Oaxacan restaurant, La Bella Lula in Coyoacán, but time didn’t allow.

James had panuchos, bean-filled corn tortillas that gets topped with a variety of shredded meat. These ones used cochinita pibil pork, my recent obsession. My salbutes were similar but lacked the beany center and came with turkey, lettuce, cucumbers and tomato. Both are akin to what American would call tostadas, but the tortillas aren’t crisp like chips; they’re fried and pliable. Fierce habanero salsas and red pickled onions are classic accompaniments.

We very lightly scratched the surface. I want to know more about relleno negro, an ominously black stew made dark from a burnt chiles paste. Turkey frequently gets added and I think the relleno is a dumpling-like wad crafted from corn. I’m also curious about sopa de lima, a sour chicken soup using a fruit that’s not really a lime or a lemon, full on cochinita pibil and what everyone in the restaurant was eating that left a cleaned dinosaur-sized bone on the plate. I’m suspecting it was pavo (turkey) based since that seems to be a popular protein.

We considered going back a second time but we were so traumatized by our Centro Turibus experience that I’d sworn off the overrun barrio. Wishing we had a Coox Hanal walking distance to our Condesa hotel was reminiscent of our longing for real Thai food in South Brooklyn. Sometimes foot travel doesn't cut it.

Coox Hanal * Isabel la Catolica 83, 2nd Fl., Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 29

Águila y Sol

Águila y Sol, by some accounts, is currently the best restaurant in Mexico City. I can see why that’s been said but since my repertoire only encompasses a fraction of the metropolis’s offerings I can’t personally concur. Like Pujol, this modern eatery plays with classic Mexican flavors and ingredients but is more grounded in tradition. Even the cavernous room felt a bit more staid, like an upscale hotel. The restaurant just moved to this location in the last few months so I wonder how it compares to the original spot.

You enter on the ground floor and take an elevator upstairs where your arrival is announced from podium to podium by staff donning earpieces. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, that just didn’t seem very NYC. I have no idea if hosts and hostesses in L.A. walk around with wireless communication devices attached to their ears but I like to imagine that they do.

To lean on a recent discussion, Águila y Sol is more “mama” where Pujol is more “show-off.” And yes, chef Martha Ortiz Chapa is a woman. Also in light of the recent McNally/Bruni ladies manning kitchens flare up, it’s worth noting that many top restaurants in D.F. are female run. Mark Bittman wrote about another two just last month.

When the female half of the the youngish American couple seated next to us asked her boyfriend/husband how he’d heard about Águila y Sol he mentioned The New York Times. James was more irritated by this twosome than I was (usually I’m the one irked by little nothings) and swore he heard the words “Carroll Gardens” come from their mouths. If true, there is something grotesque about foodie Brooklynites (reluctantly lumping myself into that demo) clogging up the same restaurants miles from home. But at least I don’t gaze into my partner’s eyes all meal long while saying “I love you.” Thankfully, inoffensive, unromantic Canadians were seated on our other side.

Locals don’t show up until after 9pm. Part way through our evening, the chain-smoking twentysomethings started piling in. Tall skinny blonde Mexican girls with preppie Anglo-looking boyfriends who were probably Mexican too. They mostly drink and eat salads. I think this genre is called fresas, akin to American yuppies (a dated word I never use but whatever. Isn’t NYC completely teeming with wealthy under-30s? It must be a Gen Y fancying themselves as soulful and creative thing because I don’t sense the same disdain for these types that existed in the ‘80s). The staff was all shorter and browner (in the U.S. they just keep these guys in the back) and this seemed to be the case anywhere with $20+ entrees. I don’t want to be a class crusader, especially on vacation; it was particularly noticeable that’s all.

I was scared about taking photos after reading this missive from a stranger, but there wasn’t any trauma. I’m a super quick snapper (and it shows). Attempting to capture a dish with minimal blur is my only aim. Compensating for color distorting candlelight is beyond my grasp.

But the food; it’s quite good. Neither James nor I could decide if we preferred Águila y Sol or Pujol. The style is enticing in the sense that it’s food food. No tasting menus, crazy plating or avant-garde techniques. More like updated classics that would score higher on a Top Chef challenge.

I will say that we chose a wretched wine and I’m snob-free on the subject. Luckily, my cocktail made of jamaica (hibiscus—like Red Zinger Celestial Seasonings tea) and dusted with chile power was dazzling. I really wanted to try something Mexican and I suppose that’s what sommeliers are for. I kind of randomly picked a red on the lower end of the mid-range, just taking a chance. I want to say that the region was Jala but I’m finding no evidence of that on the internet and since the restaurant has no website I’m without a crutch. A full month has nearly passed since this dinner so details are cloudy.

We both ordered ceviches for starters. James had one of the specials and I didn’t want to copy so I chose another version from the regular menu. His was spicier and more exciting. Mine was fresh with clean flavors enhanced by cubes of cucumber and plantain chips. I don’t know what the black seeds sprinkled over top were. Where’s Mexican Menupages when I need it?

This was the man’s meal (except I ordered it). As I eventually learned arranchera is charcoal grilled meat and is wildly popular in Mexico City. There’s even a chain called Arranchera that serves sandwiches on hefty wooden boards. This was a Lincoln Log approach to steak that my intentionally bald, bespectacled, beige-suited dining neighbor (and possible real life neighbor) also ordered and said looked like the woody toys.

On the far left is a salsa that was unbelievably hot; I really hadn’t anticipated such fire from an upscale restaurant so after my first blob my mouth was a little shocked. It seems like chefs here tend to tone down strong flavors in proportion to the price. There’s also a pile of pickled onions, jalapeños and shredded dried chiles that I want to say are guajillo. I’m always swayed by sides and one of the main reasons I ordered this dish was because I wanted to know what frijoles chino (Chinese refried beans) were. They’re hidden in the little tortilla cup and covered with wild streams of fried potato. They just tasted like refried beans. I thought maybe they were going to mash black beans or edamame (yes, Japonés not Chino but you never know). I’m not complaining.

Handmade tortillas in a variety of styles.

There’s a fish in there under the cephalopod-esqe dried chile. I did not taste this.

Ok, I nearly lost my mind when our meal ended with a freaking molten cake. As you may or may not know, these gooey clichés are the bane of my culinary existence. I truly wish I had a menu to jog my memory but I swear even with my mediocre Spanish comprehension, there was no mention warmth or baked or hot, any clues. The words chocolate, caramel and hibiscus caught my attention. I knew it was going to be a cake; perhaps I should’ve just assumed the worst. For the record, it tasted wonderful and chocolaty but I wanted something more inventive.

These were our post-dessert treats. James thought the waiter said the wrapped goodies were ensconced in rice paper. After no tasty dissolving on the tongue, we discovered it was merely tissue paper. All I can remember is that the brown nubs in the back were crazy salty and sour and might’ve been tamarind paste coated in salt. I’m not sure if that qualifies as a nice parting gift or not.

Águila y Sol * 127 Emilio Castelar, Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 25

Sanborns & Bisquets

I cannot rest until I post all eating venues from Mexico City, no matter how banal. (Not true—I won’t go into Geisha, the pan-Asian restaurant that coats all sushi in cream cheese. I later learned that’s a common Mexican addition. Or the nondescript café where I discovered molletes, a pizza bread smeared with refried beans and topped with melted cheese and frequently chorizo. Apparently, this is a typical breakfast dish because I saw it on a lot of menus.)

I merge Sanborns and Los Bisquets Obregon together because they’re both chains in a Denny’s vein. That’s sort of a strange reference considering I haven’t been to one in probably a decade (I take that back—I did eat at one in Reading, PA around 2001) if only because they don’t exist here.

Sanborns’s food is no great shakes but they’re ubiquitous like Duane Reade and reliable for a bathroom, atm and genuinely crisp air conditioning. (Like Spain, Mexicans aren’t as into being artificially cooled as Americans. That’s one thing you could count on in all the modern Asian cities I’ve visited: surprisingly solid air conditioning. Sanborns_tacos I enjoy the swampy to sweat-stopping contrast as opposed to experiencing varying degrees of warmth.) And their original location in the Casa de los Azulejos (house of tiles) is full of 16th century charm. The same couldn’t be said of Denny’s.

We were too late for breakfast so I had to settle for pibil tacos, which were on the oily side but not hideous. I always anticipated the bread basket and pickle dish because you never knew what might turn up in either. Here, you received an overwhelming amount of crackers, rolls and tortilla chips.

I was thinking Bisquets in Roma was closer to our hotel than it was. I just wanted to try the café con leche even though I’m normally a black coffee drinker. They prepare the coffee tableside using one pitcher of coffee and one with milk, which gets poured from high in the air almost like Malaysian teh tarik, though not quite as dramatically.

I liked how they come around with a baked goodie basket while you’re perusing the menu (they’re not freebies but it’s a nice touch). Bisquets also had baby potatoes in their spicy pickled mixture. I’d seen cauliflower at cantina in Coyoacan but potatoes were strange and new. I then picked a crazy breakfast jumble of eggs, tomato sauce, peas, American cheese, plantains and tortillas, which was no fault but my own. It seemed more Caribbean than what I’d eaten in D.F., more like crazy mishmashes I’ve eaten in Colombian restaurants. Of course, I ended up nearly cleaning my plate, crazy breakfast or not.

Sanborns * Madero 4, Mexico City, Mexico

Los Bisquets Obregon * Av. Alvaro Obregón No. 60, Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 22

Nevería Roxy

Nevería Roxy is totally the Eddie’s Sweet Shop of D.F., which might mean more to you if you’ve been to the frozen-in-time Queens ice cream parlor. Condesa is no Forest Hills, though (but hey, that Trader Joe's shaping up nicely).

If I’m correct helados are ice creams and nieves are sorbets. The reader board menu behind Roxy’s counter seems to roughly devote a column to each style, though it’s not broken down as such with headings. (Damn, I shrunk the photo down so much that I can’t read the flavors anymore.) I had a scoop of turrón in a cone on my first visit. It was likeable but I decided that I shouldn’t have ordered creamy and candy-like when fresh and exotic fruit was so readily available.

On our second round a few days later, I tried a cone-less scoop of tamarind and zapote. The latter randomly chosen because I really wasn’t sure what it was but suspected it might be a freaky fruit with black innards. I chose correctly. The tamarind was sour and refreshing as expected; the zapote was hard to pin down flavor-wise. I immediately liked it more, it was sweeter, richer and vaguely prune-like. More like a dried fruit than a juicy one.

If I’d gone a third time I would’ve found out what a harlequin was, listed under Preparados.

Nevería Roxy * 89 Fernando Montes de Oca, Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 22

Flor de Lis

I’m not tamale crazy in the least but it seemed remiss to pass up Flor de Lis since it was so close to our hotel and gets talked up all over the place. And I almost went tamale-less because dining during the late end of lunch a.k.a. la comida meant many of the varieties were gone. My original order of chile verde pork in corn husks became a chicken filling in banana leaves. I’m fine with either, really.

Some of the reasons I’m not crazy about tamales is because even when they’re light like these were, they’re still kind of dense and I worry about the insides to outsides ratio. Even though our next meal was a good five hours away, the meat and masa stuck right with me.

I’m still not sure when the proper time for tamales is because you’d see people on street corners hawking them from giant metal steamers in the morning as well as the wee hours. I never did eat a street tamale aside from the one stuffed into a roll and that appears to be an anomaly.

Street food has never scared me but today I received an email from a stranger who in addition to giving me Mexico City food tips said that there’s two tons of dried feces in the air so watch out for uncovered food. I snorted out loud at work when I read those words. I’m not sure of the veracity of that boldly disturbing statement, and since I basically find and fact check statistics and all day long at my job I can’t help but wonder about that number. This will have to be looked into further because I would hate to eat a poop tamale, wrapped in banana leaves or corn husks.

Flor de Lis * Huichapan 21, Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 18

Pujol

Pujol is the type of establishment that many might describe as being “like a New York restaurant.” The same has been said of Cinc Sentits in Barcelona, which also gave me pause while trip planning. Who wants to eat at a New York-esque restaurant when you’re trying to escape the city? I would just say modern. You know, kind of starkly decorated with deconstructed dishes, custom serving vessels and tasting menus.

Originally, I wondered if I really needed to eat foam while on vacation in Mexico City. But it turned out that I did. Enrique Olvera, Pujol’s C.I.A-trained chef, is clearly of the molecular gastronomy school (I really need to come up with a more apt short hand for this style since it’s not as scientific or clinical as that moniker implies), a frenzy that hasn’t fully seized Mexico yet.

Targeting the likeliest clientele, Pujol is located in Polanco, the neighborhood often referred to as the Beverly Hills of D.F, which only furthered my impression of the capitol as more of an L.A. than an NYC. The diners certainly reflected this. Though the cream on ivory room was fairly quiet when we arrived at 8:30pm–a group wine tasting was being conducted in the back–it soon filled up with parties that all seemed to know each other. 9pm seems to be prime time for cena.

It almost felt like we’d crashed a private party. I noticed this at both higher end restaurants, large, obviously wealthy groups dining together. Pujol attracted the 40-plus types where Aguila y Sol enticed younger crews, which seemed mis-matched because the latter felt like a stuffier restaurant in some ways. I don’t get that so much in NYC or else I just don’t frequent those types of restaurants. It was nearly a highbrow meatpacking scene but with foodie food.

This shot was intended to show the room, not me looking grim. The silver stand on my right is a portable purse-rack.

We opted for the seven-course tasting menu without wine pairings. Strangely, a dining time is listed on the menu. The one I was given on request to take home was not a match of our dinner and reads, “7 tiempos (90 minutos)” though I swear ours said "60 minutos" and didn’t have the four wines listed for pairing. The dinner lasted more than an hour. I wish I could remember the wine. All I can say is that it was Mexican, similar to a cabernet sauvignon and was miles better than the one we had the night before. The degustacion was 495 pesos (395 per person extra for wine parings), which I thought great value for the caliber. That’s about $45. I’m not sure where else you’ll find an equivalent for such a price in NYC.

The menu is entirely in Spanish (so the English descriptions below might be a bit wonky) and the staff was accordingly monolingual. One of our servers would helpfully try to translate, though his accent was as heavy as I’m sure my Spanish one is. We got by, though it’s certain that nuances were completely lost on us. You have to be familiar with the original to understand the riff and I suspect that many dishes were plays on traditional flavor combinations.

The thing about these restaurants is that they’re not conducive to furtive food photography. It seems that the more a meal costs, the subtler the lighting gets. Nice for atmosphere but not so nice for flash-free shots. The colors were so much more vibrant in person. I’ll openly admit that these pictures do little justice to the subjects.

This was a big amuse (though you can’t tell from the photo) and it immediately came to mind when I saw Clay’s awkward apple construction on the premiere of Top Chef 3. I don’t know what this was, though the green gelatinous component seemed like nopales and there were a lot of crumbs. Olvera seemed enamored with crumbs and they appeared a few more times throughout the meal. I really didn’t want to eat the whole thing because it was awfully filling right off the bat.

Ensalada de nopal tierno curado en sal, guarnición tradicional, masa tostada, nieve de orégano-limón/Salad of salt-cured cactus paddles, traditional trimmings, toasted masa, oregano-lime sorbet

This was really good. I’m always wowed when I see a bunch of vegetables and they end up tasting like so much more. This was tangy, creamy, crunchy, warm and cold. I’m not sure what is meant by traditional trimming (garnish), perhaps the cheese crumbles. The little cactus tuile sticking up doesn’t seem very traditional.

Jaiba de concha suave, emulsión de chilpachole, gelatina de epazote, chips de ajo/Soft-shell crab tempura, chilpachole emulsion, epazote gelatin, garlic chips

Initially, I had no idea what was presented but guessed it was seafood tempura. After closer inspection, I noticed the soft-shell crab shell on top of the fritter beneath the garlic crisps and epazote leaf. Soft-shell crab worked well with the chile sauce and bouncy, herby cubes. Ok, I just learned something. Like I was saying, this fanciful cuisine might mean more if you know the original. Chilpachole is a Veracruz-style crab stew, so the crimson swipe wasn’t merely a chile sauce but an approximation of this regional dish in sauce form.

Capuchino de flor de calabaza, espuma de leche de coco, nuez moscada/Squash blossom”cappuccino,” coconut milk foam, nutmeg

It took a while to figure out that “noo meh” meant nutmeg and was akin my favorite baffling ingredient description in Thailand, “ding gah” that we didn’t figure out was ginger for quite some time. Rick Bayless sipped this creation on one of his episodes so it kind of made me laugh when the streamlined glass mug appeared. Because, you know, Rick Bayless is kind of a cornball. Earnest and knowledgeable, but a cornball.

Filete de mero envuelto en hoja santa, huitlacoche rostizado, veloute de jitomate y masa, cracker de comino/Sea bass fillet wrapped in hoja santa, roasted huitlacoche, tomato and masa veloute, cumin cracker

The entrees were both full on nueva cocina mexicana. Cumin, huitlacoche, hoja santa, masa—uber Mexican ingredients. The flavors melded in a dirty, earthy licorice way. Foam was definitely present, though it doesn’t appear in the description.

Top Sirloin, mantequilla de limón verde, aire de tortilla, puré de aguacate-chile serrano, sal de Nayarit/Steak, key lime butter, tortilla air, avocado-serrano puree, Nayarit sea salt

This was awesome and I’m not joking. Despite the insane tortilla “air,” this dish was one of the simplest. It’s basically rare steak with guacamole, lime butter, sea salt and a hint of tortilla, like a fancy carne asada taco. I’m still not sure how the essence of a tortilla was so perfectly captured in such an ephemeral medium.

The not-my-type but handsome and stylishly besuited dad dining with his teenage son at the table nearest us (we had a very private table with no other next to it, a rare luxury in NYC) had the full-sized entrée and I couldn’t help but ogle it. He didn’t eat all of his butter either. They got little candies at the end of their meal that we did not (they didn’t finish those either). The staff seemed to know him, though.

Plato de quesos artesanales de Ensenada, Atotonilco y Atlixco/Plate of artisanal cheeses from Ensenada, Atotonilco and Atlixco

I don’t know what these cheeses are, and I was sad that I was so full at this point. I could barely enjoy them. The middle one with an apricot-like jam was my favorite. The one on the right was creamy and very pungent and came with sliced prunes. The left one was similar to gruyere and had a berry blob.

Pie cremoso de limón verde, merengue, helado de yogurt/Key lime cream pie, meringue, yogurt ice cream

Yep, it’s a deconstructed key lime pie with more of those crumbs. No complaints, and thankfully no molten cake ending.

Pujol * Francisco Petrarca 254, Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 13

Wondee Siam

I could’ve sworn I had been to Wondee Siam before but after hitting up this location, I was sure that this small space on the east side of the street was not what I was thinking of. How did I not know there were two Wondees blocks from each other? Apparently, it’s a Hell’s Kitchen trend, as Pam Real Thai also does the same two-fer in two blocks trick.

I would say that the food is notch above run of the mill Manhattan Thai and they don’t wimp out on the spicing if you request hotness, but I wouldn’t say it’s a destination restaurant. I would take it over my many local Thai options, though. I ordered fairly straightforward items.

Yum ta lay. When in doubt I often get the seafood salad. This rendition had an orangey rather than clear dressing, which was probably from chile paste since I didn’t sense any tomato flavor.

Ped kra prow. I do like duck and am baffled by haters of the water fowl. Dark meat, fat and skin? It’s like chicken but so much better. I could eat just chiles, basil and the flavorful residual oil with white rice.

Pork panang curry. I’m not used to pineapple in my curry but it doesn’t bother me like completely inappropriate carrots or broccoli. Pork and pineapple are an amazing duo as proven by Hawaiian pizza. I didn’t have to think twice when this photo was requested by a stranger to illustrate an article about a woman putting crap in her husband’s curry. Tasty. (6/12/2007)

Less crap-filled review for nymag.com

Wondee Siam I * 792 Ninth Ave., New York, NY

Posts from the ‘Shovel Time’ Category

Fatty Crab

Rayuela

Five Guys & Bonefish Grill

Coox Hanal

Águila y Sol

Sanborns & Bisquets

Nevería Roxy

Flor de Lis

Pujol

Wondee Siam

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