Posts from the ‘American’ Category

Sep 1

Castagna

I’m moderately embarrassed to admit that I have always glossed over any mentions of Castagna because I incorrectly assumed it was an Italian restaurant (it once was). Only after Castagna started affecting me directly, i.e. appearing in my heavily NYC-loaded rss feeds because the young chef, Matthew Lightner, was leaving to work at Tribeca’s retooled Compose, now to be known as Atera. My week in Portland was the chef’s final week in Castagna’s kitchen. Now I was motivated.

And he’s a total forage-crazed adherent to the new Nordic ethos (with a good measure of Spanish avant-garde tossed in, as I soon discovered). Ok, as long as he wasn’t going nuts with pine needles, wet moss, slugs and mushrooms, my Northwest bugaboos, I was up for this. I imagined Castagna as a counterpoint to Paley’s. Warm and homey versus cool and rustically cerebral.

Castagna is designed in style that’s similar to one that's taken Portland by storm during my long absence. There is a regional penchant for turning existing structures into modern glassy boxes done in neutral tones, metal signage and light wood, very Scandinavian with a touch of the Northwest by which I mean ramshackle despite no ragged edges; it’s just a haphazard feeling I get and not visible to the eye. Castagna is less stark from the outside because it's housed in a deco building.

I first noticed this on my last visit two years ago when I realized Laurelhurst Market was a kitted out former Plaid Pantry. This trip, I tracked down a bottle of La Passion de Juchepie wine mentioned in The Art of Eating just because it was described as “so rare as to be almost unobtainable in the United States” yet there was one bottle left at Garrison’s Fine Wines in Portland.

This wine shop was in a shiny, newish strip mall, aesthetically acceptable with its clean lines, wood panels and earth tones that would presumably keep tanning salons and 99-cent stores at bay. This collection of shops was on the former site of a dumpy grocery store that I want to say was called Thrifty Mart, but probably wasn’t. It was my first supermarket after moving out of the house (eight blocks away). Feeling flush with newly granted food stamps ($112 per month seemed like a lot of money) on my inaugural visit I picked up hot cross buns because I’d never eaten the sweet rolls topped with candied fruit and icing and smoked salmon because it seemed fancy. And now you can spend $48 for a half-bottle of obscure imported French dessert wine on its grounds.

No one was wearing fleece or polos in Castagna. Women wore makeup. Two men were dining solo doing full tasting menus. This is where I’d want to say, “you could be anywhere,” but not really. It felt American still, West Coat most likely. The space was far too airy, relaxed and non-bustling to be New York or even Brooklyn despite a tempered hipness. The background music was so quiet that Shazzam couldn’t even pick up the noise and help me jog my memory to identify a song (it came to me later: The xx’s "Islands"). It felt like a cosmopolitan restaurant in Portland, frankly. The city could use more of these.

We did not do the tasting. One parade of decadence was plenty for one week, and Benu already took that spot. We still received a fair number of dishes before we got into the four-course prixe fixe (a great NYC value at $65, though perhaps high for Portland—I don’t know any locals who’ve eaten at Castagna). If I wasn’t sure what I was getting into, I certainly did after the initial trio of snacks: thoughtful, precise flavor combinations; a little Nordic, a little unexpected, very woodsy.

A puff of meringue filled with a bright green herbal mousse. What looked like a Girl Scout Thin Mint was a savory cracker coated in slightly bitter black sesame paste, perfect with a dab of tart rose hip jam. Rye crackers with chicken liver mousse and poppyseeds.

The butter topped with brown butter solids was nice, and more attractive perched on that rock, but the lardo studded with herbs and I want to say bacon was insane. So insane that we ate the whole thing and were brought a second little dish. The rye rolls were very sturdy, a good match for the smoky, spreadable fat. This would be so good paired with a scotch-based cocktail (maybe I shouldn’t be giving that other Portland expat chef any ideas).

black cod with pickled potatoes, sour cream, dill, borage. Potato chips! The cod, chopped into small pieces and bound with sour cream reminded me of a more compelling tuna tartare; you know, the kind served with fried wonton strips and possibly served in a martini glass. Maybe this will be an ubiquitous starter in 15 years.

summer squash with beef marrow, tongue, onion blossom. It was the marrow that grabbed my attention on the menu—and presented in rounds like scallops, no less—but it was the beef tongue that got me thinking. I just ate sous-vided, tweezered-painstakingly-by-hand-into-shreds tongue garnished with flowers at Mugaritz in May. Matthew Lighter worked at Mugaritz. Would this be called an homage? Is it taking too much from the original? The duo next to us asked and was given a detailed description of how the tongue was prepared, and they were delighted with the chef’s whimsy. Is it fair to not disclose the inspiration? Certainly, the tangle of meat floss was only one component of a more complex dish. It did make me wonder what I might recognize on the plates if I had had the good fortune of eating at Noma.

lamb collar, wheat berries, wheat grass, buttermilk. I was eating sticks–woody, lemony twigs–and that was not the only distinct texture; the wheat berries had a lot of pleasant chew. The fall-apart tender cut of lamb, glazed with a vaguely bbq-ish sauce, needed these stiffer accents to bolster it.

wild ginger with long pepper, ginger shortbread, herbs. This was barely a dessert, spiced to the hilt with only the slightest hint of sweetness. Totally un-American, and mildly cruel, crafting this dish would definitely keep an herb chef busy. The pepper and ginger so intense that you almost get that Sichuan peppercorn overload where your mouth’s sensors give up and it almost tastes like you’ve been eating curried dirt. It’s the one item from this meal I ate over a month ago that is still tangible, I can taste the sharp, musty flavors even now. Am I selling this dessert or what?

I never felt compelled to try the short-lived Compose, but now I’m genuinely curious about Atera. Will there be beef tongue?

Full set of Castagna photos.

Castagna * 1752 Hawthorne Blvd., Portland, OR

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Aug 29

Paley’s Place

I’m not sure if this is a Portland vs New York City thing or a Way We Live Now thing, but when I lived in Portland—up until the age of 25—I ate things like burritos, monte cristo sandwiches and pizza (well, laska too) if I ate out at all. Late night Montage with their leftovers wrapped into foil swans was as fancy as it got. I drank Rainer Beer and whisky sours. Based on daily Twitter skimming, it would appear that it is not uncommon for young adults in NYC to imbibe $14 cocktails, bottles of 20-year-old Oregon Pinot Noir and eat foraged purslane salads and aged, grass-fed beef on a regular basis.

Maybe we just have more choice…maybe it’s just the money flowing in NYC. There’s a reason why food cart culture has flourished in Portland, after all. I didn’t see anyone obviously under 30 eating at any of the city’s high end restaurants during my visit.

Then again, we didn’t have a lot of “nice” restaurants in Portland when I was growing up. The city gets plenty of attention for its food now, but it’s not like there is a Per Se or Le Bernadin (Portlanders still don’t really eat fish) equivalent. In my era, Northwest Portland was the most expensive neighborhoods (I only paid $225 per month because the building could be demolished at any moment, a threat that had been present for years and came to pass not long after I moved in) and that’s where restaurants emerged that were acclaimed at the time: Wildwood, which is still going, and long-gone Zefiro, which stuck out on a stretch of taverns and delis with its soft glow emanating from a wall of windows polished and full of successful adults, it was the ultimate yuppie restaurant. I had no idea what kind of food they even served and would never bother getting close enough to check.

Paley’s Place, opened in 1995, was one of these novel-at-the-time local and seasonal restaurants that it never occurred to me to try. And did I want to now? It seemed kind of passé compared to on-trend Castagna or any number of young cheffy places in neighborhoods that no one would’ve traveled to to eat 15 years ago. But it’s an important restaurant and epitomizes old Portland, by which I mean late last century—things changed post-millennium as an influx of transplants and loftier ambitions began creating the Portlandia of today.

Classic Portland translates to homey, literally, a wood frame house with a wide porch for al fresco dining. The interior is simple, warm; I’m remember drapes and carpeting even though I can see hardwood floors in photos. Despite the reputation as being a special occasion restaurant—it wins votes for Most Romantic and If I Won the Lottery, This is the First Place I’d Eat—suited for anniversaries or where your parents might take you out of they did that sort of thing (mine don’t) or where you might take them if you’re the flush one (maybe I’m doing better than I realize because I didn’t consider the prices lottery-winner steep) the diners were classic Portland, as well. Men wear neither jackets nor ties, but rather shorts and sandals. The servers themselves wear khakis and polos. Babies are breastfed at the table. Formality is an abstract concept.

The food, the whole point really, was completely solid. I chose not to stick with an appetizer/entrée approach, and you don’t have to; many items are available in half portions or aren’t course-specific.

Seafood sausage amuse.

There were three different oysters on offer, all from Washington State: Blue Pool, Diamond Point and Kusshi.

Wagyu pastrami might not look pretty on the plate, but it was a delicious, smoky, fatty mess. Extravagant without being dainty, there were hints of brown sugar complemented by both stone ground mustard and thousand island dressing. I wondered if Paley’s other charcuterie—there were at least ten types listed—excelled, as well.

More shared richness in the form of a pork belly cube and pan-fried sweetbreads.

The 3-ounce half-portion of salmon turned out to be just enough when combined with the above dishes. Normally, I stay away from salmon because it seems dull, but it would be silly to avoid a Northwest fish so close to home. The charred cauliflower and saffron aioli gave a nice Spanish luster to the dish.

I was glad that I didn’t skip Paley’s in a quest for the latest thing. I had a reservation for Castagna the following night (so did a woman at the table of men in sandals) and was eager to compare old Portland to the new.

Paley’s Place * 1204 NW 21st Ave., Portland, OR

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Aug 21

Char Burger

I wouldn’t exactly call Char Burger a institution. But anyone who grew up in an eastern suburb of Portland is probably familiar with the western-themed eatery that’s just beyond Multnomah Falls and the Bonneville Dam Fish Hatchery (those giant sturgeon freak me out as much now as they did when I was a kid) on the Oregon-Washington border.

With Girl Scouts, we’d often stop before crossing over on the Bridge of the Gods into Stevenson where Camp Arrowhead was. Sometimes, we’d stop at a soft serve place on the other side. I don’t remember a thing about that place, though. You do not easily forget Char Burger.

Arrowheads and rifles plastered on the walls, wagon wheel light fixtures and a condiment station housed in a shrunken covered wagon make an impression. The food is simple and not remotely destination-worthy (when I told my friend Lema I was going, her initial reaction was “Why?” and then “You’re not going for the food, are you?”). No matter, just line up, grab a try and order at the counter.

I just had a slice of stiff marionberry pie and an unsweetened ice tea.

A chili dog.

You do get a nice view of the Columbia River from the windows.

Char Burger * 745 Wanapa St., Cascade Locks, OR

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Aug 17

Le Pigeon

After eventually giving in to the un-ignorable conviviality of the communal table (you can pretend neighbors seated two inches from you in NYC are invisible—or at least I do) it was surprising to discover that I was the only native Oregonian among the New Yorkers, New Jerseyites and Arizonans seated along the wall. (And in turn, just about anyone you might encounter in Portland who is under 35 and mildly hip is likely to be a transplant.) Is Le Pigeon for food pilgrims or do locals eat there too?

When the restaurant cleared after 10pm, my friend Todd who has been living in San Francisco for the past few years after a decades-long stint in Portland and was back in town for a visit, his last night, my first, the only date we had in common, my real birthday, popped in because he didn’t want to hang out at nearby Douglas Fir Lounge, our planned rendezvous, by himself. (Who would? I just wanted to see what it was like since I consider Doug Fir to be early New Portland, circa 2004, an era I missed by refusing to come back to Oregon for many years. It was a showcase of kind of informal bartending, lumberjack chic—in décor and the young patrons’ style—faux heshers and Japanese tourists with not inexpensive prices for straightforward drinks. It was the only place with a doorman and a required hand stamp—on a Monday night, no less.)

My point is that Todd had never been to Le Pigeon. “Too crowded and they don’t take reservations.” Sounds like me and my relationship to Prime Meats, Buttermilk Channel and Lucali, my neighbors I can never easily visit. Le Pigeon does take reservations now, by the way. And they’ve also removed the passive-aggressive “substitutions politely declined” tagline that vexed me on my 2009 visit (that's not why I didn't go–Le Pigeon was closed for Labor Day that particular week). Beast is still using it.

I was extremely lax about making notes, remembering menu details or taking tons of photos—it was a celebratory meal, after all, and the half-bottles of Riesling and Pinot Noir (Willamette Valley, of course) didn’t help boost my memory. The menu changes weekly (I would love to try the quail, peppers, tripe, potato chip I’m currently seeing) and I didn’t have the foresight to save a pdf.

I had wondered if pigeon would be present and it was…both nearly raw and claw-on with edible bones. I hadn’t expected crudo, though technically it had been sous-vided for three minutes. Footed poultry appears to be a quirk not specific to NYC restaurants like Fedora and St. Anselm (they win, using the charred head too). Pickles and blue cheese were also present. Polenta? Even though this wasn’t my dish, from a visual perspective this was a fairly busy plate.

Boar terrine with pistachios and prunes was far more traditional. This was the first of two times that I would encounter sea beans in five days. A Portland trend? I would take sea beans over fiddleheads or nettles, any day.

My duck was also straightforward, at least visually. I know that I wouldn’t order something with tomatoes and pesto, so now I am remembering that cherries were on top and that the chunky, oil-bound greenery surrounding the potatoes had to have been made from pistachios.

Cheeses were not hyper-local, though it remained a western spread. I’m certain Montana was represented. Maybe even Idaho. I’m all for lesser-known regions (Tenpenny has been serving cheese from Utah). Hazelnuts, of course, couldn’t be more Oregonian. I do wonder if anyone calls them filberts anymore or if only old-timers like myself grew up using that name.

Le Pigeon * 738 Burnside St., Portland, OR

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Aug 16

Pine State Biscuits

Read about the Reggie Deluxe, a massive biscuit sandwich I encountered while in Portland, over at Serious Eats. It was yesterday's sandwich in their ambitious Sandwich a Day coverage.

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Jun 7

Tenpenny

Tenpenny’s spring vegetables might well be the best (and possibly the only) elevated ranch dish since Park Avenue Autumn’s sweet potato fries with homemade dressing. It’s also quite pretty. Enough to counteract the unfounded ugly room criticism? I happen to like my spaces generic and spacious (surprisingly spacious on a Friday night, two days post-New York Times review) rather than cramped and twee.

The hodgepodge of green peas, wax beans, tomatoes, corn, squash blossoms and one microscopic frond-topped carrot were surrounded by a sweet, crunchy sunchoke dirt that looked like Bac-O-Bits. The dusting of ranch was subtle, more of a perfume than omnipresent.

Same for the root beer extract vermouth in The Madison, which along with Michter’s rye and a bourbon steeped cherry, smelled more like a soda and tasted more like an sweeter Manhattan. The Negroni (pictured) and The Landlady, a salt, cucumber, chile drink, also made an appearance, making up three of the four featured cocktails. The Unstrung Harp, Sam Sifton’s cocktail of the summer just didn’t appeal. I’d rather just have a glass of white wine, so I did. Albariño. Ok, mystery…the cocktail listed on Tenpenny's site contains white wine, not prosecco like recipe detailed on Diner's Journal. The sparkle might've changed my mind.

Pretzel rolls come with horseradish-spiked mustard and an apple butter that’s flavored butter not jammy and made of fruit.

The next morning, there was some horrible infomercial being passed off on public broadcasting as an educational show. A doctor was telling an audience that they could break free of their food addictions, and there was lots of head-nodding and tearing-up. There was a lot of talk about salads and fruit, which I’m totally for and should be for, but I started getting depressed (or maybe I was just hungover from the cocktails) about having to live in an all lean protein world when pork belly tots exist.

Sure, they’re coated in potato flakes and fried, but the Granny Smith slivers and green leafy shoots must count for something.

You’d better like wax beans, such is the way of seasonal cooking. The burnished duck confit came in a skillet (more down home-style than Applebee’s affectation) atop a succotash with still-pliable croutons that appeared to have been soaked in chorizo oil. Just in time to snap me out of my Spain-vacation-is-a-fading-memory funk.

Dessert wasn’t really necessary, but a small slab of “Barely Buzzed” had to be tried because I’d never eaten cheese from Utah, nor cheese rubbed in coffee and lavender. Firm and a little nutty, it was definitely dessert-like paired with fig jam and walnut bread.

Tenpenny * 16 E. 46th, New York, NY

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May 21

The Dutch

The Dutch, with its new lunch menu, seemed like the perfect candidate for my sporadic effort (Má Pêche was the first) to eat more real lunches instead of lentil soup, dried seaweed and water at my desk. Dreary.

Cocktails beat water coolers anytime. The Aviation Royale, which wouldn’t have been out of place on New York’s lineup of rainbow drinks, tweaks the standard gin, crème de violette (Yvette, in this case) and lemon by adding sparkling Vouvray for fizz. I wasn’t double-fisting, hence, I don’t recall the name of gingery cocktail on the right—it doesn’t match any of the descriptions from their online menu.

A baby loaf of jalapeño cornbread and butter sets the tone: American, homespun, a little spicy.

Tripe and Fritos may be the new pickled tongue and soda crackers, marrying organ meats with a more familiar staple. Brooklyn Star with their tripe chili and The Dutch now with Barrio tripe, are both tapping into a Tex-Mex canon, heavier on the Mex. The tender, stewed meat topped with chopped avocado, radishes, white onion and those corn chips tasted like an open-faced taco.

Of course, The Dutch is not strictly Southwestern. The asparagus in a curry-kaffir lime sauce and crushed peanuts was as light as the tripe was heavy. We needed a vegetable. Maybe I’m just coming down off of my post-vacation seared-foie gras-for-$5 San Sebastián high, but isn’t $14 a lot of money for a dish of asparagus, Jersey asparagus, or any asparagus? Ok, maybe German white asparagus that has been flown in straight from the soil?

The sloppy duck sandwich may be a little messy but it isn’t a minced, saucy Manwich affair. Instead, the dark meat remains chunky and is flavored like a banh mi with hits of sriricha heat, salty fish sauce and lemongrass brightness. And more crushed peanuts. The minted cucumber salad that accompanied the sandwich was refreshing, but I nipped that nod to health right in the bud with a side order of fries. I could tell from the plates sitting on the tables to my right and left that these were going to be real, thin, double-fried beauties, an anti-steak fry.

One fried item was plenty, which meant I had to forego the fried chicken that’s only served at lunch and late night. A return visit wouldn’t be out of the question because the pie selection—coconut cream and lemongrass?—could also stand some exploring. I’ll just refrain from the asparagus next time.

The Dutch * 131 Sullivan St., New York, NY

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Apr 20

Brooklyn Star

No amount of salad, yogurt, fruit and dinners ripped from the pages of Cooking Light—my dull weekday diet—can make up for an excess of pork fat, batter and beer. Weekends are a problem for me. But what’s the point of going to southern-by-way-of Williamsburg Brooklyn Star if you’re living a life of grilled chicken breasts and steamed broccoli?

Unusually, the long wait on a Saturday night didn’t sour my mood. The luck of two seats instantly opening at the crowded bar and a gratis Sazerac granted by the kindly bartender (whose accent leaned more Scottish than Southern) just shy of the one-hour-mark raised my spirits. We had duck rillettes to occupy us, too. Served in a jar, as country-fied cuisine in urban settings often is, the rich confit was cut by the tartness of pickled green beans and was just as good on a biscuit as a baguette. The thing about terrines, pates and the like is that there’s never enough bread and you feel silly eating charcuterie by the spoonful.

The fried pigs tails were more bony than anything, but if they’re on a menu you’re going to order them, right? The darker nuggets on the periphery of the bowl are jalapeño hush puppies.

I appreciate the starch variety. Hush puppies, biscuits and here, Texas toast as the bready delivery mechanism for roasted bone marrow. The parsley salad you may have seen before in this context; the red onion jam, maybe not.

I did not sample the country fried steak with a creamy white gravy, but it looked substantial.

Yes, one vegetable (there are a few on offer) fried, of course, and tossed with ham, apples and chow chow. The unexpected combination paired with brussels sprouts was the most Momofuku-ish dish I encountered.

I’ve never been into chili or chips, but I do love tripe so I’d deal with the Fritos accompaniment and likely-to-be hearty preparation to see what the tripe chili is all about. Something for next time.

Brooklyn Star * 593 Lorimer St., Brooklyn, NY

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Apr 15

Texas Roadhouse

I’m never ever a jerk to service staff, but when “Have you dined with us before?” hits my ears (which isn’t the sole province of chain restaurants) I feel this childish urge to backtalk in some manner. Really, how much explaining should a dining experience require? I always lie and say “yes” to save the spiel. But as a first-timer at Texas Roadhouse, who only knew about the business because it came in fourth place in a survey of favorite casual dining restaurants, I did kind of want to hear what they were about.

“Hand-cut steaks,” sides made from scratch and freshly baked rolls that are whisked from the front counter and brought with you to the table as you’re being seated, it turns out. The staff wearing I Heart My Job t-shirts and periodically breaking into country line dances and why the chicken fingers are called “critters,” were not explained.

While waiting for a table at the bar, we sized up the restaurant with its chilled giant mugs of beer, bloomin’ onions, woody motif and emphasis on steaks, to be an OSI brand. But not so. That fried, battered onion turned out be called a Cactus Blossom, and apparently has nothing to do with Outback Steakhouse, whatsoever.

What the restaurant really reminded me of, particularly the country music and encouragement to throw peanut shells on the floor, was a restaurant in Tigard called BJ’s Roadhouse that I can find no online evidence of (there’s a BJ’s Restaurant and Brewhouse, but that’s not it). I’ll never forget it because it’s where my dad and his wife took me for my birthday right after I turned 21 and I forgot my driver’s license and couldn’t drink away the trauma (no, I did not appreciate chains and suburban trappings in college). The waiter wouldn’t even let me have an O’Doul’s. The evening ended with a watermelon (the only food in the world I hate) and a diabetic cherry pie.

A decade-and-a-half can make all the difference. Now, I’m soothed by honey-cinnamon butter and warm, fluffy rolls and the ability to drink forty ounces of Sam Adams Cherry Wheat beer without being carded. I practically ate the whole basket while scrutinizing the menu. The bread reminded me of the “scones” at a restaurant I ate at once in grade school called Pa’s Kettle (wow, I can’t believe that it still existed in its 1980s form until 2008). They were warm yeasty triangles served with honey-butter that had me in for a surprise when I first tasted a real dense, baking soda-heavy scone (probably at Starbucks, sadly).

Rattlesnake Bites are a take on jalapeño poppers with the chiles and cheese mashed up and formed into a fritter and served with a Cajun horseradish dip. “Hand-battered,” don’t forget. I felt health draining from me with each bite–maybe that's the rattlesnake angle?–but who doesn't appreciate a newfangled popper?

I tested out my favorite Dallas BBQ combo: ribs and chicken. Well, the ribs, despite being a little dried-out and not likely smoked, still tasted more like real barbecue than BBQ’s. Nothing wrong with them. The chicken, though? Ugh, grilled, boneless chicken breast, my enemy. I was picturing a crispy, skin-on leg in my head. This sad poultry part has a place in my weeknight dinner canon, but I never ever want to eat it in a restaurant and I will never understand Americans’ obsession with flavorless white meat. (Apparently, Chinese don’t like chicken breast—or kung pao, but that’s another story.) To be fair, the grilled chicken was moist and not tasteless—the more peppery than sweet sauce helped—it’s just not what I wanted. Baked beans and steamed broccoli, carrots and cauliflower (my attempt at health) were my choices of sides.

They really do hype-up the beef—the cuts are displayed in a butcher-style case in the waiting area—so, James went all big-spender (relatively speaking; the steak and rib combo was $18.99) and ordered a steak and rib combo. I’m still trying to parse our enthusiastic server’s question “Have you had ribeye before?” Did he mean ever in our lives or at Texas Roadhouse? Am I naïve/privileged to think that the average adult in this country has eaten a ribeye at some point? Must tamp urge to sass waitstaff.

No matter. Texas Roadhouse is worth having in my chain restaurant repertoire. I would go again, if only to be able to answer “yes” when asked the inevitable “Have you dined with us before?” question.

Texas Roadhouse * 1000 US Highway 9, Parlin, NJ

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Mar 19

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Dallas BBQ Rego Park

1/2 Who says advertising doesn’t work? After my first two subway sign encounters with the words Dallas BBQ superimposed over the familiar red flames, my attention was peaked. And Rego Park? Queens’ first outpost definitely required investigation.

The most sprawling, modern and mildly clubby—glass-encased liquor bottles as room dividers are a prominent design feature—incarnation yet, this branch right off the LIE is part of a relatively new shopping complex that houses a not crowded Century 21, an awkward to get to Costco and bare bones Aldi, Trader Joe’s no frills German parent company (I only bought American cheese, bratwursts and a box of frozen cheese wontons).

Clearly, the area was desperately in need of cheap ribs and colorful drinks because even on the early side of Saturday night, the industrial-carpeted foyer was crammed with the antsy and expectant. By the time we left, crowd control was in full effect and a hostess had brought out the bullhorn. Stampede!

Sam Sifton’s recent multi-culti portrait of Red Rooster painted a feel good image of the new Harlem. I’ll give you a celeb restaurant in an underserved neighborhood and raise you a Dallas BBQ. There’s no more NYC a restaurant than this. Staten Island is now the only borough suffering without one. Sure, it’s a chain, but it’s our chain and we love it. Applebee’s and Chili’s could learn a thing or two from them.

Just in my noisy corner of the complex sat Korean-American dudes with pitchers of beer, their dates barely touching their food, frozen drinks melting. To my left was a black, teetotaling mother and daughter downing chicken fingers and giant goblets of cola with nearly an entire jar of maraschino cherries floating in each. On my other side, colorful drinks for all four diners and two massive double cheeseburgers destined for one hungry woman. A multigenerational Chinese family sprawled across four pushed-together tables while an elderly couple conversed in Russian. No one thinks twice about looking like a glutton and men aren’t afraid to order pink cocktails. Merely convivial or debauched, it’s hard to say. The judgmental aren’t welcome at Dallas BBQ.

For me, at least, the fruity, neon frozen drinks overshadow the food. As someone who has to minimize my sugar intake and prefers a dry, stiff cocktail anyway, their pantheon of syrupy “Texas-sized” concoctions provide a welcome respite. It is wholly possible to burn out on artisanal moonshine, mole bitters and hand-carved ice. I nearly succumbed to our server’s promotional recommendation of a passion fruit-swirled pina colada served with both a shot of Alize and Hennessy (they also serve Hennessy wings and the spirit is prominently featured in the above mentioned wall displays—I don’t know if they’re getting kickbacks or if they’ve merely determined that their audience really likes a particular cognac). Instead, I started with the Texas-sized pina colada, then wisely moved onto a regular-sized Blue Hawaii with a shot of rum in a green plastic test tube half-buried in the creamy surface. Less slush, more alcohol is the sweet spot.

I’m glad that they now serve a smaller version of the onion loaf, which shared between two will still knock you out. The matted stack of thinly sliced battered rings is a must. Could you eat at Outback Steakhouse and ignore the Bloomin’ Onion? You’d better not say no.

I don’t want to say the namesake barbecue is superfluous, but no one’s going to mistake their pulled pork, beef brisket or babyback ribs for lovingly smoked meat in the style of Memphis, Kansas City, Texas, North Carolina or whichever region you prefer. Tangy-sweet, saucy to the point of ensuring stained clothing and tender, the ribs are perfectly edible, even if they’ve never seen the inside of a smoker. Normally, I would get the $11.99 (most of the menu is under $12) ribs and chicken combo, but we already had a box of Korean fried chicken sitting in the car. I definitely did not need the fried shrimp with tartar sauce. Fries (you can have yellow rice—so very Latino—or a classic American baked potato as a side) and a square of cornbread ensure you get your recommended dose of starch.

When I talk my love of chain restaurants, Dallas BBQ exemplifies what I mean. You go for the experience, not for culinary fireworks. I only ate a fourth of my ribs (which of course I took home for later) because absorbing the genuine New Yorkness while picking at fried onions and sipping sweet, highly alcoholic drinks is fun in itself. The fat and sugar may be gnawing at my organs, but it’s emotionally nutritive being in the thick of things—even when the swell of humanity can be grotesque.

Dallas BBQ * 61-35 Junction Blvd., Rego Park, NY

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