Posts from the ‘American’ Category

Apr 12

Butcher Bay

Non-shocker: Butcher Bay calls it quits. Looks like I'll be getting dragged to Choptank on a Lent Friday this year. (2/1/2010)

I was a little hesitant to try Butcher Bay after so many lukewarm-to-negative reviews, but generally when someone suggests trying a restaurant I’m open (as long as it’s not middling Thai). I’m not a controller of all things edible. James liked what he'd read in The Village Voice and thought it would be a good candidate for the fish on Friday tradition that I'm surprised he's still adhering to.

It turned out to be very much as I'd expected: affable, better than adequate but probably not a destination if you're not in the East Village. I'd go back if it were in my neighborhood. And the staff was unusually friendly. It’s nice to be reminded that not all servers are of the surly/spacey variety I often encounter.

There's something about the East Village that doesn't bother me as much as Carroll Gardens even though the vibe at the ungodly dining hour of 6:30 was much like ours: family time in a big way, but the breastfeeding I witnessed managed to be less self-righteous and dour and more natural and cute. Did I just say that? I don't care how un-feminist, anti-woman it makes me, I’m not crazy about public breastfeeding, there's already precious lack of privacy in the city as it is.

Hush puppies are always bready blobs that taste more of flour and cornmeal than whatever they might be flavored with. These contained shrimp and their presence was subtle.

The clam strips were meaty and chewy and the remoulade was more likeable than tartar sauce. A friend who joined James and I for dinner made a statement about bellies along the lines of them being a bit too animal-like, you know you're eating a creature (I’m extrapolating a bit here). This comes from a non-fish, non-meat-with bones eating person but I'm not going to make fun of that because she is convinced that I will always call her out for something. Not this, though. We'll get to her later…

Fish and chips. I didn't taste these but James thought they were fine and not soggy or doughy as reported somewhere I can't recall. Obviously, that criticism struck a chord with the owner because he brought it up after asking about my picture-taking. No one ever asks me why I’m snapping photos, oddly enough, and I’m not complaining. I guess it's like not staring a celebrities in public, ignore the food bloggers; they're a dime a dozen.

I'm more thrifty out of principle than pure necessity. I don't like paying over $20 for casual food for the same reason I hate buying single items of clothing over $40: because I’m cheap. So, the $24 lobster roll wasn't really my style, but I cut loose anyway. An unorthodox specimen in its seeming absence of mayonnaise but I'm not complaining since I do not love the stuff. It does work to keep the jumble of meat together, though, while this one kept losing its filling. Chopped parsley and celery rounded out the rest of the ingredients.

Ok, the friend's food. The potato salad was standard issue, fine, but the pork was on the dry side. Here's the rub: should one order pork in a restaurant that's styled itself as a seafood shack? We all have different criteria and expectations. I try not to deviate wildly from what I perceive to be an eatery's strengths unless I'm swayed by something so off and bizarre that it needs exploring. Yesterday, I resisted ordering nachos at Sukhadia’s, a vegetarian Indian chain. I’ll never know if I was wise in playing it safe or if I missed out on a rare delicacy.

I was glad to see that Sophie's, a few storefronts down, was still thriving. I will always remember it as the venue for my non-date with Henry Thomas over a decade ago and he later mentioned in a phone call, "Oh, I'm meeting some friends at Sohpie's" as if it were his spot despite the fact that he'd never heard of it until a week prior. E-List celebrities have a way of getting under your skin with their insensitivity.

It reminds me of a story I've told before about a friend who went to high school with John Stamos and in the mid-‘80s ran into him in the audience of some California production of Grease starring Belinda Carlisle. Stamos told my friend he was having a party and would call him. He. Never. Did. That, my friends, is called being Stamosed. We've all been there.

Butcher Bay * 511 E. Fifth Ave., New York, NY

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Apr 7

Char No. 4

1/2 The tickly smell of smoke did hit me when I entered Char No. 4 but it wasn't an assault. I'm afraid that I've become desensitized to the strong fragrance due to periodic household experiments with a mini smoker. Venting the fumes towards an open door helps but keeping the apartment from smelling like a piece of jerky is nearly impossible.

I chose to use my experience with smoked food as fodder for my Spanish class response to "What did you do last week?" a question I stumble through every Thursday. But it only caused my teacher to ask if it was normal to keep a smoker in one's apartment and if that didn't bother the neighbors (he lives directly above Caputo's and says that smoke wafts into his apartment–what do they smoke in house, I wonder?). Well, as long as those neighbors continue to use the tiny foyer, a.k.a. the ten feet in front of my door as a stroller parking lot, I don’t care if the entire building reeks like a giant campfire. But I couldn't say this in Spanish because I didn't know the word for stroller or foyer and besides, it's tough to convey humor coupled with disdain in my painfully slow, dimwitted second language style.

So, post-11pm is a good bet if you insist on weekend dining since that's when the ratio of bar drinkers to back room sit-downers begins to shift. The restaurant may look mobbed from the street but it's just whisky sippers crowding the space in the front.

With 100+ choices ranging from one ounce of Fighting Cock for $3 to a $100 portion of Old Grommes 121 Proof, there’s something at all price points (none of that $120 per glass MacCutcheon Scotch). If I were feeling more flush I would experiment a bit more. As it stood, I tried a two-ounce pour of Woodford Reserve. Not so adventurous.

I was most interested in the fried pork nuggets and they weren’t disappointing. The soft centers contrasted with the crispy surface of the cubes like a meaty petit four. What they refer to as Char No. 4 hot sauce seemed like Sriracha to me, not that I mind since it’s my condiment of choice for nearly all fried food. Something about the heat cuts the fattiness.

While I expected greatness from the above pork, I actually preferred the fried cheddar cheese curds (once the fried food floodgates have opened there's no stopping). The firm chewiness worked even better with the crusty exterior. I assumed the creamy (bucking that hot with fatty trend) lightly spiced dipping sauce was remoulade but it’s described as pimento sauce. That’s a lot of orange on one plate.

The city is rife with pulled pork sandwiches, so many that I’m not always sure I should bother. They can't all be special. I do think this one was above average because of the whole package. The meat was moist, more chunky than shredded, and mixed with a barbecue sauce that tasted vaguely creamy and mustardy. The bun was toasted, which is very important to me, and the pickled onions and peppers added just enough heat and tartness. The baked beans weren’t bad either.

I shied away from the proper entrees because after a few ounces of whiskey priced in the double digits, the bill adds up. James wanted to try the smoked chicken, though, since it’s a meat we haven’t attempted in our smoker yet. Wanting to learn more about the preparation, he piped up, “I had a question?” to which our waitress responded a bit defensively, “The pink?” Clearly she was tired of explaining the poultry's doneness despite the deceptively rosy color. Uh no, just the details on how they keep their chicken juicy and not overly smoked. The answer, as it turned out, was using a pickle brine, and smoking at 225 for one hour. We’ll test it out.

Char No. 4 * 196 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

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Mar 30

10 Downing

No mention of 10 Downing seems complete without noting how much noise the highly windowed flatiron space generates. Perhaps I'm hard of hearing but the sound level barely registered with me. In fact, I prefer a raucous hum—especially among tightly packed tables—it creates an aural blanket so you can at least have a facsimile of a private meal. On the upside, I didn’t get crammed into a row of two-tops either. A spacious corner banquette miraculously opened up, making the 15-minute wait well worth the temporary smooshiness. The narrow holding pen really can't contain the crowds that amass. After being seated just beyond the far end of the bar, drinkers began spilling over into the dining area behind the back of our L-shaped seat. Our waiter offered to shoo them away but I didn't want to be that kind of asshole.

The menu is one of those hand-wringers where so much is going on that I'm not sure how to compose my meal. Pastas in two sizes, small plates, charcuterie, grilled prawns by the piece, then full sized mains. If I weren't self-conscious I would've ordered the whole cured meat shebang but knowing I read somewhere that it could easily feed three-to-four diners made me balk (though I recall a similar portion suggestion for the charcroute at Irving Mill and thought it was totally acceptable for two). Plus, I wanted to try at least one other item.

10 downing pork belly rillettes & duck prosciutto

I lamed out and selected two meaty treats: pork belly rillettes and duck prosciutto. And yes, it was plenty. The thing about rillettes is that once the main ingredient has been moussed it's not like you can discern the original cut of meat (At least I can't, and also lack the palate to discern fat percentages and meat sources comprising hamburger patties.) The spread was rich and definitely porcine but I would never be able to identify it was pork belly. Duck prosciutto is a great idea since the dark meat is rightly rich, oily and striped with a nice white stripe of fat, like pork prosciutto plus. (Timely: one of the gifts I gave James later than evening was a copy of Charcuterie, mainly for the smoker recipes but there is also one for duck prosciutto I want to try. Also timely: my opening up directly to a passage about Charles Ingalls, a recent fascination, and his venison smoking practices in Little House in the Big Woods,) Accompaniments included mini apple cubes flavored with mustard and pickled green beans, carrots and cauliflower.

10 downing brussels sprouts anchovy vinaigrette poached egg & parmesan

I'm always happy with hearty winter vegetables like brussels sprouts and these were pleasers keeping in the style of the restaurant: rich, strong and shy of overwhelming. The runny yolk, anchovy vinaigrette, sharp parmesan shavings and breadcrumbs melded everything together. I recreated a not-half-bad rendition of this dish for dinner last night.

Mild disappointment set in when we were told upon being presented with menus that the porchetta special was a goner. Decimated by 8:15 pm? Oh well. I wasn't immediately drawn to any of the entrees either. I could've ordered another appetizer instead but wanted to see how the mains played out.

10 downing duck breast pickled figs tokyo turnips & shallot marmalade

Duck breast with Tokyo turnips satisfied my obvious taste for root vegetables and dark meat poultry. I felt like all of the components remained separate, not just visually, the flavors didn't want to integrate either. Turnips were firm and bitter, the figs were soft and pickled sweet and sour, the grass green swaths were beautiful but didn’t taste distinctive. Everything looked pretty and the meat was cooked just rare enough but the overall impression was flatness. Or maybe sense of taste had been dulled after the more aggressive starters.

10 downing beef cheeks saffron cabbage bone marrow soubise mustard spaetzle

Braised beef cheeks, saffron cabbage, bone marrow soubise, mustard spaetzle.

10 downing chocolate cake almond ganache salted caramel with malted gelato

I don't know how I fell for the molten cake. I refuse to knowingly order those damn soft-centered pucks out of some misplaced anger at their pervasiveness across all cuisines and strata of restaurants, highbrow and low. The description just said chocolate cake. How could I have known? Of course it was wonderfully gooey and pleasant. The malted gelato and crackly salt caramel topping is what made the dish, though.

Just like how Momofuku Ko waylaid me with their music (I'm still baffled that someone on a message board scoffing a bit at my typically tangent-filled write up referred to me as a "he." Do I sound like a dude when I write?) 10 Downing divided my attention with the art. The more I drink (two glasses of Cote du Rhones with dinner and two glasses of a random happy hour Italian red at Dove Parlor earlier) the more I focus on things other than the food. Not a crime when they are distractions I enjoy. I never thought I'd live to encounter a collage containing Mark Lester in the bathroom of a West Village restaurant serving $27 entrees.

The dining room features a pleasing hodgepodge of paintings and photos curated by Tracy Williams, Ltd. From my seat closer to where the angles of the room converge into a triangle there were no walls. However, I was face-to-face with a row of black and white publicity shots and drawings of what appeared to be child stars, though I only recognized a few faces. An infant head covered in a blanket, Spanky from Little Rascals, pupil-less Orphan Annie from the comic and Jonathan Ke Quan, the Asian nerd from The Goonies. Though it's not likely apparent from this here blog, in past online and print lives I devoted quite a bit of energy to child stars, E.T.'s Henry Thomas being number one. In my Portland days I decorated my studio apartment with framed photos of Ike Eisenmann, Peter Ostrum, Mark Lester and the like. At the time it never occurred to me that this would be an appropriate motif for a trendy restaurant.

I'm not sure if this series on 10 Downing's wall was art or décor (I haven't yet deduced who the creator is). I do know that it endeared me to a restaurant that I otherwise might've categorized as solid but typical of what's currently en vogue. Strange how these things work. I'm emotional not rational, and even though I've smartly closed the gap significantly with age my impression of brussels sprouts can still be enhanced by the presence of long forgotten juvenile actors.

10 Downing * 10 Downing, New York, NY

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Mar 1

The Redhead

1/2 Starting Friday night I semi-give up on all the ridiculous food stringency, i.e. no sugar or starch, I set up for myself during the week, kind of like binge drinking but with edibles. Sure, it’s unbalanced but it works for me. Oatmeal breakfast and Little Lads vegan mush lunch allowed for fried chicken dinner.

I’d been curious about The Redhead but it struck me as one of those places that might have interesting food but also might annoy me with a cramped space and long wait times. A weeknight venture, essentially. But I went wild and made an attempt directly after work on a Friday and the timing was just right. Seating was no problem at 6:30pm but by 7pm the bar area was one solid, immobile hungry pack.

I started with a generously sized snack of the bacon peanut brittle. It wasn’t what I expected at all. Which isn’t to say that it wasn’t tasty. I was imagining shards of hard candy studded with nuts and bacon. But this was almost a dead ringer for one of my favorite Chinatown grocery store treats of peanuts tossed with thumbnail-length dried anchovies, a salty-sweet flavor combination that I don’t associate with the restaurant’s fancified Southern cooking at all. This seriously tasted Asian to me (ikan bilis in Malay). I brought home the remainders in a foil packet only to later catch our toothless cat getting into the peanuts and licking them.

I seriously though James was bullshitting me when he said he couldn’t have any because of Lent, but he did refrain from the pork-laced legumes. I’ll never understand religion. I’ve never known him to attend church, though two years ago around this time of year I came home to find him sitting on the couch, Ash Wednesday smudge on forehead. Baffling. Certainly, I grew up with Catholics but I’d never ever seen the charcoal on the face thing until I moved to NYC. I honestly had no idea what was going on the first time I encountered the practice, though I never articulated my confusion until six years ago.

So, he opted for a cod dish enhanced by fennel, shoestring potatoes and a sauce described as clam chowder. I did not take a photo because the setting was cramped, dim and awkward (though not wholly uncomfortable) as it was.

Me, I got the fried chicken. I generally find large amounts of white meat heavy and overwhelming. I just prefer a closer ratio of skin to flesh. Thankfully, the breast here wasn’t dried out in the least and the crust was very light and flaky. Both the spinach salad with apples and candied walnuts and very moist triangular wedge of cornbread satisfied love of sweetness in savory dishes. I wouldn’t have minded a biscuit in lieu of the cornbread, though.

Despite foregoing dessert we were still given a parting goodie. An intense chocolate cookie with chocolate chunks and big pockets of crystallized ginger.

The Redhead * 349 13th St., New York, NY

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Jan 19

Hope & Anchor

When passing through Red Hook James occasionally suggests stopping at Hope & Anchor. I never share his enthusiasm. This is based on little evidence since I’ve only eaten there once, and quite some time ago when it first opened. The place struck me as kind of fun with adequate food if you happened to be in the area but not worth a special trip. Its two main attractions being drag karaoke nights and prices befitting a real diner not a faux one. But it seemed like a fitting place for an early weeknight meal after looking at house for sale in Red Hook owned by the proprietors of Hook & Anchor, no less. (For the record, the home was lovely but just not me. I’m really more clean lines modern where this was a touch Cottage Living [R.I.P.] mixed with turn-of-the-century maritime. Those bearded Brooklyn foodie types would have a heyday wainscoting, wallpapering and tin ceiling-ing the hell out of the place. Moldings, chandeliers and dumbwaiter already in place [I really loved the dumbwaiter]. The unfinished basement would be perfect for crafting sassafras bitters and hanging homemade wild boar sausages to cure.)
If you’re in a diner, there’s no sense in ordering a salad. It’s grease or nothing, so it was cheesesteak and fries for me. The massive sandwich (which I made into a second dinner the following night) satisfied my unhealthy urge, but in a perfect world the meat would’ve been sliced instead of ground and oozing with Cheez Whiz instead of the indeterminate melted white cheese applied with a light hand. Red Hook might feel as far as a sixth borough but it is no Philadelphia.
The pumpkin lager was no longer being served, but the suggested cherry was a fine enough substitute. Fruity beers do not give me pause. Generally, well-done ones like this Lakefront Brewery version aren’t cloying. I do draw the line at flavored coffee, though. (1/13/08)

Jan 8

Hill Country

With the obvious exception of vegetarians (of whom I know quite a few), barbecue seems like a style of food anyone could agree on. What’s not to like about slow smoked meat? That’s why Hill Country seemed like the perfect post-holiday meet-up with a friend who will beat me with a bland buttered noodle if I mention her baby palate once again (maybe the Olive Garden gift card James gave me to give her will temper her ire if she reads this).

I needed someplace that wouldn’t be a killer from Brooklyn (that nixed Dinosaur, and besides I was just there a few months ago) or too painful from Morningside Washington Heights (no Smoke Joint or Fette Sau). Daisy May’s has those kooky commercials, but Wildwood has lamb ribs (lamb is the new pork, right? Or is that goat?). In the end I picked Hill Country, top tier as any. Even though the original pitmaster left year, it’s not like I would detect any difference since I had never been anyway. And you could also tell me all sorts of tales about Texas barbecue and I would be none the wiser, having never set foot in the Lone Star state either.

The cavernous, woody restaurant was quiet on a Sunday afternoon. The week between Christmas and New Year’s is great that way, a dead zone. I’ve been entertaining moving to Red Hook just to experience that soothing desolation on a daily basis, never mind the nuisance of bussing to the subway. (I finally convinced James to call about this seemingly awesome house for sale near the Ikea but it had already gone into contract. Even in this supposed down economy, properties are selling quickly in third-rate NYC neighborhoods.)

I liked the by the pound approach so you could get just what you wanted. And I didn’t mind carrying around the little check off card to individual stations for meat, sides and beverages and ordering from the chalkboard menus. I did lame out and got the lean brisket, half a pound, when normally I’m one for the moist, i.e. fatty cuts. With the addition of a quarter pound of pork equaling two hefty ribs, all was well. I know our citified ‘cue is overpriced by Southern standards, but $12 plus change for the meat above wasn’t wildly outrageous.

The brisket is definitely the star and that was no surprise being a Texas-style joint, complete with imported Blue Bell ice cream, Kruez sausages and Big Red soda. Even the lean slices encased in char with pink substrata were juicy. The ribs weren’t necessary and they were a bit tough and dry, which wasn’t helped by the fact that I talk too much when I eat and was futzing around with a new camera (I still have kinks to work out, clearly, but I’m getting there) so they were cold by the time I got around to gnawing on them.

Even though it was still 2008 at the time and I said I wasn’t making resolutions anyway, eating more beans has been a vague plan I’ve been meaning to adopt (I’m making a white bean chorizo soup tonight, well, the same idea but with tepary beans and chicken sausage). Unfortunately, I think the addition of rubber eraser-sized “burnt ends” to the baked beans might’ve mitigated any nutrients potentially gleaned.

I shared pickles and corn pudding that Heather picked out because I’m a beast who doesn’t like mac and cheese. Starchy and creamy corn is more desirable than starchy and creamy pasta.
Next time I’ll ignore the ribs, opt for a little of the Kruez jalapeno cheese sausage instead, and try one of the mini, though not two-bite mini, pecan pies.

Hill Country * 30 W. 26th St., New York, NY

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Jan 3

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Buttermilk Channel

Sometimes things fall into place; often they don’t. New Year’s Eve, much like Fourth of July and Halloween, always end up lackluster because I can’t be bothered to make plans. That why for the dawn of 2008, I made a concerted effort to get out of town and randomly rang in the new year in Toronto. This year I was still recuperating from vacation hangover and wasn’t feeling motivated to come up with anything monumental for December 31.

It was too icy and cold to take chances on Williamsburg where vague parties of friends of friends are always an option and where I frequently end up drunk and eventually angry over the inescapable ‘80s music (Nu Shooz will always set me off guaranteed). So I kept it local, trying to avoid ridiculous prix fixes (even freakin' Marco Polo was throwing a $125 per person fete) and attempting to find a free table anywhere without reservations.

Chestnut was hopelessly full. I wasn’t even going to bother with newish Smith Street darlings like Char No. 4. I had put Buttermilk Channel in that same camp, but decided to check anyway since it’s only three blocks from my apartment. It was hopping at 9:45pm, every space occupied, and then miraculously, two high chairs were open at the end of the bar. Perfect. Maybe that bodes well for 2009?

I didn’t bring the new camera because I know myself too well and feared an inebriated dropping, and sure enough, my purse hit the ground at the end of dinner despite the nice bag hooks beneath the bar. A cocktail that blended rye with vanilla liqueur and bitters, whose name I forget (it contained a woman’s name) got me started on the path to a more festive mood. I stuck with wine the rest of the evening, misguidedly believing that I’d suffer fewer ill effects than with the harder stuff.

Popovers with honey and large flakes of sea salt. They don’t look like much, but sweet, salty and starchy rarely disappoints.

I normally steer clear of entrée salads, they always seem too chicken Caesar, chain restaurant-y. But I’ve been making exceptions more and more (most recently with the luxurious lobster salad at Irving Mill). Buttermilk Channel’s rendition with tender lamb and long leaves of romaine was substantial and beefed up with cauliflower, olive bread croutons, a soft-yolked egg and fried capers. I might’ve preferred the cruciferous vegetable to be fried instead of the capers since the hot oil treatment barely registered on such a tiny subject.

Name-checked Schaller & Weber bratwurst on a roll. I only tried the fries, which were the way I like them: skinny and crisp.

I’ll definitely go back for a more complete meal. The service was gracious and professional despite the holiday frenzy and the food (what little we sampled) was high caliber for this unloved strip of lower Court Street (eh, for upper Court, too). I'll still patronize chimichanga-slinging Mezcal's on the same block, though.

Buttermilk Channel * 524 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

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Dec 31

Elettaria

Gone? Dammit, I never got to try their crab rangoon. (8/28/09)

I wouldn’t believe you if you told me I would be eating Filipino congee for my Christmas meal. Every year I have a holiday dinner date at an often random restaurant a few days before December 25th because I don’t do the going home with the boyfriend for Christmas thing (no, not even after nine Christmases). This year was Elettaria, primarily because I never paid a visit when it was new–and why not now?

I got the impression somewhere that the bar scene overshadows the dining. That wasn’t really the case. In fact, I still have no idea what kind of scene it is other than an all-encompassing one. Maybe the Monday before Christmas isn’t representative because the room really cleared out after 9pm (as opposed to Wilfie & Nell–where I showed restraint by only drinking and not ordering pork sliders–packed solid earlier this same evening. Maybe that’s the New York magazine review effect). All of the larger corner tables were taken by canoodlers, gay and straight. There was a primo banquette between the bar and dining room that seemed reserved for seniors only. Children were present, as well as twenty-something lawyers flirting with each other. Oh, and even a little person (who was not Peter Dinklage). Something for everyone.

Including me. The cuisine is Asian-inflected, I knew that. But I was still surprised when our waiter described the only appetizer special, “Lugaw, a Filipino rice porridge with beef torchon, quail egg and tripe.” Really? I had him repeat it later because his accent was thick and all I caught initially was Filipino and tripe. That’s all I needed to hear, though, and more than enough to sway me from my original choice of smoked duck.

I should’ve been eating congee my entire time in Hong Kong because it’s good sick person food. Now, I could make up for lost time. I don’t know that porridge makes for a compelling Manhattan starter though really it’s not any stranger than ordering soup as a first course. And it endeared me to the restaurant. The menu was otherwise winsome and filled with lots of ingredients that appealed to me but it was the lugaw that won me over.

I’m still not certain what a beef torchon is or if I even heard that correctly (you usually see that term in relation to foie gras). No matter, the flavors and textures worked. The meat, a bit chewy and gelatinous, melded well with the creaminess of the egg and ricey broth. Fried garlic and minced scallions added punch.

Normally, I would’ve been drawn to the fried quail. This looked like a decent-sized portion. Maybe I’ve lost my tolerance because the food even though mildly fussy, was very filling. Fussy isn’t the right word, what I mean is there were many components to each dish.

Being overporked in 2008, I went for the guinea hen. I’d forgotten how wonderful a simple skin-crisped-to-perfection bird can be (though not simple in price—this was the most expensive thing on the menu at $30. It was early Christmas dinner, though, so no nickel-and-diming). The legs were surrounded by gnocchi, sliced chestnuts and a soft cabbagey squash relish. Maybe I’m just imaging the cabbage.

Sea bass, potatoes, fennel prosciutto and octopus? A little complex without being incongruous, and hearty for a fish-based course.

That would’ve been plenty but you need dessert for a celebration so it was an unnecessary pineapple upside down cake and served with coconut gelato. At least it wasn’t molten despite its pucky looks.

Thumbs up on lugaw and hen skin. And here's to venturing beyond pork products in 2009.

Elettaria * 33 W. Eighth St., New York, NY

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Nov 6

Red Robin

Despite being a Northwest chain, I don’t think I’ve eaten at a Red Robin more than once and nearly two decades ago. I have only a vague youthful memory of restaurant, and the nagging feeling that I perceived it as upscale. I’m not sure if that says more about Oregon or me.

I keep seeing their TV ads and just like with Sonic’s commercials, I instantly feel compelled to look up just where these non-NYC chains exist in these parts. New Jersey, of course. I figured I could squeeze in a visit while scoping out the Norma Kamali collection at Wal-Mart (kind of eh, but I enjoy being a L instead of an XL at Wal-Mart. Oh, just figured out that I'm now a L by most chain store standards–guess my sugar/starch limiting has finally paid off. Unfortunately, "bottomless fries" will show up later in this missive) and picking up hair darkening shampoo and conditioner at Menlo Park Mall’s Aveda (I overheard the cashier mention her food court break at Chick-fil-A. I totally would’ve gone if Red Robin wasn’t already on my itinerary. Even she knew about the “hidden” NYU cafeteria Chick-fil-A).

James wanted to go to Five Guys, but what’s the fun in that? We can walk to the one in Brooklyn Heights if we wanted. No, I’d rather spend $20 in tolls and drive 34 miles to find out that frankly, even a well-done Five Guys burger is kind of preferable to Red Robin’s “gourmet burgers” cooked to an internal temperature of your choice.

It wasn’t so much the food, but the inept service and overall Saturday night suburban mayhem that detracted. Yes, I have standards even for chain restaurants.

I wasn’t sure what to make of the we card if you look under 39 1/ 2 deal. I don’t think they were joking, but I still chortled when asked for my ID and being pointed at the button stating just that pinned to our server’s (who’d just turned 21, we were informed for no reason) shirt. Like if I’m going to illegally purchase drinks, I’m heading to a NJ Red Robin. I know they’re just doing what they’re told, and maybe I should’ve been more weirded out that the bartender who barely looked out of middle-school didn’t card me earlier. I like to believe I don’t look 40+ even to someone half my age.

We took cues from the locals and ordered the onion ring appetizer, which is admittedly kind of an odd starter. And it practically became a dessert since we weren’t brought our tower until asking about it after we’d received our burgers. This is the glitch that soured me. I don’t think it’s petty to have a separation between courses whether that is onion rings on a pole served with dipping sauces and a jalapeno laden burger or prawns with sunchoke puree and garlic confit and grass fed burger with Cotswold cheese (the same timing issue bothered me at James in Prospect Heights a few months ago).

I’m tempted to declare chipotle sauce (mayo) the new ranch but it appears that America is embracing the two equally, together. Both came with these onion rings. And the combo isn’t exactly new to Frito-Lay or Rachael Ray, for that matter.

I’m not one who rambles on about fat percentages or meat blend ratios, but I will say that lately I’ve swung into the less is more camp. If you can’t even taste the meat in your burger, then what’s the point? There was a bit too much going on in this 5 Alarm Burger, which was more than obvious from the name. All the lettuce, jalapeños, salsa and tomatoes overwhelmed and I couldn’t even detect the pepperjack cheese even though I could see it. Really, I was more interested in the fries and onion rings and consequently grew too full too quickly to eat more than a third of this. Beer and starch has a way of doing that.

The thick cut fries sprinkled with their trademark seasoning (that also sits in a big plastic shaker on the table) were tasty enough that I ate most of them, but I’d much prefer a thin crispy fry to a fat meaty one. I think they make them hearty on purpose to eliminate anyone actually taking them up on their bottomless fry promise. Yes, you heard that right–all-you-can-eat fries.

Red Robin * 6200 Hadley Rd., South Plainfield, NJ

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Oct 29

Irving Mill

I like to pretend that I’m not susceptible to suggestion but after reading a blurb about Irving Mill’s charcroute platter on Food & Wine’s blog earlier this month, I knew I’d have to seek it out.

I hadn’t paid much attention to this restaurant initially because I only have room in my mind for so many urban farmhouses. But after Ryan Skeen moved there from Resto, bringing my favorite salad of 2008 (so far) with him, I figured this meaty Alsatian hodgepodge would not suck.

And it didn’t. The only difficulty was in trying to determine how much food to order. Irving Mill has one of those menus scattered with bites, small plates, full on entrees and randomly placed boxes advertising things like a burger and this charcroute plate. How much does one get for $22 versus the $38 version?

I decided the smaller size could be an appetizer for two, and this was true, everything came in pairs. Perfect. If there had been three of us, it would’ve been all wrong and insufficient. Shared bites just aren’t enough sometimes.

Head cheese or terrine tete de cochon if you want it to sound nicer, ribs, boudin noir in slices, boudin blanc whole and breaded, fried pig’s feet are on the plate clockwise from the top. Though, I wouldn’t have predicted so, the crispy-tender ribs were the star. None of these items were boiled together as tradition dictates, so everything from the delicate weisswurst to the schnitzel-like feet kept their individual textures.

Accompaniments included grilled bread, violet mustard, grainy mustard and potato wedges with horseradish-spiked crème fraiche. I closed my eyes, pretended I had an astute palate and tried to detect floweriness in the burgundy-hued mustard. I liked the color, but nothing violet jumped out flavor-wise.

A few minutes after we took in the whole affair, a separate small bowl of pork bellies were hurried to our table. I think they initially forgot them and in the charcuterie frenzy, I hadn’t even noticed. Now that I look at the menu, the missing component is described as glazed pork shoulder but we definitely were given two, fat-striped squares of belly.

This is perfect restaurant food because cooking miniature versions of six meaty items is impractical from both financial and time standpoints. And I was able justify the gluttony because each porky treat is small and manageable.

So, my palate was useless for flavored mustard, but boy did the sauerkraut get into my system. James didn’t think it was particularly strong, but I wondered if the fermentation might’ve gone wild. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on what tasted odd, not bad, but pungent. It was clearly the shredded cabbage, which was tart, salty, with undercurrents of mustiness. I initially thought urine, then changed my mind to festering genitals (not that I know that smell, first hand, of course). This wasn’t an unfamiliar odor, and I finally placed it: stinky tofu.

On the cheapy bus from Beijing to the Great Wall (hey, I was there this week last year) I started getting whiffs of what I thought was the stench of an unwashed human (once a similar smell assaulted me on the 5 to the Bronx Zoo and it was clearly attributable to a kid sitting next to me) or maybe a dead and decaying human. I was convinced it was human in some form, not animal. I finally realized that it was food, which made me feel a little better, and I totally got why they call it stinky tofu.

I just ate kim chee for lunch so I have no problem with fermented cabbage. I liked Irving Mill’s sauerkraut too. But I wonder if I was just having a supertaster moment and the dish wasn’t as strong as I perceived it to be because I don’t imagine the average diner goes for that sort of thing. Or maybe the average diner steers clear of charcroute, altogether.

Yes, there was other food. I ordered a lobster salad hoping for lightness to balance the starter. I do appreciate salads that go easy on the lettuce; the romaine is really only there to support the salinity of the sweet shellfish and mouth-popping caviar (which type, I have no idea). I could’ve done with an extra chunk of lobster, though. And just to make sure that pig parts appear in every possible place, there are thin rectangles of bacon tossed on top that I initially thought were some kind of vegetable chip. I’m glad it wasn’t crispy grilled eggplant.

I never eat macaroni and cheese because it just tastes like cheese and noodles. I totally don’t get the appeal. And yes, this tasted like cheese and noodles, but drier and sharper than usual. Oh, and those cracklings kind of changed my mind a bit.

The lamb cassoulet was not light and was not my pick. I did eat a slice of gamey, lightly spiced sausage, though.

The sundae was completely unnecessary. I got sucked in by the idea of ice cream slathered in gooey sauce, but really the confection was ordinary. The caramel drizzles were nearly imperceptible and the blondie was kind of hard. The cinnamon walnuts were the standout.

I like getting dismayed over ‘80s music wherever it plays. I guess because it means that I’m old. In a Paramus Outback Steakhouse, hearing The Cure tickles me a little. It somehow makes sense paired with a 22-ounce mug of Foster’s, but I’m weirded out by the same music when sipping a $14 organic apple cider from Normandy because it’s a bizarre melding of highbrow with ancient pop culture.

But no matter the setting, I always love it when "Age of Consent," my favorite New Order song, comes on (a live Arcade Fire version had popped onto my iPod the same day I dined at Irving Mill so it was a daily double). No, it’s not the most obscure tune yet it never fails to put me into a good state of mind. I would gladly eat headcheese to synth-pop again.

Irving Mill * 116 E. 16th Street, New York, NY

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