Posts from the ‘American’ Category

Nov 18

Quiznos

The Quiznos in the parking lot of Linden New Jersey’s Aviation Plaza shopping center is the only one I’ve ever been to, and three times now. I work across the street from one and never go. This shopping center off Route 1 has become my go-to weekend destination for important destinations like Target, Old Navy, Marshall’s, Home Depot, a 24-hour Shop Rite (I like grocery shopping post 10pm), not so much the Polish and Slavic Credit Union or Avenue, but I was excited to find Applejack at Pied Piper Liquors—none of the shops in my immediate neighborhood sell it. And we persist in doing a bulk of our shopping out this way even though it costs a ridiculous $15 in tolls (the west coaster in me still can’t fathom such nonsense) to go through Staten Island into Union County.

And I found myself at Quiznos again this weekend because it was 5pm, I hadn’t eaten lunch yet (that’s what happens when you get out of bed at noon) and was starving but didn’t want to ruin my appetite because Sichuan food in Flushing was going to happen around 8:30pm. Applebee’s, Chevy’s and Boulder Steakhouse were out of the question; this was the perfect opportunity to try one of those two-dollar, despicably named Flatbread Sammies I saw advertised on TV last week. Yes, advertising works on me.

This is the Bistro Steak Melt, much flatter and less stuffed than the promotional shots. They’re not bad, though a little mixed up, using flatbread, meat, mozzarella, peppercorn sauce and what seems to be salsa. Middle Eastern? Mexican? I guess that’s wholly American. I don’t believe that they are terribly healthy but for something small and cheap to supplement my brought-from-home apple and yogurt it beats the $3.85 half-sandwich at Pret a Manger. (11/18/07)

Oct 22

Momofuku Ssam Bar

Momofuku Ssam is like Fatty Crab to me: a restaurant I’ve always been reluctant to visit even though I know I would love the food, so I wait a million years, then end up going for lunch which isn’t even their raison d’etre. This is probably more egregious at Momofuku since the day and night menus are well…like…you know.

It’s kind of annoying that up until 2004, James spent nearly a decade living a block from where Ssam Bar (and that damn mob scene Trader Joe’s) now exist. If I only had to meander from Third Avenue to Second, it wouldn’t have taken me over a year to stop by. But the neighborhood is ick. Why live on a makeshift NYC campus when you can move to Brooklyn and experience all the same obnoxious kids ten years later after they’ve bought condos and procreated?

But yes, the food: my pork belly buns were fairly amazing, and I absolutely dig the pickle mania that has swept foodie-dom even if I hate the word foodie. The buns and ssams were as I’d expected, but I hadn’t anticipated the sides.

I loved my fried cauliflower dressed (heavily) with olive oil, fish sauce, chiles and mint. I might try reproducing this for Thanksgiving. It’s one of those dishes where people who think they hate fish sauce wouldn’t necessarily realize that’s what they were eating unless someone told them. The kimchi’d apples and bacon mix I sampled were also a mishmash that worked.

Sure, I’d like to try the country ham, banh mi or wrangle enough people together for the pork butt, but there’s no telling when that will actually happen. It’s much more likely that I’ll eschew my typical wait and see approach and try upcoming Momofuku Ko first.

Momofuku Ssam Bar * 207 Second Ave., New York, NY

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Sep 9

Michy’s

At least one “nice” dinner should be squeezed into a vacation, even if it’s just an extended weekend jaunt. But where in Miami? No offense to savvy residents but message boards weren’t much help. I couldn’t trust the posters’ judgment and knew I was in trouble when I glanced at the top five most booked restaurants on Open Table and three were Seasons 52, a Darden chain (Red Lobster, Olive Garden, et al.), a fact strategically absent from their website. Sure, I love me some chains but this wasn’t what I’d had in mind.

Not good, and I wasn’t about to touch a flashy clone like Nobu or Table 8 either. In fact, I wasn’t gung ho on South Beach at all. We never set foot or tire within the area, at least not that I was aware of. I did look at the ocean and walked in sand for maybe 60 seconds near a mini South American enclave, though.

I eventually settled on Michy’s, a restaurant I hadn’t initially considered because of the celebrity chef. But then I had to remind myself of how stupid that was considering that Michelle Bernstein hasn’t been on Food Network in a million years and her guest judge appearance on season two’s Top Chef hardly tarnished her image. Melting Pot was from a different era. Michelle Bernstein wouldn’t pose covered in tomato sauce or demonstrate her Latina-ness by becoming the Colombian Rachael Ray.

I think the restaurant is in what they call the design district, but it just looked like a commercial strip with lots of low rent motels advertising HBO and waterbeds like you find in downtown Las Vegas. The young, bossy M.B.A. seated next to us (I’m always seated next to an M.B.A., it seems) described the area as “gritty” to his date that he was only mildly impressing. Maybe it had something to do with his telling her what she was going to eat and insisting on doing all the ordering. I’d describe the décor more beyond being cheerily stylish and cozy but apparently they’re closing and remodeling in the middle of this month. It could be wildly different in October. Even though the restaurant was hardly a scene, it was packed and there were plenty of dresses barely covering ass cheeks and skin tanned to shades of wet clay.

Earlier, James had been grilling me about what kind of food Michy’s served and I couldn’t answer. It’s not like anything, no one ethnicity or style. New American? Small Plates? That tells you nothing other than the aesthetic. I’d hate to label the cuisine as comfort food, though that’s close; it’s the kind of food that’s good to eat, uh, ok? Rich and decadent…or maybe that’s just how I ordered.

Portions are available in full and halves and since we still had moros, yucca and lechon yet to be digested, we ordered four half sizes. Plus a shared dessert, it was right on. We, which is to say I, also chose a bottle of Albariño, which seemed to garner a strong approval from our waitress. But it also wrongly pegged James as knowing something about wine so he did the tasting and all of that and when I ordered an after dinner glass of Moscato d'Asti I was informed that it was sparkling like I was a know nothing. Ahem.

Blue cheese and jamon croquetas with fig marmalade. For some reason I thought these contained smoked duck, but that is not so according to MenuPages (restaurants with no websites stymie me). I’m relieved because I couldn’t taste any duck. The ham was just a hint. Really, these were like awesome, sophisticated mozzarella sticks. Fig jam blows marinara away for its dipping properties.

Orecchiette with duck sausage and herbed ricotta. This isn’t listed online so I could be off. I never order pasta at restaurants because it seems like a boring carby waste but this was reasonably sized and it’s kind of hard to resist game sausage.

Steak frite, a.k.a. churrasco with fries and béarnaise and au poivre dipping sauces. Yes, fries and béarnaise, not to mention steak, are heavy as heck. But all three were nearly rendered cute in this abbreviated form. A few slices of beef and a handful of fries never killed anyone. The béarnaise was much preferred over the au poivre.

Yellowtail with bok choy and shiitake broth. We stepped out of the fatty, creamy theme with this one. I think the bok choy was the only substantial vegetable we ate during this meal. The tuna was flaky and as delicate as it looked.

I wasn’t about to try the warn a.k.a. molten chocolate cake and didn’t want to do the bread pudding even though it seemed like their signature. The cuatro leches caught my attention because four is better than three, right? If I’m correct, dulce de leche is the extra dairy component. And coupled with baked Alaska? It was a must. The meringue was described as soft, which I didn’t understand until I poked it. The edges were all toasted golden but the mushroom-like mound was pliable, not chalky like those fat free meringue cookies you find at Trader Joe’s. The light egg white blob went well with the caramelly cake and pool of fruit-studded sauce. My bubbly Italian wine wasn’t so bad with it either.

Michy's * 6927 Biscayne Blvd. Miami, FL

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Aug 28

Ben & Jacks Steakhouse

3/4 I’m fairly certain that I haven’t eaten at a steakhouse in nearly two years, and that on-the-fly indulgence happened to be at a Morton’s in Hong Kong. That’s just not right (that is, not visiting a steakhouse in two years, not that I ate at one in Asia).

Steak had been on my mind lately due to little influencers like the last meat-heavy Saveur issue (I might be thinking of avocados instead if the current issue had made it to my apartment) and Diner’s Journal chatter. For James, all it took was a late-night, low-budget Ben & Jack’s commercial to prompt a reservation a few days later. I had been contemplating less traditional steakhouses like Strip House or Quality Meats but a Manhattan near Peter Luger clone didn’t draw any complaints from me.

And essentially, the two menus are replicas. I never thought the service was as gruff as purported in Williamsburg but customer attention is the most noticeable difference with this midtown offshoot started by former waiters. Glasses are never left unfilled, the second your plate nears empty, two more slices of steak are placed upon it using the two metal spoons tong-like approach. In fact, they continue to gregariously serve you throughout the meal, which was kind of unsettling when a giant mess of potatoes plopped all over the tablecloth, not thanks to me.

I never touch the salads or shrimp cocktail. Whoever dreamed up slabs of singed, fatty bacon as a starter is right up there with the inventor of bacon toffee. One $2.95 strip is plenty but we each got two so we’d have a smoky treat the next day.

Our steak order was textbook: porterhouse for two, medium-rare. The sputtering grease flecked serving plate isn’t pretty (and my photos are even less so) but it must be so. And this is one of the only places where a warning of, “be careful, the plates are hot” is genuinely warranted. The first slices are presented with flourish and a quick tap and press along the bottom edge of the ceramic, inducing a hiss. I didn’t want to fill up on bread but the pool of juices and butter at the bottom are made for an onion roll.

Medium-rare is served on the pink side, but the soft rawness is tempered by the charred edges and the best hyper-meaty parts near the bone. In fact, I really noticed the aged, minerally quality more the next day while gnawing on a room temperature bone.

There’s not much to say about the creamed spinach and German potatoes since they’re perfunctory, yet necessary.

I swear, in the past we’ve eaten the entire steak but that seemed like an impossibility on this occasion. After four pieces, I was heading into uncomfortable territory. And even though this was a carnivorous event, I couldn’t help but thinking of the possibility of a hot fudge sundae.

I was wondering if they’d replicate the “holy cow” hot fudge sundae from Peter Luger. And yes, they did, merely swapping bovine genders to create the holy bull. An avalanche of serious schlag dominates the first handful of bites, and by the time you reach the intense concentrated fudgey remains, you’re done in. “The drink,” as I’ve always called that painfully sweet, last syrupy bite that’s tough to choke down, is almost my favorite part of a sundae. I half-seriously considered ridding my stomach of its contents before dessert arrived, but I don’t possess that can do spirit.

Ben & Jacks Steakhouse * 219 E. 44th St., New York, NY

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Aug 19

Cheeseburger in Paradise

In preparation for my upcoming foray into South Florida I thought I’d do some research. You know, like what to the locals eat? So, I did the only logical thing and headed out to U.S. Route 1 in New Jersey, where all the finest chains are represented, and tried the brand new Cheeseburger in Paradise.

Apparently, in Key West they put mini sunglasses on their cocktail garnishes, eat glorified patty melts oozing Velveeta and enjoy acoustic Journey covers. All in all, pretty awesome. I’m set.

To be honest, I don’t understand the Jimmy Buffet connection to Key West (and I’m not about to look it up) let alone why anyone would name a restaurant Cheeseburger in Paradise. But there’s a lot that I don’t understand.

On an early Sunday evening, the bright pastel hued, surf shack-esque room was almost to capacity with families and large parties (I couldn’t stop staring at a motley group wearing purple polos with a logo I couldn’t make out. I was most mesmerized by a fortysomething female’s modern take on the rat tail. Her short, choppy gray hair was flanked by multiple tiny braid tails flowing half-way down her back. I started taking a photo, then stopped myself because who I am to judge someone’s hairy freak flag?) though in an un-chainlike manner there was no wait for a table.

I wasn’t sure what Cuban crustinis were but figured I should find out. Ok, they’re just mini toast rounds. Lime and cheese seem creepier than the seafood and cheese taboo, and this appetizer had it all. I’ve never been bothered by dairy and fish together, and really the crab, lime juice, spinach and melted asiago were inoffensive.

My burger? Not so sure. You get what’s coming to you if you order anything containing Velveeta and mayo, but I was curious about this Pressed Burger because it had a palm tree icon next to it indicating that it was an “island favorite.” Like I previously stated, it’s really a patty melt because it’s not on a bun. I was sort of imagining a panini burger, whatever that might be. This was more truck stop than trattoria and didn’t conjure the Florida Keys either.

The food was almost secondary because it was hard not to fixate on the entertainment, a middle aged guy (I actually couldn’t see him from where I was seated, but if he was under forty, I’ll buy you a plate of chocolate nachos) with an acoustic guitar, who managed to make every song murky, maudlin and sound like Time in a Bottle. Eventually, I could make out “Dust in the Wind,” “Landslide” and “Who’s Crying Now?” (the latter pumped into the bathroom stalls at five times the normal volume, which made me laugh out loud and no one could even hear). And it only got better when they put on piped music and Rupert Holmes’s classic, “Escape (The Pina Colada Song)” caressed my ears. It really perked up my pressed burger too, but everything feels smoother after a rum punch and margarita. And I now have a new ringtone idea for when I tire of “Popcorn.”

Cheeseburger in Paradise * 625 S. U.S. Rt. 1, Iselin, NJ

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Aug 6

Sidecar

Sidecar and Sunshine, dinner and a movie choices I made Saturday night, both left me with the same message: stick with your original mission. Sunshine I’ll leave nebulous and unspoiled. Sidecar, I’ll explain a bit.

Newly opened restaurants should be approached with caution and patience. But curiosity got the better of me with this South Slope oddity near the Blockbuster and Rent a Center (only the classiest neighborhoods have leather sectionals and plasma TVs on installment plans).

They didn’t have their liquor license yet, which was a minor disappointment because their list of cocktails sounded promising. But I wasn’t too crushed because a BYOB six-pack is a money-saver. We made our first mistake by turning down a weirdo small table in the window that practically had you sitting with the party next to you. We thought we’d wait at the (alcohol-free) bar until something opened up.

The space is high-ceilinged and handsome with de rigeur mid-‘00s hanging filament bulbs. More seating is allotted to drinking than dining which would be fine if there were drinks. And there were people who seemed to be just drinking, which was kind of baffling. Who would hang out a bar not serving drinks, drinking? I guess it’s better than imbibing in your own living room.

We skimmed the menus that were given to us, cracked open a couple Stellas obtained on the corner and figured we’d wait it out. The couple sitting next to us at the bar, who I swear walked in after us, approached the hostess and next thing I knew they were seated. Not cool.

There’s nothing as annoying as being in line at a grocery or drug store when a cashier yells “next” only to have a newcomer walk right up with no one in charge acknowledging who was actually next. I like a tight ship.

As long as we were waiting, we weren’t going to go hungry so we ordered crostini topped with a sweetish pate, served with a mixed salad and a few beet cubes. This is where the stay-the-course plan began falling apart. Our mission was to eat dinner sitting at a table and apparently, we had strayed the second we ordered food from the bar. The place started clearing out and every single person who’d come in after us was now sitting at booths.

Clearly, we’d been brushed off. I realize once you order food at the bar it’s kind of like your request for a table has been cancelled out (though the original couple next to us who were immediately seated had also ordered food at the bar first) but we still had entrees coming and no one else at the bar was eating full meals. At this point there were two empty tables, so we asked once again to be seated (I was either going to walk out or seat myself). You would’ve thought we were Al-Qaeda with the amount of reluctance received. We were given the eye for the remainder or our meal.

So, after about 45 minutes we got a booth and our entrees that I saw sitting on the metal shelf for at least ten minutes. They were looked at and touched numerous times, though no one seemed to have any idea where they were intended to go. It’s not that big of a restaurant for such confusion.

My creative grilled cibatta banh mi (called a banh de, which I am guessing is a play on DeCoursy, the surname of the brother-owners) with a shooter of cucumber juice was likeable. And James didn’t have complaints about his fried chicken, mashed root vegetables and succotash. But the food was all secondary at this point.

I hate service to overshadow a meal and I’m trying to temper knee-jerk harshness but there were glitches I couldn’t get past. It wasn’t Williamsburg-bad, there was a semblance of professionalism but I didn’t care for the way things played out. I wanted to like the place and the components were all there: tasty reasonably priced food, eclectic juke box (The Vaselines and Exploding Hearts were both pleasing) and potentially fun cocktails. Yet nothing gelled.

Sunshine, too, started off with promise before evolving into a horror flick. Sometimes you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into before it’s too late.

Sidecar * 560 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Jul 13

Dressler

M.Y.O.B. shouldn’t be an acronym flitting through your mind while dining. I was off put and on edge during nearly my entire meal at Dressler and it had nothing to do with the food or service.

Sometimes context is everything. Dressler is the second venture in my recent mission to try brand new and no longer new but avoided-by-me restaurants. Momofuku Ssam has yet to be braved. The modly ornate room (I did appreciate the streamlined metalwork chandeliers and backlit curlicues) was only about a third full at 9pm on a Saturday. Hardly jumping. Maybe that’s why being seated one foot from two human irritants felt more pronounced.

If you think I’m about to embark on an anti-hipster tirade, you would be wrong. Sure, that ilk can be a nuisance but they’re too self-absorbed to concern themselves with others in the manner of the unpleasant middle aged New Jersey couple (or Brooklyn Brooklyn or Staten Island. I can’t tell my regional accents apart—or certain ethnicities. This implies deep idiocy on my part but I find a lot of crossover between vaguely suburban Italians and Jews. Think of the Costanzas. These two could’ve been either) I was saddled with. The male half wouldn’t stop staring at us and the definitely-not-his-better half couldn’t stop commenting on everyone around us, particularly the couple on our other side with a similarly strong accent. The second we sat down my mood started darkening.

I’ve always attributed staring and speaking disparagingly of other diners as a French trait (it’s happened more times than you’d ever imagine). Who else would have the audacity to pen a book about why they don’t get fat. Keep ze eyes on ze own plate, n’est pas?

They clearly weren’t thrilled to have me squeezing my ass past their nearly touching table (and I made quite a point of scrutinizing the female’s derriere when she uncomfortably squeaked through the same narrow space when leaving). But the woman really couldn’t contain her horror when the easy going forty-something couple on my left began splitting three desserts. In between the not-so-stifled grumbling I made out, “she needs to work out.” The dessert-and-a-half eater was tall and large but definitely not fat.

My blood start boiling. It’s creepy to see grown women who so clearly deprive themselves on daily basis (and no one cares) to look “good” i.e. skinny, haggard and old (taking butterface to a new level) get obviously unraveled at a female of a similar age having fun with no thought to their figure.

I’d had a few drinks before arriving, started off with a mint julep-esque Coal Miner’s Daughter (Old Grand Dad Bourbon, mint, lemon), and consequently wasn’t doing a good job of hiding my own disgust. I really don’t like confrontation, and James hates it more than anything, we’re a great passive couple. But it was all I could do to keep from asking the petty clientele to please shut the fuck up.

James and I both ended up ordering uncharacteristically. Heirloom tomatoes with tapanade? So not him. I never ever order greenmarket porno dishes like the halibut with fava beans, sugar snap peas and asparagus. Light, girly, a bit too springy for July. Even my glass of Gruner Veltliner felt strange—I tend to drink darker, heavier wines. Subconsciously, I was scared of the wrath on my right side if I’d ordered the fresh bacon like I normally might. That’s how distracted I was by our gauche neighbors.

My rich smoked salmon and crème fraiche salad did remedy things a bit. Our shared peanut brittle ice cream, chocolate cake mélange was straight desserty. I needed something soothing (I also had a glass of sherry) and it wasn’t the evening for black pepper ice cream or rhubarb rose soup. Thankfully, the too concerned twosome had left by this point so there was no need to avoid evil eyes and barely audible chiding.

I left feeling like something was amiss. The food was solid but when I dine at this price I want that intangible extra. There must be a reason why Dressler was sparsely populated when Diner and Marlow and Sons down the street were at full capacity (not that it’s a good reason—I don’t feel inclined to tap into that whole unfancy fancy schtick…yet). They suffer from a bit of an identity crisis. What do you do with the older crews who dismissively proclaim aloud “next time I’m reading the reviews first” and the clueless youngsters who sit, see the menu and promptly leave?

Dressler * 149 Broadway, Brooklyn, NY

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Apr 3

Alchemy

Saturday night, Fette Sau crossed my mind but I knew better. Williamsburg service tends to lack in the best of circumstances and opening weekend chaos might’ve turned my hair white(r) from stress and shock. It looks like I chose wisely.

Instead, I decided to have my patience tried at a Park Slope gastropub, thanks. I’m not clear why New Yorkers would find communal dining enticing. Communes equal love and sharing. Even innocent CSAs gives me the heebies. I don’t want to know my residential neighbors, anonymity is one of the few benefits to city dwelling. I definitely don’t want to sup with strangers.

At least the inch and a half that normally separates tiny square tables fools you into thinking you’re dining semi-privately. It wasn’t that I just didn’t want to sit wedged in the back corner of the restaurant, it was that I could barely fit into the back corner, even a medium adult would’ve had troubles. I was stuck between a wall and a Japanese girl, seething while unable to remove my jacket or use my right arm. We probably should’ve just refused the seat or eaten at the bar, which was more spacious but there was practically no way to extricate once squeezing in. And, well, I’m a culinary martyr.

I wanted simple and good, and that’s pretty much what we got. The menu is brief, with about a handful each of appetizers and entrees. We split an order of beef cheeks, which were served atop creamy polenta and garnished with parsnip strips and a few stray red pickled slivers of something unidentifiable. Beets seem like the obvious guess, but I’m not sure.

Somehow, I ended up ordering a dish in a style I rarely touch: meat-less and pasta-based. They were trying to make a hippy out of me. Next thing you know I’ll start digging rice-filled burritos. Urgh. But the beet ravioli with wilted greens and a goat cheese sauce sounded appealing. The marcona almonds mentioned in the description could’ve played a more prominent role, though. The smooth richness needed some contrast.

Continuing my beer theme (I managed to drink three Bluepoint Toasted Ales—after being given a bizarre moldy tasting version at Sheep Station, I now tend to order the brew when I see it on tap for comparison), we split a warm, puffy sticky toffee pudding made with Guinness. At least our dessert could be savored leisurely.

About thirty minutes after we arrived, the seating situation had loosened up. By 11pm we were the lone people remaining at one of the long tables. The front bar stools and spacious wooden booths were the only occupied space. I don’t think it’s a secret that weeknight dining has its advantages but leaving the house Saturday night shouldn’t be traumatizing either.

Ah, which reminds me. Three of the four curtains covering the back windows were hung closed but the one nearest to us had been pulled open. I imagine they were intended to stay shut since the rear patch was filled with junk, a typically Brooklyn backyard. During the middle of our meal, James glanced out and got an eyeful of one of the male kitchen staff taking a leak. Classy. This photo isn’t an attempt to capture the deed, I’m just illustrating the scene of the crime.

Alchemy * 56 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Feb 23

Moto

When describing what I did for Valentine’s Day, the words Moto or Homaro Cantu don’t always register much recognition but if I say, “you know, the laser and ink jet guy from Iron Chef” the response is generally better. “Oh, that guy. Cool.”

Yeah, it was cool. I get the sense that Moto is less serious (or taken less seriously) than the other experimental game in town, Alinea, and that was what I was in the mood for. Surprises without stuffiness. Despite hardly being a thrifty meal, I liked the general informality and sense of whimsy.

I’m not sure if it’s a NYC vs. Chicago thing or Moto vs. comparable local restaurants but the servers seemed young in a way you don’t find here. Maybe it’s because they’re not aspiring models, stylists or actors (maybe they are—that’s not the type of thing I ask). I liked our doughy guy who had a slight Capote lilt to his speech. There was another waiter with floppy blonde hair who made me nervous because he could never quite get his descriptions out right and had a spazzy, surfer-inflected delivery. A general feeling of bright-eyed proud-ness was present, though.

Minus all the molecular bells and whistles, I was surprised at how American the food actually was. I appreciated the takes on nachos, mac and cheese, rib eye, popcorn and cotton candy. I’m not sure if that’s the Midwestern influence at work or what. Tweaking familiar favorites, evoking nostalgia. It works for Brit, Heston Blumenthal, right? There is a lot of texture and temperature play, crunchy and soft, cold and hot, sometimes it’s brilliant and occasionally it’s unsettling.

Moto was most definitely fun, though it’s not the type of food that you crave when you simply want something good to eat. Sometimes you’re just hungry and don’t want to think too hard or need to be delighted by unorthodox plating and presentation. It’s certainly not an emperor’s new clothes situation but I wouldn’t feel the need to dine this way on a frequent basis. Of course there’s middle ground between grubbin’ and avant-garde and the whole range is exciting to me.

Random Aside: I’m the one who’s usually annoyed by strangers’ antics but James was losing his shit with the male half of the couple on my left. I couldn’t really see him because we were seated on the same side of the table. During the middle of our meal he confidently explained to his date, a mousy, brunet Reese Witherspoon lookalike in a charcoal gray skirt suit, “I have one word for you: MO TO” while chopping the air for emphasis. (My internal voice changed his proclamation to MO ROCCA.) He also took credit for the metal suspended spoon contraption used on Iron Chef. I don’t know what his deal was; he didn’t work at the restaurant but seemed to know everyone and appeared to be getting special treatment. His bravado didn’t appear to put off anyone except us, though, so perhaps we’re crybabies. I’ve yet to encounter a female taking this same gourmand show off approach at an upscale restaurant though I frequently find myself seated near the reverse.

Initially, you’re presented with an edible menu with the GTM parade listed on one side and the ten and five course options on the flip side. We thought ten courses seemed about right. Five would be sadly lacking and the grand tasting menu seemed a shade over the top. We chose well, and stayed sharp until two sweet courses arrived. The menu on this occasion was Mexican themed and tasted like chile-cheese frico. There was a spicy dip beneath the readable cracker.

Unless I write as I eat, which I don’t do when I’m out for fun, I tend to forget finer details of the dishes. Their descriptions are obliquely simplistic so there’s a lot of filling in the blanks. I’ve copied wine pairings from the website. There’s no way I could remember any of that. I’m only moderately about wine, James not at all, but he loved the Bechtheimer Heiligkreuz Sheurebe, comparing it favorably to Vitamin Water (he thought our rose cava at Ureña tasted like “expensive soda”). He asked about it (we couldn’t remember the name to save our lives) and the nice wine stewardess gave us a second pour. I could understand why after looking all the wines up—it was the cheapest of the lot, only around $12 a bottle. I guess we’re easy to please.

salmon and sesame
larmandier lernier, 1er cru blanc de blancs, vertus, brut nv

If I’m correct, liquid nitrogen (which is stirred up in a copper pan tableside) is mixed with lime juice and drizzled atop the cubed salmon and sesame crisp. Little tangy white blobs form. Chilly, soft, crunchy, acidic all at once.

acorn with bacon
geil, bechtheimer heiligkreuz, scheurebe, kabinett, rheinhessen 2005

Maybe because our taste buds were still sharp but I really liked this one. The maple and squash cake is frozen but creamy on mouth contact like that astronaut ice cream you could get a science museum gift shops when you were a kid. The tiny squares of warm squash meld well and contained the world’s tiniest strip of bacon.

merluzzo and popcorn
waugh cellars, indindoli vineyard, chardonnay, russian river valley 2004

The chunk of fish is wrapped with noodles made from mango (no starch, just juice) and the mustardy swipes of sauce taste surprisingly like popcorn. The green blobs are crafted from shisho. I can’t recall what the white powdery substance is.

pomegranate and caped gooseberry

A sour palate cleanser. One husk contains a real gooseberry while the other holds a square of gooseberry gel which tastes nearly the same.

bbq pork with the fixin's
sutton cellars, trimble vineyard, carignane, mendocino county 2004

I think this was intended to mimic a pulled pork sandwich. The saucy meat sits on the right and on the left is a toasty but frozen square of squid ink covered bread sitting atop what I think was described as a praline sauce. We weren’t sure about the crumbs sitting next to it. I just know realized that the black chunk is meant to resemble a lump of charcoal.

pasta and ribeye
ramey, claret, napa valley 2004

The elbow macaroni looked like it came straight from the bag but it wasn’t tooth-shattering, just slightly crispy. The strange thing is that I took this title from their menu but I don’t remember meat being in this. Perhaps the wine had fuzzed my mind by this point but I thought the brownish blobs were savory cheese curds (that’s frightening if I can’t tell the difference between cheddar and beef). I’ve looked at photos of this dish on other websites and there appears to be steak strips in the glass and diners can pour the cheese sauce from a separate cup. Ours was self-contained. I might be the only American who’s not crazy about macaroni and cheese, but this dish was great.

lychee rigatoni fruit plate
meinklang, trokenbeerenauslese, bouvier, burgenland 2001

The pastas tubes are made of lychee and the sauce is a sweet, thick concoction containing white chocolate (which also struck me as very American—I love white chocolate but it has a lowbrow stigma, doesn’t it?). Beneath the crisp is a candied slice of fuji apple and a slice of a fruit that I’m forgetting.

two and three dimensional truffle

This was the cotton candy in orb and paper form. The truffle reminded me of iced circus cookie filled with cold water. I’m not sure if that was the intended effect. I liked the edible paper better than the bonbon.

graham cracker and quince
elio perrone, moscato d'Asti “sourgal” 2006

A strange but tantalizing malty, graham cracker-ish soup topped with fruity pellets.

kiwi, mango, mint and maize

I thought were done at this point. I didn’t realize that we were getting nachos (and some chocolate krispie doo dads) and my stomach capacity was at maximum. When describing this dish to a friend I found it hard to articulate how this was more than mere novelty. They use kiwi for chiles, grated mango as cheese, chocolate for ground beef and a lemon sauce for sour cream. In my head I kept picturing a Kraft Foods abomination. I assure you that there was nothing atrocious about these flavors.

I don’t know why I felt compelled to snap a photo of myself in the bathroom. So MySpacey. It was my one moment of calm, a buffer from the sensory overload on the other side of the door

Moto * 945 W. Fulton St., Chicago, IL

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Feb 22

Billy Goat Tavern

1/2 You know you’ve entered strange territory when a double cheeseburger starts sounding like light fare. My original itinerary placed us at touristy Gino’s for a deep-dish pizza lunch but our flight was delayed slightly and I became concerned about such a heavy item ruining our 8pm Moto meal. There’s something about Chicago that allowed me to feel uncharacteristically shameless about cheesy venues. Since I was on the tourist track and scouting walkable options, Billy Goat Tavern (made famous from the ‘70s Saturday Night Live cheezborger, cheezborger sketch.) seemed as good a choice as any.

Billy_goat_counter We liked how one second you’re on shopping central, Magnificent Mile, then after descending a staircase you’re in a spooky subterranean enclave like Batman’s Gotham City. After opening the front door festooned with a goat painting (the first of two I’d find in 24 hours), you travel down another level of stairs into a barebones, wood paneled, resolutely lowbrow joint, the kind of place people might think still exists in NYC but sorely doesn’t. The bar that occupies a good portion of the right half of the room is as prominent as the center grill.

I hate crowds, but I also get nervous when a place is empty. We were practically the only occupants at 4pm on a Wednesday but that was soon rectified. By the time we were ready to leave they were doing brisk business with baffled vegetarian tourists (they got the grilled cheese) and batches of Chicago Tribune employees from across the street, some nursing whiskeys and chain smoking, others conducing business meetings.

You order from the brief wall menu at the counter and a bartender comes around to take your drink order. The animated qualities of the counter guys (yes, they’ll do the SNL shtick) were balanced by the flat surliness of the Scatman Crothers-looking bar keep (though after we lingered over six Billy Goat lagers and tipping probably a little generously by local standards he warmed up and began encouraging us to stay and drink more).

The simple double cheeseburger on a roll is the way to go. It comes on a paper plate and you can dress it up with typical condiments like mustard, ketchup, pickles, onions and relish. This meat sandwich tempered with three beers was my healthy lunch. At least I was saved from caloric fries because they don’t serve them. The only available side is a bag of potato chips, plain or bbq, and I’ve never been a chip eater. I still say it was less filling than Chicago-style pizza.

Billy Goat Tavern * 430 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, IL

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Posts from the ‘American’ Category

Quiznos

Momofuku Ssam Bar

Michy’s

Ben & Jacks Steakhouse

Cheeseburger in Paradise

Sidecar

Dressler

Alchemy

Moto

Billy Goat Tavern

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The Past Will Haunt You

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