Posts from the ‘What to Eat’ Category

Jul 14

Fushimi

Yeah, yeah, Fushimi is garish, and I guess it's out of place in that section of Williamsburg (though not-in-my-backyard pioneers SEA and Tacu Tacu are only six blocks away) but it's hardly the sensibility-offender it's been made out to be. Anyone freaking has clearly never been to Vegas.

And just like Vegas, the customers aren't likely to be locals. With Bay Ridge and Staten Island already covered by the sushi chainlet, there is now a place for Brooklynites from all points north to enjoy glowing neon theatrics while "Big Long Dick" (I couldn't get Shazaam to work, but that's a pretty easy chorus to remember) bounces off the spot-lit walls and metallic chandeliers.

When Fushimi first opened, a friend who lives nearby suggested that we take mushrooms and check it out. I was tempered by no more than a coconut mojito on this visit, though I would not rule out the possibility of a psychedelic future excursion.

There is a Sexy Lady's Night, each Thursday, after all.

The food? Well, it's superfluous. If you frequently eat lunch-deal sashimi at uncelebrated Japanese restaurants like I do, you won't have a problem with the quality. You will be upset if Yasuda, Azabu or 15 East are in your regular rotation. The sushi and sashimi for two wouldn't have been able to compete with the decor if LED lights were not embedded in the ice.

A fried soft-shell crab with sweet-spicy Thai sauce was a perfectly fine appetizer.

I like fake crab so the kani salad filled that void with a slick of "spicy aioli," a.k.a. Sriracha-spiked thousand island dressing dotted with tobiko. Look at those little purple leaves, though. A touch that shows they're trying, right? Same with the sparse microgreens on the soft-shell crab.

The path to the bathroom feels like you're on a spaceship–if Liberace owned such a craft. I was disappointed that the lights didn't change colors, but remained electric blue.

Fushimi * 475 Driggs Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Jun 30

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Clinton Hill Times Three

SoCo I’ve been spending time in Clinton Hill recently, trying to assess the livability of the neighborhood (I would say the prognosis is good; we put an offer on a condo yesterday). I’m not a total stranger to the area since I did work at Pratt briefly in the late ’90s (my first-ever, full-time salaried job [$22,000] which I left to work at a food website–yes, they existed 13 years ago–for $3,000 more. Everyone got laid off six months later…) but Myrtle Avenue has ten million more bars and restaurants than in my day. SoCo was the craziest (well, the booming sit-down Chino-Latino place with the name I always forget technically was) in that there was a huge crowd spilling out onto the sidewalk. More club than restaurant. But the next afternoon, the post-brunch crowd seemed mellower so I joined in, lured by the promise of fried chicken and red velvet waffles on the window menu. It’s the most popular dish, too, I was told. I would estimate that at least half of the tables had at least one plate of red waffles on it. The mash-up was far less breakfast/dinner than dinner/dessert hybrid. The sweetness was there, and pumped up by the maple syrup, but the cocoa flavor almost grounded it. You really didn’t feel like you were eating chicken and cake, just a tasty new form of fat and carbs. Lovers of unnaturally colored food and nonsensical flavor combinations will be pleased.

Speedy Romeo I love processed cheese, not just Velveeta and Cheez Whiz, but thickly sliced deli cheese, too, all extra creamy and salty. I also love Hawaiian pizza, so it’s almost as if Speedy Romeo’s Dick Dale was custom made for me. Using popular-in-St. Louis Provel cheese (a melty, processed cheese that combines cheddar, swiss and provolone) plus pineapple and smoky speck ham on a wood-fired pizza is pure genius. Adding a spoonful of pickled chiles, the restaurant’s condiment of record, provides a sharp contrast against the smoother, sweet flavors, and makes this pizza one of my all-time favorites. That is not say, all will love it, especially considering ham and pineapple is a scourge to purists, never mind the utterly un-artisanal cheese. Oh, Slice covered this very pizza this week with a nice slide show and everything–I had no idea it contained béchamel.

Putnam’s Pub It’s a gastropub, nothing out of the ordinary, but good to know about if a late night roasted bone marrow or devils on horseback (not bacon-wrapped dates here, which is the usual interpretation, but fried oyster topped deviled eggs) craving strikes.

Sunset Park Diner & Donuts I never ate here once when I lived down the street, though that’s not really a judgment of the restaurant but more about my rarely eating at diners. It’s slim pickings for post-2am dining in the area, and they do a grilled cheese with bacon deluxe, i.e. with fries, as good as anyone. The restaurant is even on Seamless, which is surprising. It almost makes me wish I still lived over there just so I could have french toast and jalapeño poppers delivered to my door at 3am.

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Jun 18

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Double Dandelion Greens & Falafel Three Ways

Levant I never ever used to order delivery, maybe more due to social anxiety (I hate ordering by phone–there's always a misunderstanding) than an abhorrence for convenience. But Seamless has won me over lately because it cuts down on all that messy interpersonal interacting. I was a little bummed when Palmyra went belly up, but turns out it was ok because they were replaced with another Middle Eastern restaurant with better food. Or at least more variety–there's not just falafel but Jordanian (chickpea and fava), Egyptian (fava) or Syrian (chickpea) falafel. I had the standard all-chickpea fritter in my five for $13 mezze, along with labneh shateh (spicy), muhammara, mukhalal (pickled vegetables with a whole preserved lemon tossed in) and mousa'a, a steaming hot stewy eggplant dish not pictured. The pizzas, a.k.a. manakeesh are only $6. The lahmeh bi ajin was topped with ground beef, onions, pine nuts, and was a little salty. I'm curious about the one with blue cheese, dates, honey and walnuts.

Paprika Despite its existence on St. Marks for 12 years, I don't recall ever noticing this Italian restaurant. There are just too many Italian restaurants in NYC, I'm afraid. That's why owner and chef, Egidio Donagrandi, has gone back to his roots and revamped much of the menu to reflect the cuisine of Valtellina, a Northern Italian region bordering Switzerland. It's also why I was attending a preview dinner. Gone is most of the red sauce (there are still meatballs–lamb, by the way) and a different type of hearty food has taken its place. Buckwheat plays a role the tagliatelle and the lasagna with leeks and fonduta (pictured), Northern Italian cheeses like new-to-me, Bitto, enhance the polenta, also given a little heft with buckwheat, pickled vegetables frequently show up as with the oyster mushrooms atop the bresaola. Also shown here is black kale with pickled onion and almonds, a dandelion salad with pickled radishes and creamy crescenza cheese, and beef crudo with beets and chicory. (Obviously, there are substantial mains, too, but the light waned and I didn't have my real camera on hand to adequately capture them.) Maybe my end-of-2011 prediction that Alpine cuisine would be a break out, will prove true. What happened with Harold Dieterle's The Marrow, anyway?

Frankies 457 Now that Pok Pok exists, waiting an hour for a table at Frankies seems like nothing. Technically, I'd already eaten enough snacks earlier to constitute a meal so post 10pm dinner was fine. But to counteract the already-eaten food, I went healthy and ordered a dandelion greens salad with octopus instead of pasta (well, I also shared a charcuterie plate). It was a bit too healthy, like giant bowl of tart, nicely dressed weeds accented by charred octopus tendrils. I would recommend sharing this unless you're the type who can regularly eat a whole forest of kale in one sitting.

Brick House Tavern + Tap I've mentioned this suburban breastaurant (which seems to be decreasingly breastaurant-y) before. I only want to mention that a short cocktail list with a Manhattan twist and a drink using Firefly sweet tea vodka seems to be in at these corporate-type establishments (Is there a company or consultant who designs lists for restaurants? I feel like I should know.) Brick House has a Woodford Reserve Peach Manhattan (which I ordered) and a Carolina Spiked Tea (which I would never order because I hate sweet tea). Though I can't find any cocktail lists on their websites, both Republic Gastropub and Bricktown Brewery (no relation to Brick House) Brewery in Oklahoma City also had prominently featured a sweet tea cocktail and a fruity Manhattan.

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Jun 17

Captain James Crabhouse

I don't (generally) love being a killjoy. In theory, the idea of an outdoor crab shack in Red Hook sounds pretty cool, like a Clemente's but walkable. I like the neighborhood because no matter how much it's touted as the next big thing, it never really happens, and with the exception of The Good Fork, crowds are never a problem (do not tell me Pok Pok is in Red Hook).

That's why as soon as I heard about shuttle buses from the Carroll Street station to Brooklyn Crab, my excitement deflated a little. Just a few weekends ago, there was a party bus blocking the street outside of Sunny's Saturday night (and this appeared to be separate from Bon Appetit's Grub Crawl on the same day, judging from the daylight in their pics). It's a bit much. And I really, really wanted to eat crabs outdoors near the water.

So, down to Baltimore it was (the Eastern Shore is preferable but on such short notice, there wasn't a single hotel room left) where crabs aren't cheap as one might think, but you're treated to some serious specimens and you'll genuinely get full, something that doesn't happen with the little crabs they serve at Brooklyn restaurant, Clemente's included. I didn't understand this before I experienced blue crabs in their element. For instance, if Brooklyn Crab is only charging $37 for a dozen those are going to be maybe mediums by Maryland standards and the amount of work it might take to extract any meat isn't worth it. I'm not saying the experience, enhanced by a few pitchers of beer, won't be enjoyable, but you won't eat much. You know you're having the real thing when you're offered a choice of medium, large, extra large or jumbos.

Mr. Bill's Terrace Inn is a serious crab restaurant in Baltimore. So serious that it's in a windowless building on the outskirts of town. Captain James is more picturesque, meaning more touristy, and that you can sit outside with your drinks and listen to Jimmy Buffet and The Eagles–or the Beach Boys, but only "Kokomo." There'll be a wait at either, but a more considerable one at Bill's.

At Captain James, the Old Bay-encrusted jumbos (which were more like extra larges at Bill's) were $89 a dozen (like I said, not cheap) but you're paying for the amount and ease of extracting intact, substantial chunks of meat. Some people ask for vinegar, others had squeeze bottles of Parkay. The white flaky flesh was sweet enough on its own, though.

The only accompaniment we needed were hush puppies straight from the fryer. Still a little tender in the middle, these crispy dough balls were better than any I had in North Carolina where they were the bbq side of choice.

I think by Baltimore standards, this particular evening at Captain James would be what folks like to call a shitshow. But desensitized by Brooklyn shenanigans, I didn't think twice about waiting in line for 20 minutes or ten minutes passing before our harried waitress took our order (the pitcher of beer was brought out immediately so who cares?) until she apologized for how slammed they were. It was nothing.

Despite all the caveats of NYC crab eating, I 'm still curious about Brooklyn Crab, though maybe only on a non-shuttle bus weeknight, and not for the crab. The brutal Googa Mooga Yelp reviews from opening weekend only made the four-hour drive to Baltimore seem more reasonable.

Captain James Crabhouse * 2127 Boston St., Baltimore, MD

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Jun 17

Faidley’s

I knew Lexington Market is on the sketchy side (after being robbed in Canada–yes, Canada!–over a decade ago, I now pay heed to online naysayers even if I suspect they're exaggerating the level of danger and I feel like a know-it-all New Yorker). And I also knew that every time I've been to Baltimore I've missed the well-known crab cake at Faidley's (or is it just Faidley–it's spelled both ways all over the place) within the Lexington Market because I never get into town before Saturday closing time (5pm) and it's not open Sundays (a surprising number of businesses in this town aren't).

So, I got my crab cake this time, right alongside all the other camera-toting tourists standing up against the tall chairless tables exclusive to the restaurant. Jumbo lump, a little mayonnaise and mustard for binding, some cracker crumbs too, I imagine (though not much) and a packet of Saltines. Purist. I like a few shakes vinegary Tabasco to cut the richness. A can of Natty Boh rounds out the experience.

* * *

A trip to the public restroom, though, can add a whole other layer to the experience. Now, I knew better than to use the bathroom at Lexington Market, but after being in the car for hours, this was our first pitstop; I really had to go, busted or not. I imagined it would be like a Port Authority bathroom might be in the '70s but with fewer runaways, and I got my wish and then some.

The No Bathing, No Shaving, and many other Nos sign, immediately tipped me off to the scene. I saw boobs, I saw bellies. There were a lot of flesh-exposing bathing suits, despite our not being near a beach. A woman asleep in a wheelchair was apparently waiting for another woman in a wheelchair to vacate the handicapped stall. Hair was inexplicably wet. The line, which I was only third in, wouldn't budge until angry women of all ages began spilling out into the hall. The nearest stall contained a passed out woman. A polite pregnant woman had everyone in the tight quarters yelling at the passer-outer and pounding the door on her behalf (I'm equal opportunity and wondered why no one was mad at the woman in the handicapped stall who'd been taking up space just as long). Security was brought in. I had flashbacks to the women's prison-esque Lucille Roberts, the first gym I ever joined, on the Ridgewood-Bushwick border where ladies with neck tattoos would threaten anyone taking too long in the bathroom, "You'd better not be changing in there because you ain't got nothing I've haven't seen before!" To bring this back to food, McDonald's meals were also frequently eaten in the locker room.

I peed in 30 seconds and hightailed it out so fast (no, I did not wash my hands) that my skirt got caught up in the back of my underwear, and was told so by two women as I was about to head outside into the world. And I wasn't even remotely embarrassed.

But the clincher was that James, who was waiting outside the bathroom, had been approached by some of the angry mob. "You're with a white girl?" they asked. "She needs to get her ass out of that bathroom." I love that he was racially profiled, whether or not he seemed like someone who'd be with a middle-aged junkie or not. But more disconcertingly, he believed that I was the trouble-maker in the bathroom. As if that's my typical M.O. when just trying to get a crab cake in another city.

So, good crab cake, meatier than most, but not necessarily worth the trouble in a city where crab cakes aren't exactly hard to come by. I'll stick with Duda's where we went immediately afterward and got another one because day trips are for crustacean-filled gluttony.

Faidley's * 203 N. Paca St., Baltimore, MD

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Jun 12

North End Grill

If anything, North End Grill initially appealed because along with Blue Smoke and Shake Shack, the trio fulfills my perverse fascination with restaurants in generic condo and office complexes that could be in any city (see Mable's Smokehouse).

Of course Danny Meyer and Floyd Cardoz's newest venture also appealed because it's obviously the most ambitious of the three Battery Park City restaurants. Despite the moderately oddball location, I would consider this a destination not so much a casual after work stop. At least for me, entrees over $30 signal a place that's not for every night eating. That clam pie and a cocktail in the bar? Sure.

Scotch, perhaps a grab at the business crowd, is the featured spirit. Instead of focusing on little drams, I chose it in a cocktail, The Scotch Bonnet, just barely sweet and floral with lavender honey and freshened with Lillet.

The floured and crisped cod throats were a must since my only familiarity with this meaty cut is in their Basque guise as kokotxas, popularly used in pil-pil dishes, thick with garlic and olive oil. Meunière-style here, the brown butter was greened-up, visually and taste-wise with chervil and just a few rounds of jalapeño.

It's hard to say if the focus is seafood (it kind of is) because then something like grilled lamb hearts appears on the menu and is hard to ignore. The organ, cooked rare, was also spring-like and verdant with fresh, i.e. green chickpeas and mint vinaigrette.

Many of the dishes had a murky, dirt-like quality, which sounds horrible and is probably why earthy is the more commonly used adjective. The spice blends lent a heaviness to a main ingredient that might otherwise be light. For instance, the soft-shell crab was very delicate, and when I read papaya salad I pictured a bright, citrusy Thai style when in actuality the mustard seeds grounded the dish. The shredded carrots and daikon also further mixed up expectations since their presence often indicates Vietnamese and this was not that either.

Somehow the regular Thursday night became celebratory thanks to a bottle of Weingut Heinrich Spindler Riesling and a few whiskeys at the nearby W with its not-terribly-high roof terrace that overlooks the World Trade Center construction site. The beauty of the Financial District is that you'll practically have any place to yourself after 10pm.

North End Grill * 104 North End Ave., New York, NY

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Jun 7

Cattlemen’s Steakhouse

Cattlemen’s, an Oklahoma City meatery that remains much of its 1940s charm, serves a George Bush-approved T-bone.

I went for the rib-eye, instead, gnawing the medium-rare meat with Ronald Regan and Gene Autry as witnesses.

A server who spoke like a caricature of already-caricatured Kenneth on 30 Rock suggested the popular lamb fries, which I knew were breaded and fried testicles even as a city slicker.

We just stuck with the steaks, which were better than I’d expected, juicy, a little fatty, not complex or dry aged, but hardly the dull Outback Steakhouse slabs they’d been compared to on Yelp (Yelp and surprisingly active, Urbanspoon, were practically all I had to go on in this region). You would be crazy to go to Oklahoma City and not pay a visit to Cattlemen’s, for the experience alone.

Dinners come with a requisite heavily dressed salad (get the thick and garlicky house dressing).

And warm, fluffy rolls and a baked potato, little scoops of butter and sour cream on the side.

I didn’t even mind the half-hour Friday night wait because there is a spacious rec room-style bar upstairs where you can sit beneath a wagon wheel chandelier, watch big screen TVs and drink Shiner Bock or a big bottle of Double Deuce, brewed specially for the restaurant. No one will blink twice if you’re in a cowboy hat and boots.

There is also a self-contained dining room just for smokers, a still-thriving species.

Cattlemen’s Steakhouse * 1309 S. Agnew, Oklahoma City, OK

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May 27

Tarahumara’s

If anything, I wasn't put off by Oklahoma's gun culture, big trucks, or the cowboy regalia, which are at odds with everything New York. My father was an aficionado of all of those trappings, NRA stickers were a window presence on our family's pick-up growing up, and a pair of custom-made shark skin boots lived in my parents' closet, and yes, a gun or two were tucked into dresser drawers.

At Tarahumara's, and most Oklahoman Mexican restaurants, chips, flour tortillas, salsa, and queso appear as a matter of course, and are replenished as soon as they start to dwindle. Even though I knew an onslaught of food was on its way, I couldn't stop eating the fluffy tortillas and pale, melted cheddar (not Velveeta, as I would've presumed).

Combo platters rule. My Mexican dinner (only $12, hardly anything crept into the double digits) consisted of two tamales (I hate to admit that I have no idea what the filling was–there was so much going on–though I want to say beef), a cheese enchilada, rice, beans, and a hard-shelled chicken taco with guacamole and sour cream. When James' coworkers (my visit was a business trip tag-along) complain about no Mexican food in NYC they mean no giant platters like this. It's true. The melted cheese, masa, corn tortillas, and chili start blurring together, but it's a delicious mess.

And a mixed grill, which is fajitas of all fillings (beef, chicken, and shrimp) like a Mexican happy family, with even a few potato slices thrown in for good measure.

I don't know if the long wait was typical or if it was more a case of a Mother's Day Sunday rush, but you can hang out on the patio with a giant margarita or a lime juice-and-salt-rimmed Negro Modelo.

Tarahumara's * 702 N. Porter Ave., Norman, Oklahoma

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May 25

Sid’s Diner

If I had been in El Reno just one Saturday earlier, I may have witnessed the world's largest fried onion burger. But being a regular Saturday, the small town 30 miles west of Oklahoma City, was pretty sleepy with the exception of Sid's (I did not check out the names in the game, Johnnie's or Robert's). Yes, you can also find fried onion burgers in the state capital, but why not go to the source?

What seemed like a main drag was a ghost town with nothing open except an office supply-type store.

Beau Brummel was also shut up tight. At least I could admire its signage in peace.

El Reno lays claim to the fried onion burger, a meat-stretching, depression-era treat that presses and grills a shitton of onions (half a whole onion, I've read) onto a thin patty, creating one caramelized entity.

Adorned with little more than pickle slices and heavy squirts of mustard, the sandwich is only lightly beefy with onion sweetness and the tart condiments in the foreground. I prefer my austerity-measure food in this fashion–I've never grown to love oatmeal-riddled, ketchup-slathered meatloaf. Size-wise, the burger harkens back to fast food of yore. It won't weigh you down. That's what the too-thick-for straws milkshakes are for (not pictured).

Sid's Diner * 300 South Choctaw Ave., El Reno, OK

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May 23

Junior’s Supperclub

I thought Spain was the last hold-out and even that nicotine-riddled dream was quashed on my visit around this time last year. Holy moly, smoking is alive and well in bars (well, some–I don't fully understand the rules) in Oklahoma. As a member of that wretched class, the social smoker, I very much enjoy the rare moments in life when I can indulge (I hate words like sinful and indulgent in relation to food, but it truly feels that way with cigarettes) in a indoor cigarette with an alcoholic beverage.

And if you're going to do it anywhere in Oklahoma, it should be at Junior's Supperclub, a dark, smoky subterranean lounge that goes one step further by being in such a wackadoo location. It is in the basement of a towering office complex called the Oil Center, along the expressway that also housed our hotel, with a Hooters and Sonic providing the padding in-between.

Would you guess there was a piano bar and restaurant behind this door?

We secured the last two plush chairs (it's not a standing type of venue and a hostess will seat you) at the far end of bar, just out of sight of the live performance (Michael Jackson covers sung by a woman wearing and playing a washboard bathed in the blue and pink lights, out of camera-shot) and abutting a large multi-generation party of the type I'm not familiar with personally but I imagine are fixtures in lesser, maybe more southern cities around the country: very white yet tan, seemingly wealthy, preppier than the setting calls for, and used to being accommodated.

Two young men spilling over from their tables into my comfort zone shouted, "barkeep!" and while I snickered at the antiquated term (and mentally shot daggers to keep their chairs from wheeling into mine) it got immediate service and cigars from the bar top humidor. Then again, no hipsters. One must pick their battles.

I only regret not having sufficient time to return. They don't make them like this in NYC, and it makes me sadder for the demise of Bill's Gay Nineties, the closest facsmilie, which wasn't really that close at all the more I think about it.

Junior's Supperclub * 2601 NW Expressway, Oklahoma City, OK

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Posts from the ‘What to Eat’ Category

Fushimi

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Clinton Hill Times Three

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Double Dandelion Greens & Falafel Three Ways

Captain James Crabhouse

Faidley’s

North End Grill

Cattlemen’s Steakhouse

Tarahumara’s

Sid’s Diner

Junior’s Supperclub

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