Posts from the ‘What to Eat’ Category

May 23

Chuck House

I have heard Oklahoman tales of chicken-fried steak, or just chicken fry in local parlance, that spans an entire plate and then some. This was not the case at Chuck House, though you still got a lot of food for your $5.69: witness the pounded beef cutlet, mashed potatoes, and Texas toast buried in a velvety blanket of cream gravy white and speckled like vanilla ice cream. A meat sundae.

We were nearly the only ones not partaking in the salad bar; that was the prime source of towering feats of plate-filling whimsy, heavy on the shredded cheddar and ranch dressing. I was more taken with the ordering system that has diners call to the front counter to place your order (some get very specific: "extra mayonnaise," "fries well-done, not salted") within eyeshot of the staffer speaking and noting your request.

When it's ready, your phone rings and you retrieve it on a plastic tray from the front counter. Driving-thru is also a respectable way to pick up an order, though that probably precludes the popular salad bar.

Chuck House * 4430 NW 10th St., Oklahoma City, OK

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May 20

Seasons 52

Seasons 52, Darden’s upscale, ostensibly healthy chain would be an ideal candidate for The Post-Millennium Chain Restaurants of Middlesex County, New Jersey treatment…but that will have to wait until 2013 when the state of New Jersey receives its first branch in Edison. Instead, I visited the closest location to NYC, at the King of Prussia mall just three miles from the Valley Forge Radisson with a 15^th floor dedicated to fantasy suites, of which one, The Star Gazer, was a setting in Blue Valentine.

If you stripped away the burgundy arch and oversized lanterns near the entrance, and swapped some wood for metal, Seasons 52's facade isn't radically different in style from Elements, the foodie destination restaurant in Princeton. (Also, I think that I could be one-half of that couple, if I were ten years older and took a very slightly different path in life–one that involved marrying a man who wears light denim.)

Not a chain restaurant.

A Saturday at 7pm demanded a one-and-half-hour wait, though the first-come seat-yourself lounge had a spacious booth wide open up for grabs. And it took a few seconds to register that, not only was that not the Sade version of “Smooth Operator,” filling the packed room, but that it was being belted out just a few feet away by a young-yet-mature blonde woman sitting at a piano inside of the ovoid bar.

Ok, live music, a roaring fire, chunky mid-century stone, and metal cocktail shakers placed in front of a good number of patrons? Classy.

And on-trend with a seasonal menu with specials that change weekly (hence the name, duh) and no dish with more than 475 calories. Playing up the mainstreaming interest in food-sourcing with a nod to portion control is not a common combination in the chain food world. And clearly, it's striking a chord with suburbanites based on the crowds.

The cocktails (yes, wine is their focus, not spirits) still read very middle-American, i.e. a list of typically fruity and sweet "martinis." Of course, that shouldn't stop anyone from just ordering a simple stiff drink if that's what they want. I did.

Flatbreads are like crackery pizzas; taking out the chew and the squish is one way to slash calories. This was a special with goat cheese, artichoke hearts, and caramelized onions, an ok enough snack. I would've liked some Kalamata olives on this, but with the cheese that would certainly break the 475-calorie-limit. Frankly, I wasn't hungry after an afternoon of cheesesteak and Italian sandiwch sampling–I just wanted a drink and something light.

The Columbia River steelhead trout atop arugula, chopped vegetables, shrimp, and couscous isn't the type of thing I normally order at restaurants, well, because it read as very healthy, but completely pleasant. The fish was still moist (yes, I know everyone hates that word), the cilantro-spiked yogurt sauce was a fine addition, and the grilled lemon added a little visual interest as well as more acid.

I was told by our server that this dish "doesn't taste like trout," despite showing no skepticism of that poor fish. “It tastes more like salmon,” I was further reassured. Clearly, people in King of Prussia hate trout, though I probably wouldn't bring up my trout defense with a group of diners unless prompted. It almost made me want to complain about the trout being too fishy after ordering it, just to get a reaction.

Of course you could just order salmon.

The food had a familiar quality to me, and James pegged it: "It's like Cooking Light recipes." Sure enough, the petite lean proteins bulked up with vegetables, yogurt mimicking cream sauces, juices adding flavor instead of fats, did resemble our not terribly exciting (though not bad tasting) weeknight dinners.

And there's the rub. I do tend to make lighter food during the week to balance out more decadent meals out, maybe one weeknight and over the weekend (I wish I was one of those bloggers who eats out every night of the week, but my health can't afford it even if my finances could) and when I do go out to restaurants I don't necessarily want to continue my dietary austerity. But I do love the novelty in this franchised form and it makes sense for these higher-income pockets of the suburbs. It wouldn't as well in a bigger city where eating healthy is less of a struggle, heirloom vegetables and heritage meat are in abundance, and plates rarely come piled with enough food for multiple meals. It's not as if Seasons 52 could compete with ABC Kitchen.

There's also a Maggiano's (on my to-try list–it's a fancier Olive Garden, right?) that looks like a mansion in the parking lot. Also, why is Maggiano’s always near a Crate & Barrel?

Seasons 52 * King of Prussia Mall, 160 N Gulph Rd., King of Prussia, PA

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Apr 28

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Pok Pok NY

As I approach my fourteenth year in NYC, I'm weaning myself from a no-longer-relevant ownership of everything Portland. Like somehow I would have an affinity for Atera or Pok Pok because Mathew Lightner cooked at Castagna or Andy Ricker made a name for himself in Portland. Never mind that I was long gone before any of this dining excitement was occurring, and that I didn't grow up in Portlandia.

(Pre-twee Portland was working class when it wasn't unemployed, and unambitious and underdoggy with a chip on its shoulder–NYC certainly didn't make me this churlish–with a gun-loving, methy, murdery, white pride undercurrent. It's no coincidence that the aforementioned chefs are not native Oregonians.)

So, Pok Pok is purely new Portland, which means it's really good. And Brooklyn Pok Pok isn't a letdown either. I'm glad to finally have something in the neighborhood to shut me up over the crappy state of local Thai food. Even the wait, which I'm averse to on principle, wasn't horrible. Initially, I balked at an hour-and-a-half quote at 9:30pm on a weeknight, but in reality it was 30 minutes (my city maximum–yes, I've waited double that at chains in the suburbs) which passed quickly with a tamarind sour in one hand and a menu to peruse in the other. I've waited longer in Portland standing on the sidewalk getting drizzled on my non-polar-fleeced self.

First off: Pok Pok is not a Sripraphai competitor, which I've heard/read, I don't even remember where. Pok Pok is not for curries and it's not all Thai things to all people; the food is mostly northern or Issan while Sripraphai is primarily Bangkok-style. And it's fairly obvious that Pok Pok has different aspirations. You will not find Mangalitsa pork, La Belle Rouge chicken, Niman Ranch ribs, drinking vinegars, nor Stumptown iced coffees (is there artisanal condensed and evaporated milk?) at Sripraphai where I ordered a cocktail, a Thai mojito, for the first time on my last visit. I do miss the fridges full of desserts and nam prik, though. Well, and a lot of other things. You need Chao Thai, Ayada, and yes, Srirpraphai as much as you need Pok Pok in your world.

Also: Who cares if Andy Ricker isn't Thai? Or Harold Dirterle…or that I'm more Mexican than Alex Stupak (as if I were born knowing how to nixtamalize corn) and his food at Empellon Cocina hardly suffers. Does anyone question the ethnicity of chefs cooking French or Italian cuisine in the US, which is to say a large percentage of chefs in this country?

Oh, one other thing while I'm being a surly Portland transplant: Columbia Street is not Red Hook. Call it something invented like Columbia Street Waterfront District or Cobble Hill West, but you can no longer say an area is gritty when people are spending millions of dollars to live there. I just looked a house on the exact same block as Pok Pok for $1.6 million and a condo down the street for even more. Er, not gritty (though also not prime enough to command those inflated prices). A diner actually asked where he was and was told Red Hook. I should probably be more concerned with people who manage to get to a restaurant without knowing where they are than with neighborhood demarcations.

Finally…the food: Mangalitsa pork neck. When I eat at restaurants years apart I often end up picking the same things I ate the previous visit without realizing it. I only recognized this dish when the side of iced mustard greens showed up. It threw me for a loop in Portland (and on this crisp spring evening) because it's such a tropical weather touch. Translating an authentic presentation when there's no fear of wilting produce was odd and charming both times (and yes, I realize the cooling effect is also meant as a relief from the chile heat) though I'm sure it will be appropriately stifling and toasty come summer with nothing more than a ceiling fan for ventilation in the makeshift tent-like back room. But yes, the grilled slices of pork (it was boar in Portland–I would have to try them side by side to taste the difference) were rich enough to stand up to the garlicky, tart dressing (citrus played a major role in all the dishes we ordered).

Papaya salad is where you should feel the heat, and the addition of salted black crab didn't just add serious funk but raised the spice level to a point that burned but didn't obliterate the flavor (the extra-spicy fried chicken at Peaches Hothouse last weekend, for instance, crossed the line into needless pain). I happen to enjoy the hot garbage/festering corpse smell of fermented sea creatures in condiments, which never taste as ominous as they smell, but even smoothed out by lime juice and sugar this salad still retained a distinctive sludge color.

I hate to say it, but sometimes I find larbs boring or overly healthy (probably because I make them with Costco chicken breasts) but with grilled catfish it was perfect because of the fluffy, crispy texture you might typically associate with yam pla duk fu served with shredded green mango instead of larbified with herbs and shallots. The flavors were really bright with lemongrass and mint; galangal sweetness peeked through. This might have been my favorite of the three.

And the most simple thing that garnered attention was the pandan-steeped water at each table. I'll never understand the audience for Mio water enhancers, i.e. people who don't like the taste of water, but if you're going to infuse water, vanilla-jasmine ricey-smelling pandan is the way to go.

Pok Pok NY *127 Columbia St., Brooklyn, NY

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Apr 25

Real Cheap Eats Spring Edition: Chinatown

The spring edition of Real Cheap Eats is live, and it's all about Chinatown(s). I'll admit that I don't spend much time in Manhattan's Chinese enclave anymore, so this was the perfect excuse to get re-excited. My contribution is about the not-really-Cambodian Cambodian noodles at Bo Ky.

They also make a killer hot sauce.

Serve Vietnamese-ish spring rolls.

And country-style duck, soy-braised with pickled radish.

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Apr 21

Zahav

Back on Good Friday, it wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that we were the only ones in the restaurant not celebrating Passover. And even though I didn’t technically have the day off like everyone else seemed to, I still took the opportunity to cut out of work early and head out of town for 24 hours.

Zahav got skipped on my last Philadelphia visit, so this oversight needed to be rectified. I don’t speak passionately about Middle Eastern food much (I mean, I have practically every Asian cuisine separated out as a category but lump everyone except Turkey under the Middle Eastern umbrella) and though I certainly love grilled meats and rice as much as the next person, what I’m crazy for is mezze. I could eat little dishes of pickled things, roasted vegetables, dips, salads, along with unleavened bread every day.

But Zahav is more of what I’d call modern Israeli, which is to say you can drink fun cocktails like the Marble Rye (pumpernickel and caraway-infused rye topped with celery soda) which yes, tastes like rye bread, or even Israeli, Lebanese, and Moroccan wines, and mezze isn’t tabouli or muhammara, but dishes involving grilled duck hearts, veal tongue vinaigrette, and during this time of year, those ubiquitous ramps.

The $38 per person tasting, the tayim, is a crazy good deal. You’ll get a selection of salatim, hummus and laffa, two mezze, one al ha’esh, the main, and one dessert. And no single dish is over $12 if you want a la carte, which is why it pays to get out of NYC every now and then.

The salatim, which I didn’t do a great job of showing in its colorful entirety, included a garden’s worth of eggplant, okra, cucumber, cauliflower, cabbage, beets, and carrots, some sweet, some vinegary. There was also a trio of condiments: sumac-and-sesame-heavy za’tar, harissa, and shug, the spicier green chile paste.

On my visit, the crispy haloumi was accompanied by still-wintery squash cubes, shredded apples, walnuts and sweet date puree. Just two weekends later, I see the mild cheese has been transformed with green peas, pine nuts, and ramps, so there’s definitely a hyper-seasonal approach.

Everyone knows that fried cauliflower is the best cauliflower (next to roasted cauliflower). The tender-crisp florets could be swiped through the labeneh flavored with mint, dill, and garlic.

I still don’t fully understand the Israeli schnitzel connection (see, Holy Schnitzel for more evidence) but couldn’t pass up schnitzel-fied sweetbreads. This time the cauliflower was pickled, presumably red from beet juice, and served with a carob syrup, and tahnini. I’m not sure that I tasted the carob, but then, I haven’t had any since the ’70s when it was de rigueur at my aunt’s house instead of chocolate.

Never say no to anything containing a fried egg, especially a hidden yolk waiting to burst. This thick slice of challah, almost akin to what you might see drizzled with condensed milk at a Taiwanese cafe, was topped with house-cured sable, and a scattering of poppy seeds. Perfect for anyone who likes eating breakfast for dinner.

Thankfully, the mains were small plates, because I’d ruined my stomach’s capacity by eating snacks earlier at The Dandelion. The beef cheeks came in compact crispy-edged squares like kibbeh, and were accented with celery, tiny onions, and paprika.

The ground duck kebabs actually tasted like the rich poultry they were (I recently had a ground duck slider that just tasted like mushy generic meat) and paired well with the not untraditional combination of saffron rice with pistachios and pomegranate molasses sauce. Both mains were good, but the mezze felt more exciting.

A dessert each seemed excessive but that was a part of the bargain, so there was apricot rugulach with Turkish coffee ice cream.

And halva with chocolate ice cream, pistachios, and a pomegranate sauce.

The biggest question I was left with was why do we not have a restaurant, not only along these lines, but of this caliber, in NYC? With that said, I haven’t yet been to Balaboosta, probably the most similar in ethos to Zahav. I mentioned this to who I assumed was a manager checking in with each table (and threw us off my asking our names–if this was a Jewish-gauging test, I don’t think I passed) and he said there was a possibility of a branch opening here, but that it would be Kosher. I guess there is more demand for that dietary requirement in NYC than Philadelphia? I’m not 100% sure what that would mean for the menu–I’m guessing the haloumi would get the boot–but I would be excited, nonetheless.

Zahav * 237 St. James Pl., Philadelphia, PA

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Apr 17

Francesca

When the news broke (ha, assuming restaurant openings/closings qualify as breaking news in your world) that Frankie’s 17 was turning Spanish and rebranding as Francesca, my only thought was that I wish it had been the original location instead. Yes, 457 has remained wildly popular since day one, but how much Italian food can one neighborhood sustain? Or rather (selfishly) how much Italian food can I continue not to eat?

It happened that the same Friday afternoon I was pining for pintxos on Twitter, Serious Eats posted a slide show of the new menu at Francesca. I knew I wasn’t going to get the San Sebastián experience I was craving—it’s just not going to happen in NYC for a gazillion reasons. (I’ve already speculated why the true pintxo bar experience would never work here and won’t bore you again–in a nutshell: too expensive, not sufficient concentration of bars.)

What looks like smoked salmon from afar is really jamón serrano drizzled with a viscous membrillo. The sweet and salty components sit atop a slice of Idiazabal and a big tuft of creamed leeks, and would be at home on the counter of any respectable pintxo bar.

Like this. A more traditional version of a pintxo bar at Casa Senra.

Or modern like Bar Zeruko.

I want that buffet-like feeling of walking into a crowded venue and seeing an entire bar covered in delightfully unrecognizable things layered on bread, stuck with toothpicks, maybe even gelatinized or radiating smoke, like you've entered a canapé-filled party where anyone’s invited if you have $10 to spend—and foie gras or gold leaf might even schmooze its way into that equation. And that’s the other thing, the couple of dollars for a dish and a couple bucks more for a glass of wine—or more commonly a zurito, a small glass of beer—adds to the democratic appeal.

The brotxeta of morcilla, mushrooms, and peppers (setti anni–also served at Frankie's) exemplifies the quick and creative ethos, as well.

A fried egg covered slices of lomo, just fatty enough to remind you why grocery store pork loins are so wretched, and a pile of oil-slicked peppers and onions, piperrada, that had been cooked-down soft.

Instead of raciones, of which there were as many as the pintxos (five) we tried a selection of cheeses (Valdeón, Torta del Casar, and Idiazabal) all good, and a plate of jamón Serrano. The thinly shaved, cured meat could’ve been prosciutto. I guess if I wanted that luscious, substantial ham that could never be confused for lunch meat, we should’ve sprung the extra four dollars for Iberico.

The sherry cocktails were fun, and you don’t really see spirits being manipulated to creative ends in the Basque regions like you do with the food. Txakoli is txakoli. And kalimotxo? You might not want it. #3 (East india sherry, dry vermouth, orange bitters, seltzer) and #1 (Fino sherry, sweet vermouth, cinnamon syrup, whiskey barrel aged bitters). I also tried a glass of Benaza Mencia, a lighter red that I'm still getting a feel for.

If I happened to be in the area between 5pm-7pm, which I probably won't, I would stop by the bar for a happy hour snack and discounted cocktail

I'm not an eavesdropper (well, I try, but my hearing isn't always sharp enough) but it was hard not to take interest in the older couple sitting nearby who lived on the Upper East Side, were somehow drawn to dining on Clinton Street, yet had never heard of Frankie’s and hadn’t been to Carroll Gardens. As much as I hate the dated food media “make the trek to Brooklyn” trope, it’s refreshing to be reminded of that the celebrated Brooklyn artisan only has so much reach in reality.

Afterwards, we weren't terribly hungry, but in the spirit of a tapas crawl (Tapeo 29 and 1492 Food are both a block away) we went traditional at Tapeo 29 (more Madrid than San Sebastián, and too dark for photos) and had cazuelas of sweet cider-braised chorizo and garlicky shrimp with lots of bread and glasses of cava and Garnacha. My pronunciation of the red wine was corrected (I feel silly saying any non-English word as if I’m affecting an accent that’s not mine) and in a way the unasked for authoritativeness was endearing in a way that Francesca wasn't. I'll let the transformed pintxos bar get its footing before making any rash judgments, though.

Francesa * 17 Clinton St., New York, NY

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Apr 5

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Not In My Backyard

Recette As payback for picking me up a handful of Jason Wu for Target items in New Jersey on Superbowl Sunday, I vowed to treat to a friend to a fancy dinner (I owed her $150) but not like Per Se or Eleven Madison Park fancy. I don't really hear much about Recette, and hate to imply that the creative (and yeah, a little pricey) West Village restaurant isn't worth discussing in greater detail, but this was a case of eating, drinking, talking, hanging out without over-thinking everything on the plate, an approach to dining I've been embracing more lately. I did still take photos of the five-course tasting, however, so peek if you wish. For nearly each course we were given two different dishes, so the variety was great.

PINK GRAPEFRUIT MARGARITA, Hornitos Añejo, Fresh Pink Grapefruit, Lime Juice, Espelette/KUMQUAT OLD FASHIONED, Bulleit Bourbon, Poached Kumquats, Blueberry Bitters/Uni amuse

BEEF CARPACCIO, Burrata, Tomato Jam, Porcini Purée, Basil, Watercress/MARINATED ARCTIC CHAR, Oyster, Crunchy Salad, Bonito Broth, Bottarga

GRILLED PULPO, Black Garlic, Olive Oil, Lemon, Fennel/"ONION SOUP", Onion Espuma, Oxtail, Gruyere, Consommé

BLACK BASS, Potato Gnocchi, Pancetta, Roasted Salsify, Seafood Nage/ROASTED SCALLOPS, Artichokes, Thumbelina Carrots, Caviar Beurre Blanc

ROASTED FLUKE, Shellfish "Congee", Leeks, Sauce Bouillabaisse/BERKSHIRE PORK BELLY, Rock Shrimp, Turnips, Romesco, Sherry Caramel

a pre-dessert (the banana chocolate real dessert photo didn't turn out)/"SMORES", Graham Cracker Ice Cream, Toasted Marshmallow, "Hot" Chocolate Ganache

Ox Cart Tavern As an experiment, I traveled from my office to Ditmas Park during a Friday evening rush hour. 4/5 at Bowling Green to B/Q at Atlantic Ave. to Newkirk Ave. Forty-five minutes wasn't so bad considering it frequently takes me 40 minutes going four stops from Carroll Gardens (it certainly did this morning) even though no one believes me. My potential new neighborhood livability test doesn't take dining into account, though, because Ditmas Park couldn't win on that count. There are like two young people bars (I investigated a third for old-timers and almost got my iPhone stolen by one of the many middle-aged–truly middle-aged, not 40–alcoholic women) and four restaurants. But really, it's doubtful I'll go to Momofuku Milk Bar or whatever new thing opens this week anytime soon (I am interested in La Vara) but there is something comforting about knowing they're there just in case. No matter, we have a car and always go out of the neighborhood to eat and drink on weekends anyway, and would do so on weeknights if we had a garage and driveway to come back to, which we would in Ditmas Park. Ox Cart Tavern is the kind of place that has Sixpoint Sweet Action in cans, sloppy duck sliders, lots of small children on the early side and waits for tables as the night progresses. It's average, but the disproportionate ratio of potential diners to seats implies the neighborhood is restaurant-starved.

La Fusta Like I said, weekends aren't spend dining around Carroll Gardens. We wanted steak and to try St. Anselm, but Williamsburg on a Saturday night didn't seem wise (unless you're going someplace non-hyped like Taco Chulo where I went the previous Saturday and there was still a wait). Argentine parrillada is nothing like St. Anselm, I imagine, but you do get some offal and weird bits (no goat head and hearts, sadly) when you order the mixed grill. The skirt steak and Korean-cut ribs are good, but I genuinely love the creamy and chewy intestines sitting on top of the pile of meat and the mushy morcilla buried beneath (I get all the blood sausage in exchange for giving up the not-that-exciting-to-me chorizo that is more similar in flavor to a breakfast sausage) and not just to show off. The intestines are nearly like those rolled wafer cookies you find at Asian grocers filled with chocolate or pandan, but I probably don't want to know what makes-up the meaty interior stuffing–it's certainly not shortening and sugar. Previously on La Fusta.

Taco Chulo Hey, it's better than San Loco.

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Mar 27

Acme

I want to say that I miss the old Acme because I ate there countless times over the years and am upset by the changing character of the East Village. Sure, I'll agree it's pretty sad state of affairs when punks are eating heritage pork and a junk food vegetarian joint can no longer stay in business, but I have no nostalgia for the Cajun Acme, where I ate maybe once in the late '90s. Great Jones Cafe, which is also old Acme in spirit, is still right over there, so there's that. In fact, I stopped in for a beer before going to dinner.

The story of a unmemorable restaurant stealthily reborn as a scene banking on Nordic cachet for a crowd who largely doesn't care about hay-smoking is somehow more interesting than the food, itself. Despite chef Mads Reflund's Noma history, the cuisine at Acme isn't particularly Danish or unconventional. The plating isn't the prettiest either– I had expected something a little more controlled and refined rustic. On the other hand, the ease of getting a table and pleasant enough service was better than I had anticipated.

Sometimes I’ll order something with an ingredient that I hate just to keep from getting soft and coddled. The gin-based Graffiti Green had to be tried because green is my favorite color yet green peppers are kind of foul (I’m surprised they resisted the urge to add It vegetable, kale, or more Nordically appropriate sorrel). The cocktail definitely had that raw, earthy bite but was also sweetened-up with agave and made more familiar with basil and lime. The beauty of the little coupe glass drinks is that if one isn’t to your liking, it won’t last for long.

The raw chopped filling inside the endive leaves didn’t taste specifically Chinese or Thai or Malay, just vaguely Asian. I'm not sure if it was simply the shrimp itself or if there was shrimp paste at work because there was a mild dirty, funky undertone like you get from belacan. Something fermented (not rotten) was at work, though now I'm wondering because no other review I've seen has noted this dimension.

The black heirloom carrots glossed with a barely discernible slice of lardo and flavored so lightly by pine that you wouldn’t notice unless you’d studied the menu description (the boisterous atmosphere is more suited for parties than parsing—it’s hard to gauge how seriously you should be taking the food) were more in line with the style of produce-prominent food I’d expected. Super simple with caramelized vegetable sweetness enhanced by fat, the result was pristine and rich. Four stubs (more like three-and-a-half really—compare these to Time Out’s glamour shot) were not enough. Maybe Nomad’s $22 carrot with duck skin should make me pause and think instead of scoff.

The duck in a jar with pickled vegetables was just that, and felt like something you could get at any New Brooklyn restaurant.

To further exaggerate my few eating issues with green items, I’m also grossed out by lettuce that’s in soups or cooked. Bon Appetit recently recommended roasting heads of romaine along with chicken, and I just wasn’t sold. When it comes down to it, the lettuce is rugged enough to stand up to the heat and char, and even an oily fish like mackerel. The tiny pink flower buds, nearly tossed, not strategically placed with tweezers, was the one homage to fine dining. The mostly starchless mains, if you can call them that, are geared toward sharing and are well-proportioned for two.

The chicken and eggs sounded boring, but wasn't. Moist is a gross word and I don't like juicy to describe meat either…so the chicken was the opposite of everything boneless, skinless chicken breast should be. The last time I encountered chicken so slick was the dramatic salt-baked version during a mega-meal at Blue Hill at Stone Barns. Well, and plus an oozy yolk and small tender potatoes practically mashed in their red skins and fried, this was too hearty to be fashion crowd food. (Christian Siriano was the only face I recognized in the fray—and I have a hard time picturing a clay pot of chicken being described as “fierce.”)

Or the oaty, soupy rye bread porridge that I could totally see a British person describing at a “pud,” which is kind of the opposite of fierce. The dessert is malty from Guinness , hot and cold, and topped with chocolate foam and salted caramel ice cream.

Acme * 9 Great Jones St., New York, NY

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Mar 24

The Post-Millennium Chain Restaurants of Middlesex County New Jersey: Bahama Breeze

The shtick: The Caribbean comes to the suburbs, one pineapple coconut martini at a time.
The signatures: Indiscriminate usage of descriptors Island, Creole, Cuban, and Jamaican, and an unusually long list of appetizers and snacks, i.e. “Caribbean inspired tapas.”
The new Bloomin’ Onion: Truffled yuca fries with guava ketchup.

The suburbs can soften you, or at least tame rough edges. Normally, I disapprove of children at bars or hour-long waits to be seated, yet concessions must be made for novel experiences. Bahama Breeze, the Darden brand that no one knows about—there are only 30 locations nationwide—is special in its scarceness.

So, I got to know the eight-year-old (he could’ve been a mature four or a shrunken 12–I can’t tell children’s ages) who wanted to compare iPhones and show me his Facebook friends while sitting at the bar with his parents. Even though the restaurant had only been open a few weeks, the family were old pros. The father who struck me as a contractor, a foreman, old enough to now delegate manual labor, was not one to waste words, but the mother was a talker and was quick to explain which drinks were stronger and which were pretty but weak (The Bahamarita).

I unwittingly picked the most expensive cocktail (chosen because it seemed the least fruity/sweet, likely to use premade mix) a Caipirinha , but don’t worry, it was only $8.69. 20-ounce house beer is only $4.29 by comparison (I am still reeling over the $6.25 Sam Adams at the Red Lobster across the highway). It’s not all blenders and Captain Morgan’s either–Gosling Black Seal Rum and Pussers’s Dark Rum also make their way into a Dark and Stormy and Painkiller, though the latter may be controversial with New Yorkers since the Lower East Side bar, Painkiller, was strong-armed into changing its name. by Pusser’s

The decor was also more tasteful than I had expected, at least in comparison to the other nearby tropical-themed restaurant, Cheeseburger in Paradise, on the other side of Route 1, similar to how I imagine a Caribbean resort to look ( I have never been to the Caribbean, but I am thinking more Hyatt than Sandals—I still haven’t encountered a Four Seasons/Ritz-Carlton-type chain restaurant, though I would like to). Less Hawaiian shirts, neon pinks and turquoises, and rampant wicker, and more warm chocolate tones, restrained thatching, and dark wood. Though not mahogany, which I’d never given any thought to until the day an entertainment reporter called when I was working at the New York Post library to ask, “Is mahogany an upscale wood?”

One of the most unusual things, which isn’t odd on the surface, is their rampant use of pork. Outside of bacon, breakfast sausages and the limited-edition McRib, pork just isn’t commonly used by chain restaurants, though that’s changing. 2011 saw a 7% in pork mentioned on menus. Now, I’d like chains to tackle my other beef: reluctance to serve bone-in chicken.

It’s in the chorizo sliders (loose Mexican-style sausage formed into square, springy patties, by the way, not the hard-cured Spanish type, which one might assume considering the inclusion of Spanish cheese) with Manchego.

As well as the sweet plantains topped with scoops of pulled pork and a smoky, also-sweet (sweet and salty are the dominating flavors) guava barbecue sauce.

Anything could’ve been breaded into these fritters—who knows conch from any other shellfish when it’s heavily battered and fried and dipped in a creamy sauce? At least they were striving for regional authenticity.

Unlike that old Jamaican favorite, pasta with cream sauce, a.k.a. Calypso shrimp linguine. That’s the trouble with entrees. It’s easier to play with empanadas, flatbreads, sliders, dips, and wings. Main dishes rely on staid sides, in this case rice, garlic mashed potatoes or cinnamon mashed sweet potatoes, and pasta. I just ate an appetizer as a main instead.

Your server might spend an inordinate amount of time with your leftovers and you may see them fussing around with the aluminum containers at their station. But you will be more forgiving when you see that they’ve drawn a picture and thoughtfully dated the creation. Or not.

Bahama Breeze * 520 Woodbridge Center Dr., Woodbridge, NJ

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Mar 24

Eaten, Barely Blogged: How Do You Like Them Apples (and Andouille)?

Donovan’s Woodside on St. Patrick’s Day is like marching into the belly of the beast, though far more family than the fratty scene I envision at the Irish pubs of Manhattan. We waited an hour at Donovan’s for a table where we were serenaded loudly by drums and bagpipes (that’s me pretending not to notice the ruckus) as one does. Corned beef, cabbage, and a single boiled potato should’ve been on my plate (I do love that meal and am surprised so many dislike it) but you know, Donovan’s is famous for its burger and I wasn’t changing my usual order just because it was a holiday.

Sripraphai All the usual suspects: crispy pork with chile and basil, duck curry with eggplant, crispy watercress salad (which I love so much that I recreated it at home the following weekend but forgot to photograph because I was in a hurry to get it made before The Walking Dead season finale aired) plus a rarely ordered larb and never-before Thai mojito. Remind me again, to never go to Sripraphai on a Saturday night (and kick me for pretending to be Thai-knowledgeable with never having tried Centerpoint on the next block). Beyond the insane crowds and weirdo orderers who eat dishes like individual, non-sharable entrees, the spice just isn’t there. Thai-wise, I’m looking forward to the new Chao Thai branch, and I suppose Pok Pok, as well, but as a Portland transplant I have weird feelings about fellow Portland transplants.

Toby’s Public House “Weird but good” was my honest response to “How was the special? The cook wants to know.” Both pizzas we picked were oddly sweet. I happen to be a freak for sweet-savory mash-ups so that’s not a knock. The special in question paired andouille with green apples, a not-unpleasant though untraditional combo. The surprise was more from the asparagus pizza that was nearly candied sweet from caramelized onions, and I don’t know, there had to be something else at work. I want to say that the stubs of asparagus were cooked in balsamic vinegar? If it were up to me, I might combine the apples with the onions, add a little bacon, and pretend the pizza was a tarte flambee. I’d also sprinkle some blue cheese, thought that would dilute the Alsatian theme. At that rate, there was no way I was going to opt for the much-lauded nutella-ricotta calzone. Who needed dessert?

Blue Ribbon In my 20s, I never understood it when friends a decade older would say “I can’t drink like I used to” or genuinely old folks might have to forgo spicy or rich food, i.e. “I like butter, but butter doesn’t like me.” What? Shut up. As I approach middle age, though, I’m afraid some of this is becoming a reality. Thankfully, painfully hot food is not a problem…yet. The night after a night of over-imbibing I was still feeling too rough to handle the roasted bone marrow at Blue Ribbon. The pure fat coupled with a rich oxtail marmalade was wreaking havoc. Weird as it may have been, I just had it wrapped up and ate it the next day no problem. Why not eat bone marrow on toast for breakfast? As the regular Blue Ribbon and the sushi version next door morph into one, they’ve begun offering raw fish preparations at the original. The small plate of sashimi was a welcome relief from the intended appetizer (which would’ve been better for sharing, except that Lent is still a thing) though I still think everything at Blue Ribbon is overpriced and yes, the crowd leans heavily Bay Ridge/Staten Island even if that characterization (not by me) offended a Chowhound four years after the fact.

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