Skip to content

Posts from the ‘What to Eat’ Category

Saigon Kitchen

I'm not sure that its actually called Saigon Kitchen anymore, but thats what
it will always be to me. One of the nice things about Portland is that
things don't change a ton. Sure, new restaurants open, but there's not the
constant flux of NYC.

They make a mean cha giao. Vietnamese fried spring rolls are really the
best of that genre. Maybe its the lettuce, bean sprouts and crisp tangy
dipping sauce that give an illusion that theyre somehow healthier than their
Chinese or Filipino counterparts. The items over noodles, bun, is what I
like the best here, more lunchy than dinner like. The aforementioned spring
rolls make a nice topping, as does grilled pork. Like a lot of Portland
restaurants, the Vietnamese dishes on the menu stray well beyond borders.
Dont get tempted by the American-Chinese standards, keep it simple and you
wont likely be disappointed.


Saigon Kitchen * 835 NE Broadway St., Portland, OR

Cheesecake Factory Wayne

Lord knows why, but this is a chain I've always wanted to try. Maybe because there arent any in the city…yet. Now that NYC has Olive Garden, Outback Steakhouse and Red Lobster, it takes more effort to get unique suburban style kicks.

I love cheesecake, but something about their name is grotesque. Do you really want to eat food food in factory churning out cheesecakes? Not that its really a factory, of course. Maybe to compensate for this disparity, theyve really turned up the volume on their non-dessert items. The dishes are out of control. Case in point: theyve concocted something called an avocado egg roll described as “Chunks of Fresh Avocado, Sun-Dried Tomato, Red Onion and Cilantro Deep Fried in a Crisp Chinese Wrapper. Served with a Tamarind-Cashew Dipping Sauce.” Enough already.

This location is in a small, weirdo mall (it doesnt have any lowbrow stores, just shops like Tiffany, Saks Fifth Avenue, Bebe, Bloomingdales, oh and Chicos which I don't know what to make of, up until this point I'd only heard of them via TV ads. It's like tacky, semi-bohemian crap that a drama teacher with a private school salary might buy.)

Arriving at only 5pm, the wait wasn't insane (I'm used to the 60 minute minimum), but it allowed enough time to take in the Las Vegas oversized stylings. This is the actual Hackensack faade. I don't know what to call that architectural style that seems grounded in the ‘90s but on some level is probably harkening to something Venetian or Tuscan or whatever overwrought Italian style it is that bourgeois folks think looks rich (though I do note that neo-baroque is all the rage in design now, and admittedly I like it. But thats not really the same…is it? ) It's new with a colorful yet dusty palette that feels like Disney World or some such theme park. I was bothered that James didnt think it was over-the-top, he worries me sometimes.

We discovered that we both over order and eat too slowly to cater to chain restaurant staging. They always end up having to bring the entree while were still eating our appetizers because were not following their pacing, which is very calculated. Once at Applebees they tried to get us to order dessert when we were still eating our mains, and after saying wed wait till we were done to decide, the waitress informed us it would take some precise number like 5.5 minutes for our dessert to arrive so maybe wed like to order it now so it could be ready when we finished. A well oiled (and highly greasy) machine. No matter where we go everyone who is seated after us, leaves before we do. I do know that when I eat at places like Olive Garden with my family, were easily in and out under an hour. It's the American way.

I took my sweet time eating my southern fried chicken salad: “Pieces of Lightly Fried Chicken Breast Tossed with Fresh Corn, Glazed Pecans, Red Onion, Cucumber, Shredded Romaine and Our Own Ranch Dressing,” and could only make a dent in about 1/4 of the behemoth. Thats the other thing with chain dining, leftovers are practically built into the eating process. You order knowing there will be food left over. That doesnt bother me, its an extra meal, but I suspect thats a low class notion. Somehow the concept of large portions and leftovers came up in a food writing class I took some time ago, and everyone in the room was disgusted by taking food home and never ever did it (of course these are all NYC women). I was the only one who didnt think there was anything wrong with it, and practiced it routinely. I was also the largest person in the class, so there's quite possibly a correlation between eating leftovers and heft. I'm just too thrifty to throw out one-third to half my meal.

The reason I had little room for my southern fried chicken salad is that we bulked up on hot spinach and cheese dip: “Spinach, Artichoke Hearts, Shallots, Garlic and a Mixture of Cheeses Served Bubbly Hot with Tortilla Chips and Salsa. Enough for Two” (I like how theyre recommending portion here, like all the other voluminous appetizers arent enough to share) and crispy crab wontons: “Our Version of Crab Rangoon. Fresh Crabmeat Blended with Cream Cheese, Green Onion, Water Chestnuts and Sweet Chili Sauce Fried Crisp in Wonton Wrappers.” They certainly know how to write a lengthy description. I think its because chain diners are terribly scared of surprises, if every single freaking ingredient isnt listed they would lose control.

If you split a dessert like we did, the Turtle cheesecake, it comes sliced perfectly in half on two separate plates and garnished with its own whipped cream. I kind of liked this in a sterile non-sharing way. James thought it took the fun out of splitting halvsies, which is odd because hes way more fussy and particular than I am.

No one ever need go out of their way for the Cheesecake Factory, but there are worse ways to waste an early Saturday evening in New Jersey.

Cheesecake Factory * 197 Riverside Square, Hackensack, NJ

El Malecon

Not that I'm an expert on Washington Heights Caribbean food, but I'd never heard of this place before. It seems to have a loyal following and was suggested for my New York Post piece on the best Latin chicken. So, include it I did.

El Malecon * 4141 Broadway, NewYork, NY

El Mundo


This place is confusing. Fried chicken is a part of their name, yet fried chicken doesnt appear to be in the restaurant. Not that they dont like to fry every other morsel of meat. Chicharrones, and all sorts of crispy bits are on display. But I had to eat rotisserie chicken since that was the name of the game with my New York Post piece on the best Latin chicken in NYC. The pollo was fine, but I really wanted that fried pork.

El Mundo Fried Chicken * 4456 Broadway, New York, NY

Angon

1/2

Sometimes you feel cursed. Mina, the Bangladeshi chef who used to (wo)man
the kitchen at her namesake restaurant in Woodside, has moved to the Sixth
St. Indian strip in the East Village. I only tried Mina once and it was a
little traumatizing (though mostly because I became violently ill
immediately after eating, which seemed too soon to be poisoning related to
that meal. I had to attribute it to earlier street cart cakes from Sunset
Parks Chinatown).

But Angon is a totally different restaurant with the same enthusiastic
following. I had high hopes, but once again peripheral circumstances threw
the whole evening off. It was hot, I was cranky and argumentative (it was
Friday and I'd already had a few drinks) and James and I started clashing
over everything without reason. The big rift came when our waitress
misunderstood James while he was ordering. I cant even remember what the
dish was, a lamb curry of some sort, and the menu said it was hot. I think
the waitress pointed out that it was hot but in a garbled ESL way because
she thought James was asking if it was hot. We were hoping that it was.

She became convinced he hated hot food (and possibly her) and we were
unable to rectify our orders heat level. (Sometimes I feel like I have the
worst time communicating. There was this period in the mid-‘90s where
every single time I'd ask for Camel Lights, the clerk would give me Camel
Wides. I practically had to practice enunciating the word lights.) James and
I started spatting over who created the confusion, and I don't even know
what else. From this point on, the meal and the rest of the evening were
going to suck. The damage had been done.

One of the things with Angon, and Mina previously, is how the food
supposedly isnt watered down for Americans, but that you really need to
emphasize you want spiciness. So no, our food wasn't incendiary, though it
was tasty. The fish kofta was good, as well as the samosa chat, which is
practically a meal in itself. I'm afraid that I'm just not meant to be a
member of the Mina-loving club. Not that shes ever done anything to me
personally. But both affiliated restaurants have been settings for odd
situations.


Angon on the Sixth * 320 E. Sixth St., New York, NY

Tour de Ville

1/2

I don't know why revolving restaurants havent become trendy, retro, whatever
(though I swear I recently read a tidbit about one being created in NYC).
Theyre more about the atmosphere than the food, a timeless draw.

I probably wouldn't have gone out of my way to sample Tour de Villes
fare, but we didnt have to—it was atop hotel we stayed at over
last-minute-planned Labor Day weekend (it was the cheapest hotel we could
find that seemed palatable). And I'm not one to say no to a Sunday buffet
brunch.

And it was pretty impressive, though I'm not sure about the
“California Cuisine” they were touting (I guess every month the
restaurant has a theme, wed just missed a Taste of Quebec). I became
enamored with hotel buffets in Thailand because they had to cater to
Europeans and other Asians too, so congee, museli, dried fish, and Chinese
sausage shared the stage with eggs benedict, bacon and hash browns. This
wasn't so multi-cultural though they spanned meals. There was pasta,
seafood, and roasted meats in addition to more standard morning offerings.

Ill admit being surprised at the lack of fat Canadians, especially since
we share a border—does gluttony obey international lines? And I made a
true American pig of myself at the multitudinous dessert display. No one had
even touched a single pie, cake or pastry yet. Pristine, uncut and awaiting
my arrival. A few families had also begun to wander over and were telling
their children how they could choose one thing. Meanwhile, I was taking
slices out of everything. Well, four things (not to mention the chocolate
croissant I'd eaten earlier). All that slow spinning can really work up an
appetite.


Tour de Ville * 77 Rue University, Montreal, Canada

Au Pied de Cochon

It's extremely rare that I have a dining experience so enervating that the quality of the food becomes almost irrelevant. In fact, I can only think of two other examples of restaurants not worth re-visiting because my first impression was too tarnished: Lupa and Chickenbone Café (which is gone anyway). 

I love the idea of meat in monstrous portions, using unusual parts, and high-low ingredient combinations (foie gras poutine?). Au Pied de Cochon struck me as potentially being Montreals St. John restaurant (which it isn't exactly—St. John is austere where APDC is convivial). And I wasn't disappointed by the food. James had the French onion soup, which he declared the best hed had, and the massive “Happy Pig Chop.” I went pork crazy and started with a plate of pates and sausages that wouldve been better suited for sharing with a table of diners. For a main, I had to try the namesake pied de cochon. I didn't realize a pigs foot was so large. It filled the plate, and contained all the best aspects of pork: crispy skin, gooey gelatinous fat and tender inner flesh. The foot sprawled on a puddle of mashed potatoes and creamy mustard sauce. A tart onion, tomato and parsley relish was scattered liberally over the top and helped balance the porcine richness. 

But–yes, theres a big but—the dining experience as a whole felt abusive. Initially, it was just off, the vibe was wrong, nothing specific. You'd think as New Yorkers wed be used to cramped spaces and long waits, so that wasn't quite it. But it did seem that no matter where we stood we were in the way. Before even being seated we felt a touch beat-up and jostled, like how a bad subway ride can ruin a day before you even get to work. After eventually getting our table, we were promptly ignored. After nearly 15 minutes it started feeling intentional. Customers seated after us already had food and drinks, and we couldn't even get eye contact with a server. It seemed like everyone knew each other. Maybe that was it, we weren't regulars? Was it because we were speaking English? I don't think so, there were plenty of non-French conversations in the air. We finally ordered drinks, then lost our waiter for about another 10-15 minutes. Things started getting odd when we noted our waiter and a cohort motioning to our table, speaking in hushed tones, then laughing. I was like what the fuck? Paranoia set in, we didn't say anything weird, I don't think we ordered poorly, I like to believe were at least moderately attractive—what was the deal?

By the time our food arrived, I was totally turned off to eating. No matter how much I scooted my chair and our entire table forward, the guy behind me would inch closer. After the millionth time he leaned back enough that the backs of our heads were touching, I started to lose my shit. Did I mention this was our fifth (dating) anniversary? If this meal was any indication of the future of our relationship, we were in serious trouble. It was just plain non-good and creepily ominous. I'd had high expectations for our dinner, and all I could think about was dining and dashing (I never even did that as a teen, but its never too late to start). 

The clincher came when James chomped down on something hard in his onions, and pulled out a big fat metal screw. Yeah, a screw. Was this some sort of messed up message? A not so subtle screw you. Honestly, I didn't think so, but we weren't even able to point out the little screw up (ha) because not once did anyone stop to ask us how we were doing. At this point we were invisible, we couldn't have flagged down a waiter if wed tried. So, we just sat and waited, both our entrees barely touched. To be fair, the staff seemed genuinely concerned after politely being shown the screw. We didn't make a fuss at all, I'm never one to cause problems at restaurants, in fact, I'm probably overly passive when it comes to bizarre customer service. Thankfully, the Happy Pig Chop wasn't included on our bill (they offered to make another one, like we wanted to sit in this hell hole any longer). 

The whole evening was so horrendously bad that all I could do was laugh. I mean, it was kind of comical. We imagined an Au Pied de Cochon review being written in a New York Post-ian style. The headline would invariably say something about the staff having a screw loose. It would be a hoot to read. But then, maybe I'm the only one gets a kick out of the Post.

Au Pied de Cochon * 536 Rue Duluth E., Montreal , Canada

Lemeac

Wed narrowed down our Friday night choices to two contenders: Lemeac and L'Express. Primarily because we wanted bistro food at a late hour. L'Express had been compared to Balthazaar; crowds and less than desirable staff had been described (we decided to save that kind of traumatic atmosphere for Saturday night at Au Pied de Cochon). Leanings went towards Lemeac, plus it appeared they had an appetizer and entre set for $20 (Canadian) after 10pm, which was an added plus though I hadnt intended a penny-pinching vacation.

As it turned out, after settling into the hotel, getting ready, checking the internet and all that, by the time we finally traipsed into the city, we arrived at Lemeac at 10pm on the nose. And that just seemed tacky, like you were there only out of miserliness. I'm overly weird about perceptions of others and appearances so we killed a little time walking around the neighborhood in surprisingly chilly weather. Despite the brisk autumn breezes and threat of rain, we still opted to sit on the outdoor terrace.

My time paranoia didnt even end up mattering because the $20 special didnt appear in the menu anyway. Humiliation averted. It wasn't until tried to order that we were told they had a prix fixe deal thats only in the French language menu, which the waitress kindly brought over. At least she was courteous enough to notice our English menus missing piece (though it does make one wonder why they don't just put the same things in both menus–I had a mild phobia of anti-American bias. It does exist and is considerably more retarded than if you were in Europe since practically every Montrealer speaks perfect English. French-Canadians have issues).

So, my bargain meal consisted of a raw milk cheddar and vegetable tart to start and duck leg confit with fingerling potatoes and salad for a main. I love a nice frisee salad doused by duck fat and escaped juices. The potatoes were perfectly crisp and salty. It's the kind of food that comes across as simple and straightforward, but that I would never make at home. Doing basics just right is harder than it seems.

Lemeac* 1045 Laurier W, Montreal, Canada

Pollo Campero

Closed: hmm, that was short lived. (7/05)

I think Pollo Campero is meant to mean more to homesick Central Americans than run of the mill North Americans. Though, an appreciation of fried chicken is practically universal. I'd heard about travelers smuggling Pollo Campero chicken on planes from Guatemala to loved ones in the States, so I figured it must be something worth checking out. And I was especially convinced since I always have a soft spot in my heart for businesses in my old neighborhood, Sunset Park. (Their first NYC location was in Corona, but I don't get out that way very frequently.)

The sunny orange-and-yellow color scheme and pot-bellied bird logo were more than enough to entice me. But I was also fascinated by a fast food menu that listed horchata and flan. The chicken is pretty much fried chicken. The coating is light and not heavily seasoned, and I sort of prefer a thicker, crispy crust. Sides include rice, tostones and chili-spiked, meaty, soupy beans (my choice) and of course starchy classics french fries and mashed potatoes. The salsa bar with red, green and a deeper red smoky mystery condiment (my personal favorite—chipotle? tomato?) was a nice touch.

I hate to say it because the concept and even the execution of Pollo Campero is alluring, but its probably not worth going out of your way for their fried chicken. But definitely do stop in if you happen to be near a location—I hear Spanish Harlem is next on their list (do they still say Spanish Harlem or has that gone the way of Alphabet City).

Pollo Campero * 4506 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Shun Lee Palace

Shun Lee Palace is a total time warp, though not quite nostalgic. It
probably wouldn't be unless you were an Upper East Side Jew with a taste for
expensive, not very authentic Chinese food circa 1976. This was one of those
out of the blue dining ideas James gets every now and then. I'd never had
any inclination to visit the place, but he had gotten it in his head that we
needed to try upscale Chinese food.

But I think he was thinking banquet food that Chinese people themselves
would actually eat, not overpriced renditions of Chinese-American fare. Not
that we didn't have a good time. In fact, it was a gas. Shun Lee is a weird
scene that I could appreciate, even if it scared me a bit. While the dcor
is opulent early '90s, the vibe is totally '70s. At our 9pm seating, the
room wasn't terribly full, but the clientele we did eyeball had
personalities big enough to fill the room. There was a nice combo of
caricatures, tourists, wealthy foreigners, and the inexplicably curious like
us.

I was a little unnerved by how they make couples sit side-by-side at
tables facing out towards the room. We've always made fun of twosomes who
choose to next to each other while eating instead of just facing each other.
But we had no choice in this situation. In a way, we were lucky because we
had equally good views of the goings on. I'mmediately to our right, were two
cranky, over-the-top, 60-ish women who were apparently regulars, highly
demanding and totally of a New York I do not know (nor want to). Like they
get together every Saturday night and kvetch (did I just say kvetch?)
about their kids, exes and dead parents, then harass the waiter because they
were told there'd be an eel special and there wasn't.

To our right and down the row was a creepy, troll-like older Indian
gentleman and his much younger, serene Eurasian lady friend. They didn't
really talk, and they also were grumpy, she let the waiters know that he
didn't like fish. A few young-ish white bread couples seemed dazzled by the
ambience. One took photos of her food (I know "photoblogging" is all the
rage, but I just can't abide snapping pictures in restaurants. Maybe that's
an issue of my own) while the other duo ate quickly then paid with
traveler's checks (I didn't know that people even used those anymore).

My favorite table included a dapper Telly Savalas look-alike in a
yachting type sport jacket with a middle-aged woman wearing a bold-patterned
turban scarf and big, tinted frameless glasses. Very Cosmopolitan,
thirty years ago. She could play a rich eccentric on an episode of
Rhoda.

I was impressed by the carved daikon swans that certain tables received
as garnishes (we didn't get any fancy frills). The food, not so much. We had
slippery chicken, which is chopped chicken with spinach in a garlicky sauce,
and curry prawns, which were swimming in a curry powder, peanutty gloop. I
actually liked the gloop, it was studded with things like peas, water
chestnuts and red pepper. James insisted it also contained creamed corn,
which is ridiculous. I also had a hot and sour fish soup, which was what it
sounds like.

We barely made it out under $100, which is why this isn't the sort of
novelty meal you can do on a regular basis. And that's why the idea of
regulars and eating Shun Lee takeout is so bizarre to me. Do people just not
get out? Once you enter the uptown vacuum, do you lose all sense of right
and wrong? People love Seinfeld reruns and Woody Allen flicks, so
maybe I'm the one whos warped.


ShunLee Palace * 155 E.
55 St., New York, NY