Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Feb 12

Bonefish Grill Staten Island

If I were a paid mystery shopper for Bloomin’ Brands
Inc. or a fake employee on Mystery Diners (that show is so staged, right?) I’d have to report some underperformance at NYC’s first Bonefish Grill. One could go as far as saying I’m a Bonefish aficionado (no one should go as far as saying afishianado) since I’m unabashed about it being my favorite casual dining chain. Sometimes it even gives me feelings. Staten Island’s attempt, though, left me feeling that they weren’t quite following New Jersey’s model.

They do take reservations, unusual for a chain, and it’s an amenity not fully advertised so it’s great for pissing off people who’ve been waiting close to an hour for their beeper to go off while you get seated straightway (this is how you induce envy in the suburbs).

So, with said reservations at 8:30pm on a Friday, intentionally arrived early to scope out the bar scene. The restaurant, a former Carrabba’s (there’s also no Olive Garden in S.I. which makes me wonder if the Italian-American contingent won’t abide chains) was far less bustling than its New Jersey counterparts. And while less crowded, it still felt understaffed. It took 15 minutes to get a drink, we weren’t given the list of specials (I’m not going to order a White Winter Cosmopolitan anyway, but you should offer) and I was asked if I wanted the blue cheese olives in my “Three Olives” Martini (quotes, all theirs) a not uncommon New York-ism where you order something as described on the menu and then are asked what you want in it. So, yes, I want the three blue cheese olives. Of interest, they were serving Brooklyn Sorachi Ace and lager, a nod to NYC not found at Garden State locations.

I started getting panicky (ok, not really) when the bread and pesto dipping sauce didn’t automatically arrive after being seated and I didn’t see evidence on anyone’s table. Once again, like the cheesey olives, we were asked if we wanted bread instead of it arriving by default. Why do they not understand that America is about excess? Would Red Lobster ask if you wanted Cheddar Bay Biscuits? Of course not because the biscuits are the only reason to dine at Red Lobster. Bonefish’s warm cibatta is no Cheddar Bay Biscuit, but it’s part of the routine. The loaf eventually came, but naked on a plate instead of swaddled in the usual white poly-blend napkin in a metal basket. Is this approved by corporate?

The signature Bang Bang Shrimp arrived minutes after ordering, suspiciously fast. And suspiciously soft.

I don’t go to Bonefish for pin-pricks of sauce or tweezered micro-herbs artfully arranged on the plate, but I wouldn’t mind a little symmetry. My Lobster Thermidor Dorado (a not bad mahi mahi filet smothered in cream sauce, crab meat and lobster claws) is about to escape off the plate.

True to form, they did play moderately obscure alternative songs (It was “Shellshock” that originally endeared me) that now sound adult contemporary like Echo and the Bunnyman’s 1996 past its prime, “Stormy Weather.”

On the way back to Brooklyn, a Cadillac exploded or I don’t even know what and a flying hubcap shredded our tire. And then the flat replacement had a hole. I can’t help but think that waiting two hours for AAA to do something (they won’t rescue on the BQE, by the way; you must get your car up an exit onto a service road unless you want to pay extra for the tow) in teen temps (no surer way to sober up after a few Zombies) was a sure sign that suburban chains are best left to the real suburbs, just as a Dallas BBQ would make no sense in Westchester, a working theory that needed to be made concrete. Go try some of that Times-approved Sri Lankan food, instead.

Bonefish Grill * 280 Marsh Ave., Staten Island, NY

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Feb 7

Three Letters

When I heard “70’s French Truck Stop,” my first
thought was Restaurant Madrid, a ramshackle diner along the route between Quebec City and Montreal with monster trucks and
dinosaurs in the parking lot, even though that's French-Canadian, not French French. My second thought was "that's
likely bullshit," though to be fair they did temper their vision with "vaguely." (I had similar thoughts when The Third Man
was described endlessly as inspired by the Loos Bar, a description I
wouldn't have questioned if I hadn't just been in Vienna and knew better. I
also see I'm not alone in my grumbling.)

I still wanted to see what Three Letters was about,
if only because Clinton Hill is a little new restaurant-deprived. I was not
alone in my curiosity. At 7pm on a Saturday there was already a half-hour wait
and by the time I was seated it was getting a little traumatic (many of the same people
were still waiting for tables by the time we vacated). Buzz, they have it.

Meanwhile, The Wallace, just a ways down Fulton is
always empty and now a daily deal staple (couples on both sides of my table,
British, deeper-middle-aged and not impressed with Three Letters, and the two younger men who liked
things fine, mentioned this dichotomy, one to me intentionally, the other overheard) which makes me feel bad because the food at the Wallace is
solid and the newlyweds who run it seem earnest. It's just not a cool place.

Perhaps its the bar with a good number of seats and lots
of inexpensive snacks, including everyone's must-have: pickles, as we're now
all living in a "fried pickle environment." (About those pickles–I
got into an elevator conversation with coworker I've never really spoken with
before and it turns out she lives nearby, had gone on opening night and took issue
with what was described as fried pickles on the menu being fried pickled
vegetables, not pickled cucumbers, i.e. how the average American thinks of
pickles, and got condescended to by the bartender when asking about it.) The
prices don't hurt; the most expensive thing on the menu is $18 and bottles of
wine topped out at $45.

Rissoles are like savory turnovers, and stuffed with
venison are not wildly dissimilar in concept to Do or Dine's fawntons. Served
with a smoked cherry jam, the $4 hors d'œuvre is one of those aforementioned
bites that could be fun to nibble at the bar.

The smaller dishes had more appeal on paper, though
I didn't get to fully test out this theory. Moules poutine, mussels, fries and
gravy, came from the kitchen in a steady stream, landing on what appeared to be
every table but ours (yet still made it onto the check–we were scolded for not
saying anything about not receiving it sooner). So, not all French French,
after all.

I never order the roast chicken, but thought I'd
test out a basic, here called Chicken St. James and accompanied by grilled
broccoli and a potato gratin, described as pommes alene. I got nervous when
warned that it was "cooked to order" and would take 20 minutes, since
I would expect everything to be cooked to order. I remembered why I don't order
roast chicken unless it's pollo a la brasa: it's really boring.

The food, overall, is just ok. I'd rather eat at a
French truck stop in France, but I wouldn't discourage anyone in the vicinity
from stopping by (it's really a neighborhood restaurant, not the destination it
was being treated as). I would go back if someone suggested it. I don't know that they will. The service
could use a little softening around the edges, despite the allowances I can
make for a super-slammed opening weekend.

Three Letters * 930 Fulton St., Brookyn, NY

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Feb 5

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Crickets, Chicken Combos, Salted Caramel

La Antojeria Popular We'll always have the
hole-in-the-wall taquerias (and despite what West Coasters argue, NYC has
plenty of Mexican food that doesn't suck) even as flashier entrants come in
waves. La Esquina to Hecho in Dumbo to Tacombi, and more recently El Toro
Blanco, Salvation Taco and La Antojeria Popular, the latter being the newest offering from the
owners of Taka Taka, the Mexican conveyor
belt sushi restaurant in Soho. As the name implies, the menu is made up of
antojitos, a.k.a. little snacks or "Mexican tapas," some more
traditional than others. Pictured is a sampling (gratis, in the name of full disclosure)
that includes the Guerrero (raw tuna cubes and mango tossed in serrano
mayonnaise on a jicama round), Michoacan (chicken in mole sauce with toasted
sesame seeds and crema on a corn tostada), Zacatecas (sirloin, salsa verde,
chihuahua cheese, also on a corn tostada) and Tamaulipas (steak, beans, chihuahua
cheese, pasilla mayonnaise–mayo is definitely a thing–in a pita sort of like
a taco arabe). For obvious reasons the Oaxaca topped with crickets–a little salty and chewy, not so
scary–and avocado on a blue corn tortilla, has gotten the most press. There is
also a small selection of ceviches and sides like the Distrito Federal (a mix
of shrimp, tilapia and beef) and Morelos, which are esquites (corn, mayonnaise,
chile, lime topped with a square of queso fresco). Desserts include a flan with
cajeta and increasingly omnipresent La Newyorkina paletas.

Pio Pio My favorite Peruvian chain. Ok, maybe NYC's
only Peruvian chain (I guess there's similarly named Pio Pio Riko too?). The
Matador Combo is $34 well spent, and minus the hot dog fries there's nothing terribly offbeat about Peruvian food, despite it winning the top "exotic" spot among US consumers surveyed about Latin American cuisine. Of course you get the chicken, burnished,
garlicky and salty (I think soy sauce is a not-so-secret ingredient) and no
matter how many birds they churn out (it will never not be crowded on a weekend night) still
moist, plus salchipapas, everyone's favorite french fry and wiener dish, avocado
salad, rice, beans, tostones, and the all-important green sauce (mayonnaise
being the not-at-all-secret ingredient). I like the metal bucket crammed full
of Heinz mustard and ketchup, even if I don't what the condiments are meant to go with.

Big Gay Ice Cream Shop So, I've never been. Some
people think I don't like desserts, which isn't true at all. I just rarely go
to sweets-only shops and never patronize food trucks or street fairs or carnivals or whevever it is that sugar is sold in multiple formats. The Salty
Pimp with its chocolate-dipped vanilla ice cream and salted dulce de leche is
pretty perfect, and they even offer to put it in a dish for you, a flourish I
like because I'm fussy (yes, a fork-and-knife pizza-eater). Don't go after 11pm,
though, if you want something more elaborate like the Monday Sundae (similar
flavors to the Salty Pimp but in a bigger Nutella-lined waffle cone and
smothered in whipped cream) because they won't make it. And there was more of
that Fany Gerson and her La Newyorkina paletas–she gets around.

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Jan 31

How Do You Say Tiki in Staten Island?

Guy at end of the bar to guy on neighboring stool: "How
do you say Tony Romo in Spanish?"

Answer: "Mark Sanchez."

The small separate but open-doored front portion of
Jade Island devoted to drinking (not to be confused with the main event, a strip
mall restaurant serving a Chinese-American Polynesian amalgam to 90% locals/10%
Zipcar drivers) is really a sports bar that happens to serve tiki drinks. And
to steer from bottles of Bud Light or practiced classics with mixes at the
ready is to ask for trouble–or at least a suspicious glance. Don't even think about
Batavia arrack or allspice dram.

I did not get that joke, by the way. And I'm not
convinced that following football (I do not) ups the hilarity.

There may not be more than five patrons on a Friday
night, but the odds are they will all be middle-aged men, not unfriendly, even
the one who talks to himself and rides a bike, not for fitness or carbon
offsets but in the way that grown men sometimes do in the suburbs, perhaps the
result of poor decision-making, maybe due to a banning from the accepted mode
of transport. They talk of Jose Tejas, the popular (I've attempted to go three
times in the past year, most recently this weekend and can never bear the
hour-plus waits. Chevy's is a compromise, but they do serve Bulldogs,
i.e. margaritas with shrunken bottles of Corona tipped in) Tex-Mex restaurant on
Route 1, in the nearby part of New Jersey, my favorite part, that blurs with
Staten Island, despite the Goethals Bridge separating them.

Ask for a Harvey Wallbanger and
invoke the wrath of the bartender, Chinese by way of Hong Kong, who may have
been there as long as the NYC-mandated signs warning they will card, dated from
the '80s (the restaurant, itself, can't be much older; it's not a mid-century
relic). "Those are old drinks!" Never mind that those old drinks are
listed on the menu. I knew better to even look at that section after an
encounter with a jordan almond blue Grasshopper and being denied a Pink Squirrel on my first visit five years ago.

Even something as mundane as Jack Daniels, requested
by a regular, has the potential for exasperation and consequential trip to the
basement to look for a bottle. Like I said, beer or Scorpions.

Bartender: "How do you say Mark Sanchez in
Spanish?"

Answer: "Tony Romo!"

Er, ok. You couldn't accuse the
bartender of being entirely humorless.

Jade Island * 2845 Richmond Ave., Staten Island, NY

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Jan 22

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Cold-Fighting

Taste Good Malaysian There are many directions you
can go if you're a spicy soup to ward off a cold type: soondubu jjigae, hotpot,
menudo (for some reason tom yum doesn't appeal) or Singapore laksa, a.k.a.
laksa lemak, the rich coconutty style. Somehow the combination of heat and
creaminess just makes sense for a sore throat. Elmhurst's Taste Good Malaysian
is as good as anywhere to get a fix. Their version filled with bean curd puffs,
half a hardboiled egg, chicken shreds, a few small shrimp, fish cakes, bean
sprouts and fat, round translucent noodles is a meal in itself (always a
problem because it's too filling to allow for any rendang, nasi lemak or sambal
shrimp) though a shared roti canai and popiah won't hurt. I only regret having waved off the scrappy gentleman trying to sell a
bottle of Robitussin in front of the Queens Adult Care Center on the walk to
the restaurant because I'm still sick (the laksa didn't work, but it was tasty)
and too beat to walk the eight blocks to the nearest drug store.

Die Koelner Bierhalle The Park Slope beer hall with
a surprising amount of seating (communal, of course) is more for drinking and
sporting, though a simple bratwurst and big plate of spaetzle and speck (not
pictured) are fitting winter accompaniments. Just don't try to order the bauernwurst
or you'll be steered away with "Nobody orders it. We're removing it from
the menu." What's wrong with the bauernwurst?

Blaue Gans You could also get a bratwurst here (no
bauernwurst, sorry) but it will be $7 more than in Park Slope. While relatively
casual, Blaue Gans is still more of a sit-down affair. If you order the blood
sausage, you might be asked if you've had it before. (Do you see a trend
forming? During three recent meals–including Qi Grill, not mentioned here–I
was essentially told that I didn't really want what I said I wanted, which
makes me testy.) Or maybe the server just meant it's not presented in cased
sausage form, but loose and molded into a circle. No one warned me away from
the calves liver with apples and bacon, thankfully.

Cafecito Bogota If you find yourself in upper
Greenpoint on Sunday during dreaded brunch time, you could do worse than an a
la carte arepa (though feel free to order the $16.99 three-drink with food special
if you're into mucho mimosas, sangria or refajo, an unseemly blend of Colombian
beer and cream soda–they weren't able to make a bloody mary). The Cartegena
comes with a big mound of scrambled eggs, shrimp and cilantro.

Hudson Yards Cafe This might be the most inoffensive lunch place closest
to the Javits Center. Never mind that all the
other badge-wearers (you've taken yours off, of course) are drinking iced tea
and Diet Coke. Stick to your guns and down two pints of Stella with your
fontina (spelled fontana) and prosciutto panini; it'll endear the older bartender who's also midday tippling to you. If you're a certain age being referred to as a "good girl" isn't offensive.

Taco Chulo I don't normally eat restaurant
breakfasts (despite contrary evidence above) especially not on weekdays, but I
had time to kill before looking at a nearby apartment (I didn't realize how
many area restaurants are dinner-only) and rajas hash with chorizo was right on,
greasy and yolky with a bit of heat. Of course when I showed up to the
apartment on time, a twentysomething couple was also waiting even though their
appointment was a half-hour after mine and so I was forced to look at their
out-of-my-budget apartments with them (and vice versa). Why kill time, waiting
your turn when you can just be a twentysomething in Williamsburg?

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Jan 15

Qi Thai Grill

Qi Thai Gril is Williamsburg’s latest attempt at Meatpacking the neighborhood. The enormous stage set restaurant could simply be ignored if the food wasn’t actually pretty good. Though I can’t say that’s true across the board, since I was careful to mostly order things that sounded interesting, no green curry or pad thai. And if our server’s cock-blocking of multiple dishes ordered is any indication, no one’s opting for the stuff that’s worth trying.
(Overheard at neighboring table: “I don’t like coconut milk.” What?)

Ignore the chopsticks, order the small dishes and specialties, don’t for the love of god be a couple who each orders one thing and eats it like an individual entree (the worst!) dig the statuary and ambient Asian boutique hotel chillout music while pretending you’re at an upscale Bangkok restaurant for foreigners. Then laugh because you’re in beardo Brooklyn. Whatever Qi is, it’s not Fushimi.

“Do you know what tendon is?” is not what you expect to hear after explicitly ordering tendon. No one should be scared off because I suspect this is one of the more intriguing things on menu, if you know and enjoy eating tendons, of course. In fact, it’s the first thing on the first page of the menu (from the list of Sripraphai-created small plates). The tendons are not thin strips more common to Sichuan preparations, but fatty blobs that are a chewy foil for the bright lemongrass and kaffir lime and creeping heat that’s mighty. The roasted rice powder adds a toasty finish.

Minus the chile dipping sauce, there’s nothing particularly Thai about the Ovaltine ribs from Pichet Ong’s grilled selections. Rich with five spice–or at least star anise and cinnamon–the malty chocolate blends into combination that’s almost Malaysian. Like rendang on a bone.

When you see verbiage like “Perhaps the spiciest Thai dish that NYC has to offer” it’s hard to let the claim go untested. I’ve yet to encounter anything hotter than the brutal Southern curry at Sripraphai that no one should order more than once every half-decade, and the Fiery Pork Red Turmeric Curry is a little kinder. The split bird and dried red chiles are tamed by a soupy amount of coconut milk, though the heat is certainly on the serious end of the Scoville scale by Brooklyn Thai standards. Plus, I’m always happy to see those apple eggplants.

Noodles are always underwhelming, and the pad kee mao fell into that carby and comforting but ultimately unexciting category. A little chile-spiked fish sauce might have helped.

Qi Thai Grill * 176 Ninth St., Brooklyn, NY

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Dec 29

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Locals Only

I'll admit I kind of liked complaining about Carroll
Gardens (and I did so with gusto–there's a grocer/sandwichery that called me
out on citing them three times–Google alerts, clearly–in my blanket
overhype condemnation). But as they say, love it or leave it, and so I did. There's nothing worse than whiners who don't take action.

And I can be honest and say that there's not a lot going
on over here in my far northeastern corner of Clinton Hill (and technically none of what follows is in Clinton Hill–you don't really need to hear about the perfunctory sashimi and Caribbean snacks and melon cocktails I've encountered). But at least there are no
illusions. A majority of the restaurants on Court and Smith streets were/are mediocre,
and despite perfectly good meals at Buttermilk Channel and Frankies, I see no
need to wait over an hour for a bowl of pasta or fried chicken anywhere.

So that said, my standards aren't as stringent in
these parts. It's like in high school where there was a class called Reading
and the students did nothing but read books on couches amidst a bunch of potted plants because
they had bad grades and were underachievers. Ok, my standards aren't that low;
I'm just saying there are different measures of success.

Dictated by the
neighborhood made up of Pratt students, old-timers, public housing
inhabitants, and yes, the errant brownstone dweller (I don't think the Hasids play any role) the dining options tend to
be inexpensive and un-ambitious. The new busineseses all seem to be burger joints or wifi cafes, which don't mean much to me. The Wallace, which is more upscale, is already using Scoutmob and was recently on Blackboard Eats, which aren't typically good signs even though I've been known to use both. I assume Lulu & Po is still going strong (I need to revisit) and I haven't heard a peep about Prospect since it opened.

(I was going to say that the white bougie
family influx hasn't hit hard yet, but just a few hours ago a preschooler sat
down on the barstool next to me and then her Scandinavian-accented father asked
her if she wanted to have her birthday party at "the new house" or in
France. He then told her Bono was "a nice guy" after she failed to
pay proper attention to the song playing that I didn't recognize. "I like it," she said.
"You're not even listening!" he replied, but softly, not snappily
because he was foreign.)

Brooklyn Bird Opened a few weeks ago to zero bloggy
fanfare, this diner-styled restaurant that feels more suited to takeout is nothing special (I do feel bad that no one ever seems to be in there) but it's a block away
and they serve food until 4am. They are advertising beer and wine coming soon. Plus, they've created a lesser-known-regional-fare trifecta with their upstate New York spiedie (nearby Speedy Romeo and
Brooklyn Koalache Co. round out the mini-trend with St. Louis pizza and Czech
by way of Texas, koalaches). I just tried a grilled cheese (cheddar and gruyere) sandwich with bacon and truffle oil. Of course, it didn't really need the truffle oil. I may be inclined to try the ghost pepper hot wings and that chicken spiedie some late night soon.

Dough It's only a block from the nearest subway
station, but it's still a solid 12-minute walk from my apartment, so it's on
the fringes of what I'd consider "my neighborhood." It's not like
Dough is a secret; they made a name for themselves at the Brooklyn Flea. But
even for someone who rarely eats doughnuts, I can say unequivocally that it's the best
$2.25 you'll spend for something of the raised yeast variety. (It took me three
months to finally walk over there, and the main reason I did was to break the
twenty dollar bill I had on me to tip the Fresh Direct driver who was arriving
in less than an hour. Mildly related and good to know: the 99-cent store on the
ground floor of my building–yes, I live in the same structure as a discount
store and it rules–advertises an atm that distributes $10s, but I only wanted
to tip $5.) Tart frostings are kind of their thing. I'd had a hibiscus doughnut
before, and the passionfruit is in a similar vein. What sets it apart are the
cocoa nibs that give it a bitter crunch. The dulce de leche with slivered
almonds is more full-on sweet and makes you want to go back to sleep after
eating it. That is not a criticism.

SCRATCHbread Another five minutes southeast from
Dough and unquestionably in Bed-Stuy (I'm a newcomer and I already know that
Classon is the cutoff despite brokers pushing Bedford as the dividing line). I didn't
fully get that Scratchbread is doing crazy things until I actually ate a few
baked goods. The sticky buns may look innocent, but there are a million things
happening. I'm still not completely sure what. The bread itself is
wheat-y and vaguely wholesome, and then the caramel isn't particularly sweet but
burnt and spicy–both hot spicy and cardamom-spiced–and there are more of those cocoa nibs. I kind of just wanted sweet
caramel and pecans. If you're going to go this direction, though, I bet you
could do a cool caramel with fish sauce.

I also picked up a loaf of the bread custard,
but it wasn't the seasonal loaf I'd seen mentioned elsewhere. I do think the
guts were soft from roasted squash, but instead of rosemary there was sage and
there was no trace of prosciutto. Instead, two cheese-filled red peppers had
been stuffed into the bread like little Crater Lakes, almost treading into
foreign Pizza Hut territory. It was a Christmas Eve hit, of course.

Lola f.k.a. Chez Lola. I guess the former bistro and
Myrtle Ave. pioneer is now calling itself a gastropub? The revamp entails new
cocktails (too sweet, though it was my own fault for ordering the Brooklyn Beauregard,
essentially a whiskey sour with Jim Beam Honey Tea Bourbon and St. Germain) and
a move towards American cuisine, meaning Canada, US and Mexico. The menu sort of
reads like a Kitchen Nightmares overhaul: pared down, nearly foolproof to
prepare, a bit of repetition, but overall inoffensive. Canada is represented by
a duck poutine, which is a glorious drunk food (I wasn't drunk, though). The fries, cheese curds and confit
could've use a little more gravy it was decided. I love a thin crust tarte flambee and their goat cheese, onion and bacon version was ok. A salad of smoked chicken, apples and cashews wasn't really more than just that. They
do serve late for the area, until 2am, and nothing is over $20 (most is under
$15) so there is an appeal if you want something other than pizza or Chinese in
the immediate vicinity. And I think they still do a $15 all-you-can-eat mussels
deal on Thursdays, so there's that. They're also on Scoutmob, by the way.

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Dec 28

Fatty ‘Cue Christmas

Writing about a Christmas dinner is about as useful
to anyone as the typical brunch-focused Yelp review (you don’t eat brunch,
right?) so I will keep this brief. Often restaurants serve a holiday menu that’s not representative of what they normally make–last year Red Rooster
went highly Scandinavian. Fatty ‘Cue kept the cue, but played it straight
American. Perhaps galangal and coriander would offend baby Jesus’
sensibilities.

The only Asian flourish was the sweetened fish sauce
served in a plastic squirt bottle alongside the spicy barbecue version. This
condiment was my favorite aspect of the meal, and perfect for the thick slices
of brisket, righteously fatty by my standards, too much so for my dining
companion. Take heed if it’s not your thing because I’m fairly certain the
Brandt beef is always served like this. If you hate lean pastrami, white meat
turkey or chicken breast, you will be fine.

The pork ribs were hefty, and while eating one
sauceless and cold the next day I noticed the overt porkiness that I’d missed
when they were fresh. Not name checked, but I’m guessing they’re not from
Western Beef, my go to for meat slabs.

Collard greens and mac and cheese were
straightforward while the red cabbage slaw was lightly creamy, but not from
mayonnaise.

Slices of pie were available, but a Coors and a shot
of Jack was enough of a send off.

Fatty ‘Cue * 50 Carmine St., New York, NY

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Dec 11

Aska

threeshovel Sundays are not typically for dining-out in my world, but it turned out that Aska was a perfectly suited end cap to the week. After a hazy week of holiday party drinking and the accompanying cheese plates, skewers and trays of cookies, it was refreshing to dine on composed plates of light food instead of buffet grazing (unless you’ve been attending parties serving moss and roots).

The $65 tasting menu, $20 more than previous pop-up incarnation, Frej, is still a good value. And a wine list with bottles starting in the $20s also sets the easygoing tone. Service and execution is friendly and polished–not to feed into a cliche, but finding both in Williamsburg is a rarity.

The Bond, described as similar to a Vesper (but using Pineau des Charentes and Swedish punsch instead of Lillet) was crisp and aromatic but not so much that it distracted from the opening amuses, both containing puffed, fried skins, one pork, one pike. The non-fishy one came with super-Scandinavian sea buckthorn (grown in Maine) and strip of dried pig’s blood that resembled jerky but was textured more like frico (a scabby frico, but sure).

Warm caraway-studded rye rolls and a yeasty flatbread with a powdery white cheddar quality similar to Smartfood were in the bread basket.

Shrimp, cucumber, dill, rapeseed oil was straightforward, like something you’d find on thin slice of rye.

Broccoli, mussel, seaweed looked straightforward, single floret presentation, aside, but the saline flavors were less usual. It’s the crudite you might find at that mythical moss-and-roots party. You aren’t given utensils for this course, by the way.

Potato, onion, mackerel was mostly about the potato, still shining through a blanket of sour milk foam.

Squid, turnip, purslane was my favorite, partially because of the painterly composition, and also because it exemplified the muted style of cooking. Muted (grilled squid, raw root vegetable) but not dull (fermented weedy herb).

Salsify, lichen, autumn leaves was the most challenging, and probably the most overtly forage-y. (My half-assed illegible notes that I didn’t start taking till this point read: “dirty bitter seawater.”) It reminded me more of a medicinal soup, a little hippier than Chinese.

Pork shank, apple, sunchoke was satisfying with the fatty cut of meat contrasting with the austerity of the former course.

Tart whey and torn sorrel leaves transitioned from savory to sweet.

And Cardamom, brown butter, hazelnut was a conventional dessert–not a leaf, flower or herb in sight–that felt more warm and grandmotherly (not my grandma, mind you) than cool Nordic. The spiced ice cream and crumbles
were delightfully salty-sweet.

Aska * 90 Wythe Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Nov 5

Chao Thai Too & Zabb Elee

Chao Thai Too and Zabb Elee are both Queens Isaan
offshoots. Not so long ago, Chao Thai spawned a second larger location in
Elmhurst while last year Zabb Elee made the leap all the way from Jackson Heights
to the East Village. Both are far better than average.

Chao Thai has always been my favorite Sripraphai
alternative (Ayada is in that pantheon too, but I'm less fanatical about them
then others) even though there's that one server who's smarmy about not giving
you the requested spice level. I was hoping he'd remain stationed at the
original, but there he was at the highly staffed Too (though oddly, not taking
orders).

The menu is bigger and now formally includes a lot
of the dishes that used to be on hand-written scraps of paper taped around the
room. At the old Chao Thai their take on the crispy watercress/morning glory
salad was always mysteriously unavailable even though always on the wall. Now,
here it is, massive with crisp greens on the right, soft shrimp, squid and mussels
on the left. The coating on the greens here is puffier like a beer batter, the
cashews are crushed instead of whole and the shredded green mango was
unexpected altogether. I like all salads of this ilk, but always compare them
to Sripraphai's, which could be a mess, but is one I encountered first and
always prefer.

Portions are generous, and in this case the crispy
pork dominated the green beans. I think they just gave us all the remaining pork
bits in this rich pad prik khing because it was getting late. The table that
arrived after ours looked at our plate and gave us dirty looks (no hyperbole)
after being told they were out of pork belly.

I'm not convinced this was pad kee mao. I would've
sworn it was pad thai, but it was darker than the pad thai on others' plates
and there weren't any peanuts in it. More sweet than hot and with those skinny
rice noodles, it was the oddball of the evening.

Crunchy fried catfish rounds with Thai apple
eggplant and bamboo shoots, on the other hand, was the biggest hit. Bony and
crazy hot with lots of bitter krachai, it's not as accessible a dish as some of
the others. Whole fish preparations are easier to love, but the catfish hunks
have a snackable quality I enjoy.

In some ways Zabb Elee's existence is more welcome
because Queens is already rife with good Thai and the East Village isn't
(sadly, my new Clinton Hill Thai situation may be even worse than in Carroll
Gardens–and no, Pok Pok isn't in Carroll Gardens [or Red Hook]).

And it's highly unique. The number of papaya salads,
alone, is impressive, and with combinations I've never encountered elsewhere. See
my new entry about som tum kortmuar (green papaya, pork cracklings, Thai sausage,
eggplant, fried fish and noodles) on Real Cheap Eats.

The brightly flavored duck larb included varying textures
of the roughly chopped meat, itself, as well as crispy bits of skin that were
mixed in. They may not initially believe you if you say you want your food hot,
but they will oblige if you insist you can handle a four (out of five). A five
is probably brutal.

Chao Thai Too * 83-47 Dongan Ave., Elmhurst, NY

Zabb Elee * 75 Second Ave., New York, NY

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