Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Oct 28

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Shrimp Heads, Downtown Ramen, Bitters-Free Manhattans

Allswell. Being open till 11pm is not late night dining, not
in NYC anyway, and it's always bothered me, especially on weeknights when maybe
you want to go out to eat at 10:45pm and the pickings are beyond slim. Allswell serves real food until 3am, not
whole menu, but it's something. These
hyper-crispy head-on shrimp in a Meyer lemon sauce and duck rillettes were
pre-midnight, normal menu items. The burger, fat and meaty (with cheddar and
bacon, both add-ons) and perfectly pink inside, can be had any time. The fries
were an abomination, though, if you hate wet and oily thick-cut fries like I
do. Steak fries are the bane of my existence. That's the worst part about pub
burgers, which this appears to be emulating. Bring a friend who likes fat, mushy fries (they
exist!) and let them go wild.

Ganso. With ramen I often give the same disclaimer I use
with barbecue: I'm neither a fanatic or expert. Obviously, I like both and have
opinions, but I can't speak to what a broth's correct flavor should be or the
specific pH of mineral water needed to produce the ultimate noodles. Frankly, I
just like that there is a ramen shop in that odd pocket of downtown Brooklyn
near the IHOP. The short rib buns weren't anything remarkable, and a little
mesclun-y (I did not try the short rib ramen pictured, but love the idea that
each broth receives a different noodle, subtle and thoughtful) but the spicy
miso ramen with thinly sliced pork belly, Chinese broccoli and a soft-boiled,
soy-infused egg was winsome, if not a little gut-busting (I always find that
Asian noodle soups of this size put me into a coma). I will be even more happy
about Ganso being there when it becomes cold enough to better appreciate the
ramen's warming and filling properties.

Mayflower. A miniscule moderately new bar affiliated with neighboring
Aita, a corner Italian restaurant I may never visit because I rarely eat
Italian food (unless you count pizza). Some might call it a speakeasy (signage
was recently added). Jonathan Ames was there on a date, at least I think so, I
don't like staring at people. The bartenders (who can get overwhelmed when at
capacity) are weird about bitters: on one visit none were used in a Manhattan,
on the other I was asked whether or not I wanted them used. Would it
be too hyperbolic to say that a Manhattan without bitters is not a Manhattan? Still like the place.

The
Wallace. Along with Prospect, it's one of two new upscale restaurants to open
on Fulton Street. I figured I should try one of them, and the main reason The
Wallace won out because it was slightly less expensive (entrees in the low $20s
vs. high $20s–now that I live in new shiny condo, no complaints, I'm going
broke buying things like shades for ten-foot-high windows). There's nothing
radical going on, food-wise or with the decor (one might get the impression
this was another tin ceilings, Edison bulb joint, but the interior is oddly
generic like it could've been a suburban Italian restaurant in a previous
life–ok, it was Caribbean) just solid, well-seasoned New American dishes with French
foundations like crispy pork belly on a bed of lentils with braised greens, the
latter an unexpected slight Southern twist, and tilefish with a potato gratin and
beurre blanc tinged with saffron. Manhattans are on the cocktail list and bitters are used, no question.

Il Porto. When I was assigned to review this Italian/pizza
place for nymag.com after it opened a few years ago, I thought it was in the
middle of nowhere. I guess it still is, though now that I live down the street and
that the scary-seeming (not just to me) Navy Yard Cocktail Lounge has been
gutted and looks like any generic storefront for sale, the block seems less
isolated and off-putting. With that said, it's not a destination unless you're
already in Fort Greene or Clinton Hill. The wood-fired pizza is pretty good
(arugula, prosciutto and parmesan is popular) though the floury, barely charred
and nearly flaky crust that I happen to like probably isn't the pinnacle of
Neapolitan pie-making.

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Oct 10

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Hello, Myrtle Avenue

I took so many photos at Sapolo that I decided to
give it its own post.

Chinantla. I'm excited to have what feels like a
secret taqueria (there is a full-on restaurant in the back of this bodega, not
just a counter with a seat or two) only six blocks away. Mini-chains Calexico
and Oaxaca have their fans, but they just weren't cutting it for me. The pork
enchilada (as in chile sauced, not the dish with the name) probably wasn't the
wisest pick. The meat was pounded to schnitzel thinness and sauteed till lifeless
and tough enough to start bending the flimsy metal knife I was given. With a big
scoop of refried beans, mountain range of Mexican rice and slices of avocado
and nopales, it was a lot of food for $9, though. I'll definitely return for
something simpler and more fool-proof because I want this place to be good.

Tepango. is four blocks closer to me and courts a
broader audience with things like hard shell tacos and what they call a Super
Taco, a $5 fat rolled corn tortilla filled with meat and enrobed melted cheese
like a taco-burrito-quesadilla hybrid. These are just regular $2 tacos, the al
pastor sweet with lots of pineapple chunks and grilled onions. They deliver,
but it's worth stopping by in person to see the hand-drawn anime and fantasy
Aztec art that decorates the walls.

Zaytoons. The only Carroll Gardens/Clinton Hill
crossover, I think, and not the only neighborhood Middle Eastern choice (Damas
Falafel House still needs to assessed). It's byob, five mezzes are only $8.50
(I'm always impressed with how good the boring sounding lentils and rice,
moujadarra, is–it must be all the oily fried onions mixed in) and while maybe
melted cheese and lamb weren't meant to go together, I often end up with a shawarma
"pitza."

Maggie Brown. There's nothing really notable about
this solidly neighborhood restaurant/bar (there is nearly an equal amount of
small space devoted to eating as drinking). The burger is pretty solid
(medium-rare is honored) and there's a nice backyard. My only knowledge of
Maggie Brown up until now was when it got the Under $25 treatment eight years
ago, and I was surprised to see a Clinton Hill restaurant making The Times. It
still feels a little 2004, which is to say good enough for a transitional area
but not in line with the current crop of new nearish restaurants (Lulu &
Po, The Wallace, Prospect). And that's ok.

White Castle. For the second time in my NYC
existence, I live a block from a White Castle. This time it's directly across
the street and the view I'm treated to when peeking over the terrace. I don't
think I will ever be tempted by the sign advertising their new parfaits, but
the also-new jalapeno and cheese sliders (I have not been wild enough to try
the version with crispy fried onions yet) are not a bad 94-cent snack for those
who dig gooey processed cheese and chiles as much as I do. I hope this doesn't
become a habit.

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Oct 7

Sapolo

Unlike Lulu and Po or Do or Dine, which I can't
technically claim as part of my new neighborhood (they're three and two blocks
outside the Clinton Hill borders, respectively) Sapolo firmly counts. In fact, it's
one of the first restaurants I noticed because it's kind of hard to miss. A
late night favorite with the patrons of Myrtle Avenue doormen clubs, Bamboo and
SoCo (ostensibly a restaurant) and mulleted Pratt students sipping cocktails
the color of jordan almonds, Sapolo also
represents a dying NYC breed, the sit-down Chinese-American restaurant.

And then they also serve "Spanish" food,
oh, and piña coladas in to-go cups. It's a lot to take in.

And to digest, portion-wise. Of course, you're first
brought wontons and duck sauce to nibble on while pondering the list of
cocktails ranging from the classic Singapore Sling to the notorious Nutcracker while
checking out your zodiac on the paper placemat.

Combos are designed for value with a big butte of
fried rice (with substantial chunks of chicken or roast pork) and classics like
the General Tso chicken pictured. This is not a poor representation of the genre
and easily a notch above corner takeout style. The brown sauce was not overly
corn-starched and gloppy and while it was sweet as one would expect, there was
actual spice. I was tempted to eat more than half the serving, which any sane
person would get wrapped up to go.

The eggroll comes on its own plate with a steak
knife.

Honestly, I'm not sure what you're supposed to order
at a restaurant like Sapolo. The clientele isn't Caribbean, the staff is all
Chinese, so it would seem safer to stick with lo mein and beef with broccoli than
fried plantains, paella and bistec empanizado. The window sign does tout pollo
a la brasa, though. And it just might be the biggest restaurant in the area, so I wouldn't call them liars.

Sapolo * 501 Myrtle Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Oct 6

Do or Dine

I’m more excited about Bed-Stuy’s burgeoning dining
scene now that’s more in my physical frame of reference. (I make fun of
Williamsburgers who’ll never explore beyond their defined borders, but it’s not like I’m
going to check out a new Upper West/East Side restaurant unless it sounds
extremely amazing.) Sure, I’ve been to Celestino, Peaches HotHouse and drink
at Black Swan, but I’m not a neighborhood know-it-all.

It took me a while to get to Do or Dine. Yes, they have a menu with both small plates and snacks—does anyone understand
the distinction? Because of this, I assumed the stream of food would be willy nilly, plates
appearing when ready, the bigger items arriving last maybe. Instead, each course came
progressively like a tasting menu, a new dish showing up as the former was
being finished.

A serious cocktail (rye, averna, bitters) with a less-than-serious name, The Burt Reynolds, sets the tone. You could just as well have a cheap Rolling Rock (I had just been wondering whatever happened to this ’90s staple) as a stiff $12 beverage.

How could a first-timer not order the doughnut?
Everyone knows that the warm powdered-sugared dough is stuffed with foie gras.
I didn’t know, however, that the rich liver was paired with fruity (strawberry, I’m
guessing, raspberry, maybe) jelly. Split between two, the fried savory is a
perfectly reasonable starter–unless you’re one of those types who only takes one
bite of everything and acts like you’re overeating (or throws perfectly good cupcakes in the trash and sprinkles Comet on them).

The Leap Year Special is a snack for those who
consider frogs’ legs snackable. Sure, the flesh is mild and obviously white
meat, but I wouldn’t say that frog tastes like chicken, that’s just the nuggety
batter talking. The texture is most definitely different, wetter, less firm, I
guess, aquatic. The sauce was more peppery than sweet, despite the advertised
addition of Dr. Pepper. To me, that’s not so much a junk or stoner food touch,
but a Filipino bbq flourish.

The lamb breast is also a snack. The word fatty was
thrown in with the ingredient list, and being a prominent feature, I suppose
you could consider fat to be seasoning on par with the cumin. If you do not like
fat, you would probably not be eating at Do or Dine.

Chicken and Woffals is a liver-smeared crispy game
hen, atop a waffle. There is maple syrup, passionfruit something, cooked-down
spinach (the only greenery we ingested), all-in-all another fried, sweet-and-savory clash
that ends up delicious in spite of the rambunctiousness.

Do or Dine * 1108 Bedford Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Oct 1

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Farewell to Carroll Gardens

HBH Gourmet Sandwiches. This is totally one of those
places that was new and talked-about and so ridiculously close to my apartment
that I could put off going for some time. It finally turned out to be that
time. (I did not get to Court Street Grocers, however–too many damn sandwiches in the neighborhood.) It's also totally one of those kinds of absolutely delicious (and kind of ugly when transported home and unwrapped) but caloric
sandwiches that makes you wonder why artisanal food gets a health halo–what do
you mean Shake Shack isn't good for you?–while other equally fatty food is disparaged. Quality ingredients, yes, I
know. This Smith St. cheesesteak, all tender short rib meat and taleggio on
cibatta, is nothing like a cheesesteak, so if you're craving shaved beef of
questionable quality and processed cheese, this will not satisfy.

Seersucker. I didn't grow up using the term townie,
which feels more east coast anyway. I didn't need to because Portland was
nothing but townies. I like the word, though, so I'm going to call the person
in my neighborhood who told me that Seersucker was expensive with tiny portions
even for her, a tiny person, a townie. I'd resisted for years, based on the
name alone (which I chalked up to being a crank until a non-cranky coworker who
lived on the block also hated it and was coming up with other deserving
fabrics–perhaps Gabardine? Oh, my, that's already been taken by a Top Chef in
San Diego). My duck with a succotash-ish bed of kernels at first did seem a little
precious, but was rich, and the Berkshire pork, fall-apart belly topped with
cracklings (and I swear there was a third pork component) was flat-out meaty. The
prices were fair and reflective of what was on the plate. It was good enough
that I forgot to even snap lame camera phone pics of the mains and only
captured the starter of ricotta dumplings in a crazy broth perfumed with salty
country ham. One day I may eventually warm up to the owners' future Vietnamese
food project too, even if it doesn't make a lot of sense on the surface.

Prime Meats. There aren't a ton of dining choices
close to 11pm on a weeknight in my now-a-memory south of Fourth Place universe.
I was curious about what pleasures an $18 1/2 lb Creekstone Farms Angus burger
might provide. More than a Guy Fieri burger created from beef of the same
origin, I hated to admit. I only stole a bite, technically a forkful meat
barely held by a wet bun because it was the tail end of the meal and the whole
thing had nearly fallen apart with texture matching my steak tartare. Prime Meats grew on me over time, though I would never crowd in for brunch.

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Sep 20

Lulu and Po

Homespun and tiny with intergenerational groups (making sure skeptical parents see the neighborhood's
charms?) breastfeeders, small plates, Vampire Weekend tempered by Marvin Gaye, no reservations, no credit cards, Lulu
and Po is pretty much a New Brooklyn stereotype, and a sweet place, nonetheless.

Maybe you've read about the bone marrow tacos? I
suspect more than few have since the vertically chopped bones with three soft
tortillas and a thatch of parsley-caper salad sat on nearly every table. They're
kind of a mess since tortillas don't absorb the fat like toasted bread does,
but I love the idea. And the accompanying house-made Sriracha was right on,
more tart, less sweet than the commercial version. I could totally see spicy
Yucatecan pickled red onions working with this too.

The wax beans in the wax and green bean dish had
been 86'd (I'm directly quoting from the chalkboard that listed that evening's
depleted items: a pork loin and said wax beans) which was ok. They were served
cold and tossed with generous hunks of
feta and jalapenos for a little non-Mediterranean intrigue.

The lightly breaded and fried anchovies were like a
Spanish bar snack (I've never had this exact thing in Spain, I'm just saying they could fit in) meaty, not greasy in the least and perked up with a
Sriracha-spiked tartar sauce.

Smaller plates dominate, but the "iron" pressed
chicken, with its nicely crisped skin, is a medium plate heavy on brown tones and still more than
sharable. It made me remember the less purist, but slightly more
attention-grabbing sweet tea-brined chicken recently eaten at St. Anselm and
now I want to try brining a Thanksgiving turkey in sweet tea.

Despite the full house on an early Saturday evening,
the service was always pleasant, never rushed. Frankly, I was surprised to have
a dish comped as thanks for accommodating a weirdo seat that was in everyone's
way. That counts for something.

Lulu and Po will more or less be in my neighborhood,
ten blocks east on Myrtle, as of tomorrow. I probably won't rely on it as a
show-off if my parents ever come to visit because roomy seating and individual
entrees are more their thing (they might like sit-down Chinese-Spanish Sapolo,
however) but I would definitely give it another go.

Lulu and Po * 154 Carlton Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Sep 17

Guy’s American Kitchen and Bar

I'm still not 100% clear why Guy Fieri staking a claim in
Times Square is causing such a flap. I mean, isn't that where one would expect
a wildly popular food personality to take Manhattan? Tourists have their fun,
locals steer clear. Win-win.

Except that locals can't stay away. At this point, the
restaurant is already old news and it hasn't even been open a week. If I'm lucky we've already moved onto the
backlash to the backlash.

Guy's American Kitchen and Bar is not technically a chain (though
if you want a similar vibe and for some reason only a chain will do, Brick
House Tavern + Tap fills that niche) since it’s not an offshoot of his two
Santa Rosa restaurants. (I have semi-estranged family in that Californina town and almost want to
get in touch to see if they've dined at either.) It does borrow from Johnny
Garlic's and Tex Wasabi's menus, however. No "gringo sushi," sorry.

The night before I sampled the $18 1/2 lb Creekstone Farms
beef burger at Prime Meats in anticipation for a comparison with $13.95 Guy's
Pat LaFrieda blend of the same origin. It would be nice and contrarian for a flashy
everyman burger to best a pricier Brooklyn version that you almost expect to be
called a "hamburger sandwich" for old-timey effect, but it wasn't to be. (For the record, eight of the nine burgers served at the Time Square Ruby Tuesday cost more than $13.95–Guy's pricing isn't really a valid complaint in that neighborhood.)

The
patty was too thin to be consequential, a nice enough fast food burger,
but not a serious all-around contender. I should've taken heed when not asked how I wanted
it cooked. The LTOP (lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle) dominated, though the SMC
(super-melty-cheese) did deliver. Brioche bun? It was fine. I guess I'm not a
member of the brioche-haters club that I woke up to this morning on Twitter. For reasons unknown, both of Guy's other restaurants serve the Big Bite Burger on a pretzel roll, not brioche.

If you don't mind a lot of cheese and shit baked into your
clams (I don't) you'll be fine with the Malibu Clams Oysters, smothered in Havarti,
spinach and onions.

Rojo onion rings. They were just onion rings despite the
touted panko, buttermilk, Sriracha and ranch.

The Big Dipper, is yes, a french dip. I did not try this.

Sure, I had two fairly stiff cocktails at Rum House before heading
over to Guy's, but I'm still blaming the South Beach Mojito for the
rough-around-the-edges feeling I was saddled with upon waking (ok, there was
also a Morgan's Red Ale in there). I just wanted to try a cocktail and there was
no getting around the sweet even though this blueberry and mint concoction
seemed the least offensive, Barcardi Arctic Grape and all.

With all this said, I would totally go back if asked (are you asking?). I only
wish I had an expense account because that incongruous Steak Diane needs
sampling, as does the 18-ounce bone-in ribeye, both over $30. The Beer and
Honey Porchetta sails under at $29.50.

Don't tell me that's not Guy's dad deciding whether or not to drop in for a surprise visit.

I've tried to get better at note-taking while dining, but all I was left with the next day when I remembered I'd even taken notes was: John Cougar "Check It Out" and Thought Catalog waitress. Maybe that's all you need to know?

Guy's American Kitchen and Bar * 220 W. 44th St., New York, NY

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Sep 14

Serendipty 3

We caught the last gasps of summer (yes, I'm very
aware that fall doesn’t arrive until next Friday) before Park Avenue morphed
into autumn. It was my 13th (dating) anniversary, though it wasn't meant to be
a big deal, no blow-out, no special flourishes, just a restaurant we hadn't
been to in a while and felt like re-visiting. And it's a good thing we didn't
go in expecting a super-special celebration (really, after 13 years it's hard
to get that excited) because the meal was kind of a bust.

And I don't even mean the food, which was fine
enough but quickly made irrelevant. It was ruined by the beastly couple next to
us who fought loudly through most of the meal in a total Real Housewives manner
and culminated in the husband calling his wife "trailer trash." Meanwhile,
their sending back food and demanding nature cancelled out our service altogether.
By the end of our meal, our water glasses hadn’t been refilled once. Squeaky
wheels, I guess. But squeaky wheels that will keep me from returning to the
restaurant again. It’s like the time when I threw up at Ruby Tuesday after
eating dicey dim sum earlier. I now have a bad association with Ruby Tuesday and
there’s nothing that can be done about it.

I was ready to high-tail it by the time we were
handed the dessert menu, and then the decision was accelerated when the child
of the heinous abovementioned pair began playing DVDs aloud at the table (is
this a Dear FloFab candidate?).

But I did want a dessert still, particularly my
favorite all-American dessert (second only to pecan pie) that I rarely eat: a
big fat sundae to raise my spirits. Where?

I hate being one of those uptown/downtown dividers
(and really, I'd have to be lumped more into the borough-centric side of the
Brooklyn/Manhattan battle) but the Upper East Side isn't exactly my comfort
zone or area of expertise. I wondered, “Isn't Serendipity up here somewhere?”
Indeed, it was, and quite close to Park Avenue Summer. Ok, I'd play tourist.

That entailed getting on a waiting list at 10pm with
a quoted hour wait. Not a problem, I'd need a few shots of whiskey at nearby
Subway Inn (which isn't an old man dive on a Saturday night but hangout for a
lot of short, Spanish-speaking young men and people, other people I’m guessing,
who put Maroon 5 on the jukebox) to appreciate the ice cream parlor's (which turned out to have more savory items than sweets, including shrimp fettucine and sauteed chicken livers) frippery
anyway.

On return, we were ushered upstairs and asked,
"Have you seen the movie?" What movie? No. And then felt bad because
we were given the coveted fireplace seat for two where the scene from The Movie
(Serendipity, duh) took place and we weren't appreciating it properly. I'm no
Kate Beckinsale. Though, I admit it the setting felt more appropriate for the
anniversary we attempting to celebrate low-key. Others, however, totally knew
the movie and were taking photos of our seat. I had no idea it was that kind of
place, in the Magnolia Bakery vein. (Or not, I honestly knew nothing about its
history—Andy Warhol was a regular?—that’s far more charming and storied than an
early '00s cupcakery.) I also can't believe that Dubai doesn't have a
Serendipity yet.

And it was exactly what I needed. A massive $15.95
sundae (a special, not on the online menu, with a name I can't remember) with
all of my favorite ingredients: butter pecan ice cream (no boring vanilla) hot
fudge and pecan pie (an entire slice is sitting in the bottom of that dish)
smothered in walnuts with a billowing cap of whipped cream studded with slivered
almonds (three different types of nuts and no peanuts?!). Um,
because I'm a glutton, I would've even tolerated a drizzle of caramel, but no
one should take my advice on constructing the perfect dessert because I have a
genetically strong sweet tooth (I will never forget taking my mom to the
Brooklyn Flea where she bought a bunch of artisanal candy bars and later
complained that they weren't sweet enough.)

That's all I wanted, more than plenty for two (or
four) but I panicked over the $8.50 per person minimum on the menu (would they
really enforce that if were $1.05 under?) so James also ordered a peanut butter
Frrozen Hot Chocolate that came with four straws. Excessively excessive, the
whole thing, but a right-on night-saver.

Seredipity 3 * 225 E. 60th St., New York, NY

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Sep 7

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Heroes and Never Ending Pasta

Defonte's With two weeks left in Carroll Gardens
(never mind that I'm only moving four miles away and have access to a car)
there are some oversights to be corrected. Though it seems farther because of
the BQE and Brooklyn Battery Tunnel entrance, Defonte's is technically only
three blocks from my apartment yet I haven't been once in eight years. Ridiculous.
So, I finally got the famous roast beef, mozzarella and fried eggplant hero, as
well as one, equally hefty with roast pork and pickled vegetables. Both seriously
filling workhorse sandwiches that I'm happy still exist in this ever rarefied
section of Brooklyn. I'm afraid I've been exposed to too many improved
versions, though, like Paesano's (scroll down) in Philadelphia (yes, weird to compare to
Philly, not NYC, but I don't eat a lot of Italian-American things on bread
here–I still haven't tried Parm either) and now I find the originals kind of
dull–or maybe just in need of a little salt or an extra condiment.

Rocky Sullivan's I didn't realize the Friday night
6-9 lobster thing they advertise starts at 6pm and means you need to be there
then, not any time in that three-hour slot. At 7:30pm, the 35 lobsters had been
spoken for. The cheeseburger and fries I consoled myself just didn't cut it.
And it must be said that if you're at Rocky Sullivan's, which is attached to
the Sixpoint Brewery, one should probably drink a Sweet Action or whatever may
be on tap, not a bottle of Bud, as suggested by possibly contrarian Sam Sifton
last week.

Olive Garden The Never Ending Pasta Bowl may not be
local or organic, but it's highly seasonal. Each August the ads appear, teasing
with the limited-time disclaimer. I'm not sure when it ends, but not much later
than Labor Day. I've written about the absurd secrecy of claiming this $9.95 promotion
in Manhattan more than once, and this still hasn't changed. You have to ask because
it's not on the menu or any signs, then will be given one big bowl (plenty
for one meal) on the first round, then subsequently smaller ones. And if you
order a drink (no making fun of my malbec) at the bar while waiting for friends
to show up, you'll get an automatic 18% tip added in. Do I look like a tourist?
Who else but an American would be at an Olive Garden on a Friday night?

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Sep 4

St. Anselm

St. Anselm was the right answer to the
which-no-reservations-restaurant-with-typically-long-waits-should-I-attempt-on-a-reportedly-sleepy-holiday-weekend
question? Which isn't to say that it wasn't bustling on a Sunday or that
Metropolitan Avenue was bereft of hanger-outers. There was, however, room for
two at the bar at 7:30pm, and holding out for a table probably wouldn't have
been more than 30 minutes but I didn't want to risk it.

There was an endless procession of burrata, tomato
and basil salads being assembled in my line of vision. Too airy and blatantly summery,
the thick stalks of pea shoots, long beans and charred halloumi was more what I
was looking for.

I really would've been tempted by the rib-eye if I
hadn't just done a semi-splurge meal the night before (I still don't know if
you can rightly call a dating anniversary an anniversary even if it's been 13
years). Instead, the New York strip steak with pepper sauce sufficed. There was
plenty of beef and nicely charred, but next time I want something bone-in.

And the sweet tea brined chicken because even though
I can't stand the candied beverage, it lends just the right amount of subtle
sugariness to the meat and maybe even helps caramelize the skin (though I'm
certain it would brown and crisp up just fine using their combo
grilled/oven-roasted approach).

Our server made me nervous when she interjected,
"About the chicken…"

Me: panicking, bracing for horrible news.

Server: "It's whole."

Me, always concerned about over-ordering: "Oh,
so it's too much food for two?"

Server: "No, it comes with the head and feet
attached."

Oh, right, I knew that. Fedora, too, was serving birds
with little scrappy feet. Frankly, I don't mind beak-to-claw dining and gnawed
on the blackened cheeks when no one was looking. The above picture is doing it,
and the rest of the food, no favors, but this is what happens when you try to
be all free-spirited and live in the moment and force yourself to leave your
real camera at home.

A bunch of professionally grilled things (there was also
a crock of lobster mushrooms involved) and a bottle of Italian rosé (I was
pretending to go along with the Labor Day is the end of summer thing–how are
you liking this cool, refreshing fall weather?) were the perfect counterpoint
to more mundane burgers on a Weber and lukewarm beers (which I enjoyed the next
day).

St Anselm * 355 Metropolitan Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Shrimp Heads, Downtown Ramen, Bitters-Free Manhattans

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Hello, Myrtle Avenue

Sapolo

Do or Dine

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Farewell to Carroll Gardens

Lulu and Po

Guy’s American Kitchen and Bar

Serendipty 3

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Heroes and Never Ending Pasta

St. Anselm

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Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

My Other Blogs

What?

The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101