Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Jan 19

‘inoteca

The first time I visited 'inoteca, Frances McDormand was sitting across from me. The last time I dined at 'inoteca, it was wine and crostini with librarians. This weekend I was accompanying Hagan Blount of 93 Plates on his mission to eat three meals a day for a month with food bloggers.

I think he was surprised that I wasn’t Asian. (I was surprised that I agreed to be on video.) There's no use questioning why Asian ladies dominate at photographing and writing about what they eat; it's a given like how there will never be a Staten Island food blog (ok, there is one).

Hagan insisted he saw Glenn Beck pass by, Mike Bloomberg out the window and Dash from The Incredibles sitting at the head of the large wooden table next to us. Ok, the guy nearby did have the in-motion blonde hairstyle down pat. Maybe if you drink enough Aglianico del Taburno dubious celebrities will appear.

Shaved Brussels sprouts, the vegetable of the moment, with walnuts, a funky crumbled fiore sardo and pomegranate seeds started things right. This sweet and salty salad was one of the highlights along with the octopus below.

The scent of truffle oil is impossible to miss when the fancified Italian Popeye sprinkled with bottarga is placed in front you. Oozing yolk and warm fontina melded into a thick slab of chewy bread would be fitting brunch snack. But as soon as the square turns room temperature, all the components stiffen up. It's not for leisurely nibbling—just tear into the thing.

The shapely octopus leg–from the curled charred tip to the meaty end fat as a bratwurst–wasn't just a conversation piece, it was also the hit of the night. The Meyer lemon and olives lent a Greek flavor while the escarole stayed in Italy. Cooking cephalopods with corks to ensure a tender final product always seemed like an old wives' tale to me, but we were told that was the exact method used by the chef.

More of those runny yolks, this time adorning polenta along with hen of the woods mushrooms.

One goat cheese, a sheep's milk and one blend. I preferred the soft runny goat variety that I think was Brunet. It was even better spread on warm toasted flat bread.

Cheese and dessert is really a bit much. Consequently the budino (not pictured—I’m fairly certain this was the affogato, though I don’t recall anyone ordering it) was neglected. And maybe our senses were dulled at this point because the alleged pumpkin flavor was nearly undetectable. Just stick with the cheese unless you can’t stand ending a meal on a savory note.

'inoteca * 98 Rivington St., New York, NY

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Jan 6

Convivio

No more Convivio or Alto. (3/4/2011)

One-day's notice won't have you dining at Marea or Scarpetta earlier than 10pm while Convivio will grant you 1,000 Open Table points during all hours not just at geriatric 6:45pm, the exact time I willingly paid a visit to the Tudor City restaurant, glowing warmly from afar on a snowy, otherwise lifeless block. The only other time I've been that far east on 42nd Street was to meet with a library recruiter (they exist) in the lobby of her coop. It’s that kind of neighborhood.

Beyond salumi, sharp cheese, crostini maybe with chicken liver or fava puree and little dishes of marinated vegetables eaten with inexpensive red wine, I never initiate an Italian meal. Something about the holidays and drop in temperature, though, demanded not just pasta but hearty Southern Italian, the same cuisine I avoid like landmines near my apartment.

The $62 prix fixe (two sfizi or one antipasti, pasta, meat or fish and dessert) is really a good deal and a substantial amount of food (which didn't hit me until I stood up and had to think twice about eggnog at The Campbell Apartment. It turned out that don’t serve it anyway so my system was spared the creamy beverage…temporarily. A glass of eggnog did end up in my hand at Waterfront Ale House later) and the wine list was also friendly to those with little interest in pricy mature reds. I chose a bottle of Occhipinti SP68, a Sicilian Nero D’Avola/Frappato blend ($55).

polipo/grilled octopus, chickpea panissa, olives, red peppers

Both the chickpea cake and octopus legs were light; the cephalopod with just enough chew and the panissa especially flaky. I could see this being done with polenta, but that would bog the whole thing down.

rigatoni/marsala braised tripe, cannellini beans, spinach, pecorino grand cru

Rarely a pasta-craver, rigatoni would never be an obvious choice to me because the fat tubes are a lot of noodle. It’s always about the accompaniments, though, and I’m glad that I didn’t shy away from what appeared to be the humblest of the ten available pastas offered. Gelatinous rectangles of honeycomb tripe—a cut I associate strictly with menudo or dim sum—definitely held up to the rigatoni. There was a lot of crunch from miniature cubes of celery and carrot, which worked against the softness of the cannellini beans.

scottadito di agnello/grilled lamb chops, salsa verde, escarole, beans

It’s hard not to love a medium-rare lamb chop ringed with a few bites of charred fat. The vinegary salsa verde cut a bit of the richness. Ack, but those cannellinis again. (Nothing against the beans—I just used them tonight along with canned tomatoes and frozen fish in a lowerbrow version of Eric Ripert's roasted cod with white beans, tomato and truffle oil. It was the best I could come up with since I haven't gone grocery shopping since before Christmas.) I mean, it did say beans in the description, I was just imagining a different legume from the rigatoni. And while I am loathe to admit food aversions (it makes you look narrow minded) cooked tomatoes, the main reason why I'm prejudiced against Italian-American food, ever excite me. I feel the same about Provençal dishes like ratatouille. I wouldn’t even see the movie with the same name. Ok, I’m a fussbudget.

So, the lamb was near perfect and the side and sauce were dull according to my biases. If you love tomato sauce and don’t order a starter with cannellinis, you’ll probably enjoy this greatly.

tartaletta di caramelle/valhrona chocolate ganache, salted caramel, vanilla gelato

I was swayed by the salt and caramel, but this firm little tart was also very much about the thick chocolate layer. The gelato added an overall creaminess but the vanilla flavor was a little quiet. Would caramel gelato be overkill?

Chef Julian Medina was seated with a group in a nearby curved banquette and was the only person who seemed to notice when my camera came out (never with flash and always lightning fast—no attempts at professional quality are made). A mildly consternated expression crossed his face insinuating, "Eh, bloggers." I am the enemy.

Convivio * 45 Tudor City Pl., New York, NY

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Dec 29

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Financial District Baoguette

When I spoke to the unstoppable Michael Huynh for this Metromix year-end trend piece, he was envisioning Baoguette as the new Subway. And sure enough the still-rough-around-the-edges storefront in the Financial District is just a few spaces over from a Subway. Five-dollar foot-longs had better watch out.

In the nearly three years I've worked way downtown pho has been high on my list of edibles missing in the neighborhood. I think I would be more jazzed if we hadn't been barraged with so much Vietnamese food this year. It is still a novelty in the Financial District, though. My only other venture to a Baoguette, the one on St. Mark’s, involved the beef soup not banh mi and it wasn’t half bad. Now that it’s brutally cold, soup seems smarter than sandwiches. But it wasn’t to be. Even though pho is on the menu, it isn’t being served yet. They did have some prepared summer rolls in the refrigerated case, but it’s hard to get excited over the chilled cylinders as long as it's wintry.

The brown awning with an air conditioner punched through bore the Baoguette name held in place by blue tape. The long-necked lighting wasn’t having a good time either. Inside, the dry erase board on the wall was still shiny and unsullied. Same with the chalkboards above the counter. Rows of goldenrod Café du Monde coffee cans and full bottles of green-tipped Sriracha were the only design elements.

My old hard rule about $5 lunches shifted to $6 somewhere in the recent past and even that gets broken at least weekly for a Pret a Manger salad. Even those pick-a-mix salads where short little guys toss it in a plastic container for you come in around $7. It doesn’t mean I make a habit out of it, though. But hey, I had a little Christmas gift cash burning a hole in my pocket. I could spring for the $7 for a catfish sandwich…just this once.

The flavors were an untraditional mishmash (honey mustard and sweet pickles?) not dissimilar to certain swampy Thai curries. I only saw a few jalapeño slices and no obvious red pools of Sriracha, but mouthfuls were hot, a dirty spicy that was compounded by the catfish’s natural earthy taste and tempered slightly by the strands of pickled red onions and sweet cucumber relish. I liked it more than I thought I would.

The catfish sandwich is akin to Num Pang's (which I never blogged about, oddly) and in some ways is preferable to me because I like a drier sandwich and this one uses honey mustard while the Cambodian one bulges with mayonnaise. It’s hard to disassociate honey mustard from chicken fingers, but the condiment wasn’t that jarring, just tangy. I only recommend not trying on candy apple red lip glosses at Sephora on the corner right before biting into one of these sandwiches.

Baoguette does serve better food than the than closer-to-my-office banh mi cart and both charge $6 for the traditional Saigon sub (though I notice it’s only $5 at the Christopher St. Baoguette/Pho Sure while the catfish is $7 at both). I’ll likely return to check in on the pho at some point but as long as it’s in the 20s outside I’ll probably just walk the one block to the cart instead of the seemingly long (lots of tourist-dodging–I’ve given up on politeness and now barge through everyone’s posing in front of the Stock Exchange photos) five blocks to Maiden Lane.

Clearly, I’m not the only one who likes appropriating The New York Times' banh mi cross section photo.

Baoguette * Maiden Lane, New York, NY

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Dec 28

Buttermilk Channel

Hate is a very strong word. At least that’s what my mother tried hammering into my head for years. That didn’t make me banish the word from my vocabulary–sometimes you really don’t like something. I’ll never be able to soften my stance on women substituting tights for pants or people who insist on walking up-and-down the left sides of staircases (those who stand on the left side of escalators instead of walking are right up there).

I’ve said that I hate brunch. That’s not really true. The whole ritual is kind of gross and not my thing, but it does make drinking before noon seem respectable and I can appreciate that. And since blizzards negate all normal self-imposed rules I felt ok with myself for seeking out the short rib hash down the street that I’d read about in Metromix’s Top Dishes of 2009 (my contribution to the list was Aldea’s arroz con pato).

But not before I ordered their classic bloody mary, a chunky, spicy (horseradish?) beverage in a tumbler with a pickle spear. Brunch comes with a mimosa, bellini or sparkling wine. I opted for the peachy cocktail towards the end of my meal because I don’t see them that often (probably because I don’t eat brunch). Who orders a bellini? That same night, I slogged through the not-that-engaging Elegy and Ben Kingsley ordered pre-dinner bellinis for Penelope Cruz and himself. I think it was supposed to be the choice of an older sophisticated man. That’s me all right.

The short rib hash is really a smart burst of decadence, not the greasy, heavy, starch-laden fare I often gravitate towards when dining out for my first meal of the day. Rich fatty meat, tiny cubes of potatoes and runny yolks are perfect with simple triangles of toast (the salt could’ve been toned down a notch, though). Hey, there’s even a little lettuce for extra class. In fact it was so well portioned that if there is to be a next time I’ll also order a short stack of pancakes or coffee cake. Savory demands sweet.

Previously on Buttermilk Channel.

Buttermilk Channel * 524 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

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Dec 12

The Farm on Adderley

Three-and-half-hours is a long time to wait for a table by anyone's standards. More so in a non-prime neighborhood like Ditmas Park even if said neighborhood got The New York Times' Living In treatment, "Moved for the Space; Stayed for the Food" (sounds good on paper) the very same Saturday you decided to poke your head in Purple Yam, their first Saturday in business.

Who knew there was such a clamor for upscale Filipino fare along the Q line? Tocino sliders on purple pan de sal would have to wait.

Still wanting to see what Ditmas Park was morphing into (I'd never stopped in the stand-alone-homes-with-porches enclave in the 11.5 years I've lived here) we settled for The Farm on Adderley, the type of rustic, dangling filament bulb restaurant that has overrun the northwest corner of Brooklyn but is still novel in the bulk of the borough. With their refined casualness, these bellwethers of a neighborhood's status are exactly the places I would avoid in my 20s for being too adult and prohibitively priced yet are now embraced by 21st century 20-somethings. Maybe that's a recent shift in taste, maybe that's just New York City. Do Middle American 24-year-olds dine on $20 organic roast chicken and drink bottles of biodynamic wine?

Apple tempura is certainly not something clogging the menus like homemade pickles, sausages and pork belly, though. A true novelty, the crunchy, lightly coated slices of mellow red apple sat in a porky broth dashing any notions that a fruit focused starter would be either vegetarian friendly or healthy. Autumnal, to be sure.

Meaty Artic char with lentils and beets clung closer to tradition. Pickled garlic was a nice touch.

Already having Buttermilk Channel and Chestnut walking distance from my apartment, it's not likely I will return to Ditmas Park for this satisfying yet not hard to find American style of cooking anytime soon. I am curious about fancified lechon, however, so Purple Yam it will be when the wait times simmer back down to normal.

The Farm on Adderley * 1108 Cortelyou Rd., Brooklyn, NY

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Dec 2

Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken

Charles Gabriel’s fried chicken is one of those fundamentals that every food knowledgeable New Yorker is supposed to be familiar with. For burgers the benchmark has become Shake Shack, though I was late to that game too with my first visit being in September (I’ve still never been to the Madison Square Park location). DiFara is a big duh pizza-wise, but I haven’t been in years because I’m impatient. And by years I’m merely talking early 21st century; no one would believe me if I claimed my fondness began as a Jewish boy growing up in 1960s Midwood.

So now that Charles’ Southern Style Chicken has been reopened as Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken and the city has become frenzied over wings and thighs, I really needed to go straight to the source.

A wiser soul would’ve gone during the weekend buffet and made sure to get a fresh batch straight from the skillet. I went on a random weeknight and figured that if the chicken had already been sitting awhile under heat lamps that another 45 minutes to the fancy $18 fried chicken enclave of Carroll Gardens wouldn’t cause much further damage. (I still can’t explain how a 14.3-mile ride from 155th St. to Brooklyn only takes five minutes longer than my daily 4.4-mile commute to Whitehall, the southernmost R/W station in Manhattan. I would take a cheaper, further, express train neighborhood any day and have been trying to convince the person I live with of this for years.)

What I’m taking a long time to say is that I know my fried chicken wasn’t at its peak. And it was still moist, crispy edged and covetable at room temperature. The skin was sturdy not heavy with a light, flaky powdered quality. I devoured a drumstick walking around (I never eat standing up) getting out plates for the collard greens (made smoky from turkey rather than ham hocks), soupy black eyed peas and leftover Thanksgiving sweet potatoes driven up from Northern Virginia.

Sitting down with a breast and my sides, I was glad that we’d ordered what I initially thought was too much chicken for two. I still have a wing I’m holding onto for today.

My only recommendation is to not eat 95% of a slab of red velvet cake in one go. Normally, I share such things. As someone whose sugar intake is limited by necessity not choice, I go overboard when faced with my favorite form of glucose: a hefty, wincingly sweet slice of super-American layer cake frosted and filled to the nines. I didn’t even remember to take a photo. This is all that’s left.

Before going to bed I quickly clicked on the New York Times dining section and there Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken was getting the under $25 treatment. I made up to Harlem just in the nick of time. ( I also cracked open the new Saveur this morning only to be faced with a feature on mezcal, a subject I researched in Oaxaca last week, written by the Fort Defiance gentleman. Not that I was looking to publish in Saveur and not that they would let me, but I feel a quiet, nervous attachment to the subject in the same way I get anxious when I read others’ blog posts about chain restaurants, which thankfully isn’t a daily occurrence.)

Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken * 2841 Frederick Douglass Blvd., New York, NY

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Nov 19

Great New York Noodletown

twoshovel New York Noodletown, or Great New York Noodletown as they’ve been calling themselves for some time, has always been a Chinatown standby and not just for late night. I haven’t been drunk in the vicinity of lower Manhattan in years. Murmurs of its decline have come and gone for ages.

Me, I’ve never had a problem with the food, though I never stray far from roast pork wonton soup, roasted meats with rice or salt and pepper soft shell crabs (though in a recent Travel & Leisure article that gathers a bunch of chefs to eat at Noodletown and discuss late night eats, David Chang declares the ginger scallion noodles his favorite—maybe I should branch out?) That’s it. And brusqueness in this genre of eatery doesn’t bother me.

I recently went straight after work before seeing The Box on opening night for reasons I can’t yet determine, not so much that the movie was weird/slow/unsatisfying but because I rarely even see movies, let alone on opening nights. Like I said, I wouldn’t call efficiency and lack of smiling brusqueness, and the burgundy-vested waiters hear everything. They’re on it. We were speculating to ourselves not loudly whether we should order the soft shell crab and were cut off by a waiter walking by, “No soft shell crab!” Ok, roast duck it was.

I forgot to take a photo of the duck, which proves how tastiness of the meat and crispiness of the skin. Or maybe I was just starving. I have to admit, though, that my soup was a little troubled. The broth was hot, maybe a little less complex and rich as ones I’ve had there before, but clearly the noodles and pork had just been sitting out as they were coldish, not even quite room temperature. The noodles were still springy and the pork had a nice charred flavor but warm would be better.

The wontons? Maybe I’ve said this before and I still can’t determine where the flavor is coming from since they look simply like shrimp encased in dough, no herbs, but they taste like marijuana. Just subtly and I’m no stoner but I swear they are like pot dumplings, if such a think existed. I’ve never heard anyone else ever say that so maybe it’s how my tongue processes a certain taste, in a soapy cilantro manner.

Previously on New York Noodletown

Great New York Noodletown * 28 Bowery St., New York, NY

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Nov 15

OBAO Preview

In 2006 I worked a block from where OBAO, Michael Huynh’s latest venture, is scheduled to open on Monday. The immediate area has shaped into a multi-culti lunching paradise (Güllüoglu, Barros Luco, Mantao Chinese Sandwiches) or maybe it just seems better in comparison to the Financial District blandness I’ve grown accustomed to. And I shouldn't complain so hard, we're getting a Baoguette down here.

Based on the sampling at OBAO’s preview party, there is high promise. The grilled cubes of pork belly were a little sweet with nice char and good balance between the meaty and fatty bits. Lamb chops were coated in chopped lemongrass and tasted like they’d been marinated in coconut milk. Instead of shrimp paste, thin slices of beef were wrapped around sugarcane. Bacon too. Why had I never thought of that?

Shrimp rolls and chicken satay were perfectly fine renditions, but couldn’t compete with the oomph of the pork, lamb and beef. Or maybe I just have a preference for the fatty.

I think this was a pho. It definitely was pho-like, but the poached egg threw me off.

The unknown element will be the noodles, which weren’t showcased at this event. I’m crazy for laksa and can’t decide if the non-traditional green tea soba noodles as they are touting will be a welcome tweak or just weird. Will the char kway teow also be an Asian hybrid? I’m sure I’ll get the answers soon enough.

I imagine the signage will be complete and the garbage bin removed by opening day.

OBAO * 222 E. 53 St., New York NY

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Nov 8

Mercat Negre

3/4 I’ve only been to Mercat on Bond Street once when they were having one of their visiting Catalonian chefs cooking a special menu. I liked the few things I ate well enough. How would the restaurant translate to Williamsburg?

It hasn’t exactly. The menu is much smaller, no cured meats or cheeses at all, though the room is airy, high ceilings, lots of wood and white brick. The service was typically Williamsburg—amiable, though harried and forgetful no matter how empty or busy—which I always mentally prep myself for and am rarely proven wrong.

Sure, it’s new and quickly became bustling. When I first entered there was only one other couple in the then cavernous, nearly Medieval looking room, The Boy With the Arab Strap played in entirety. Soon enough, though, the bar stools filled, the din rose and two large parties had descended, one in the private second floor space and another group of fifteen inches from us at a long row of cobbled together two-tops.

The food is hit and miss. Stick with the fried snackier items and you’ll be fine. The croquetas, here spinach, pinenut and raisin in oblongs and shrimp in balls, were the highlight. Nearly greaseless, their crusts were perfectly golden with a arm oozy interior. I even liked the croquetas at chain restaurants in Spain, though, so maybe I’m easily impressed.

The bomba wasn’t what I expected at all. Described as a chicken and pork meatball, I still wasn’t picturing one large ground meat orb coated in mashed potato and fried. Minus the aioli, there was something almost British about this. All it needed was a scattering of green peas. That’s a sobrassada and cheese empanada hiding in the background. I will say that the prices are fair. Empanadas, though tiny, were only $1 a pop, croquetas $2 each, same with the bomba.

The patatas bravas were done in a thick handcut potato chip style rather than in more traditional cubes. I did see huevos rotos served like this in Madrid earlier this year so it’s not a completely un-Spanish thing to do. I like tasting more of the potato’s softness, but these were still enjoyable.

Cocas are thin, cracker-like flatbrads treated like pizzas. This one was minuscule—it’s not even visible in the photo—and overwhelmed by the topping of vinegary sardines and escalivada, a.k.a. red peppers and onions grilled to sweet softness and dressed with olive oil.

There are two rice dishes: one seafood, one meat, available in two sizes. This is the smaller one, which contained rabbit and pork. The grains weren’t fully cooked, some mostly scattered on the surface were completely white and still opaque, and the meat was a little greasy yet not in a way that moistened the rice. This was the dud of the batch.

Taste is subjective, though. James ordered a Ward Eight, which I’ve never had before so it’s hard to compare. After a sip I did comment that it wasn’t very sweet, meant in a positive way. I’m not crazy about sugary beverages, alcoholic or not. The woman sitting next to us later ordered this same drink and a few minutes afterward asked the server for more simple syrup, which they brought to the table no problem. It’s never even occurred to me that you could or would doctor a cocktail. Then again, other than fries, I never salt or pepper my food at restaurants either. And I didn’t say anything about the crunchy rice.

Now that I look deeper, though, a Ward Eight doesn’t typically contain sugar, just a touch of grenadine, and Mercat Negre’s version goes primal with straight pomegranate juice. My conclusion: the cocktail isn’t meant to be particularly sweet. The customer’s always right?

While assessing our meal–James thought this was a one-shovel restaurant while I thought it was more two-shovel with kinks to work out–he commented, “I liked that tapas place by the BQE better.”

What tapas place by the BQE? Zipe Zape? That was just a few blocks from this place and it’s gone. “Do you mean Allioli?! Grandpa, you do realize how long ago that was?”

I had a vague idea just how long ago that truly was because I remembered debating whether or not I should watch the Daniel Pearl decapitation video a few days before this dinner (nay won over yay) then got squeamish about eating a baby octopus’ head at Allioli when normally I’m not troubled by such things.

And that is one beauty of blogging about food before food blogging was such a thing, I have a record of practically everywhere I’ve dined since the dawn of the millennium (as well as non-dining at Zipe Zape in its previous incarnation, Kokie’s). I can also concede that caving and buying a smartphone does have benefits, primarily being able to look up crap from the past on the spot. What was at 291 Grand Street now, anyway?

We strolled down Grand on our way to the G train, and it turns out that the space is now that Caracas Arepa Bar offshoot. Yet another indie chain.

Mercat Negre * 65 Grand St., Brooklyn, NY

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Nov 6

Henry Public

1/2 I was, and still am, more interested in the edibles at recently opened Henry Public. Cocktails are great too, but it's not as if we're suffering from a shortage of old-timey libations in this corner of Brooklyn.

But 11pm on a Friday is no time for sampling bone marrow and these so-called Wilkinsons I keep reading about (not so much the turkey leg sandwich). Too new, too crowded. Instead, I bolstered myself with some Italian salumi and cheeses at Bocca Lupo down the street first.

Almost closer in style to an early 20th century ice cream parlor than saloon, the booths—or at least the bench closer to the entrance—are also bygone era in size. James and I side-by-side were smooshed tighter than when an ample bottomed commuter wedges their way into the subway's middle seat during rush hour.

This is an Eagle's Dream (gin, lemon juice, sugar, egg white and Creme de Violette). I always order a cocktail that uses Creme de Violette, especially if it's not an Aviation (nothing wrong with the latter—I just like seeing what they can do beyond the classic). True to form, this drink was more silver-gray than the lavender I always crave based on the royal purple liqueur in the bottle. I can't wait for the new Creme d'Yvette in the works (obviously, because I just mentioned it last week).

The drink was like a muted Sweet Tart candy even down to the chalky finish, attributable to the egg white. Pleasant and breezy enough, though I switched to a more straight ahead sweet-tart option, the whisky sour, for my second glass. I do love the small, dark homemade maraschino cherries I've been encountering lately.

Henry Public * 329 Henry St., Brooklyn, NY

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Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

‘inoteca

Convivio

Financial District Baoguette

Buttermilk Channel

The Farm on Adderley

Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken

Great New York Noodletown

OBAO Preview

Mercat Negre

Henry Public

Featured

Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

My Other Blogs

What?

The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101