Posts from the ‘United States’ Category

Aug 5

Cocktail Hour in Portland

There has never been a shortage of bars—or drinkers—in Portland, but I wonder if there are enough falernum and verjus lovers to sustain all the non-stop newcomers. The not-quite-week I was in town, more than a handful had either just opened or were about to. I did my best to survey the modern Portland drinking scene.

Nearly all of my ‘90s haunts: My Father’s Place, Holman’s, Space Room Lounge, Dot’s (r.i.p. original Hung Far Low) are still in operation; it’s not as if the new Portland has subsumed the old. But this was not a nostalgia mission. I’m doing my Gen X best to steer clear of that emotion.

Rum Club is a newcomer from the Beaker and Flask (which was the new bar on my last visit in 2009) folks and based on the opening week menu, did not appear to focus exclusively on sugar cane spirits.

More delicately ‘50s than tiki, I loved the wood paneling, predominantly black, hummingbird patterned wallpaper and ornate vintage glasses. I also loved $8 price tag. There is something to be said for being able to buy two well crafted cocktails with only a $20 bill in your wallet. It makes the whole experience more pleasurable than precious. It’s also great for fancy drink drunks. It’s tough getting trashed on $13 Pimm’s cups.

The Quarterdeck Cocktail (Black Seal Rum, sweet sherry, blended scotch, orange bitters) and The Rum Club Daiquiri (Bacardi 8 Aged Rum, lime, sugar, Maraschino, Angostura bitters, absinthe). The SOSAP (tequila, grapefruit, Lime, Peychaud bitters, salted rim) was the prettiest pink thing I’ve ever sipped and more tart and bracing than a margarita.

Bent Brick is really more of a restaurant, but the bar has a good number of seats and there was plenty of space on the Tuesday evening I went. Beyond being affordable—cocktails were $8 here, too—non-crowding is another benefit of Portland. I’m not sure if I just picked off times and nights, but this was far preferable to a few night’s before in San Francisco where it could take 20 minutes to get a bartender’s attention at a popular place like Bar Agricole.

The Stranger (bourbon, sarsaparilla, verjus, angelica) was my favorite, like an herbal whisky sour. Rise to the Occasion (apple brandy, bourbon, vermouth, black tea, bitters) was a stiff little brown drink. Beginning of the End (rye, strawberry shrub, rainier cherry, pecan) sounded the tastiest and turned out to be the oddest. I’m not wild about the whole drinking vinegar thing (I did not go there at Pok Pok) so I’m wondering if it was the shrub that gave it a twist or if the pecans were doing something unusual. I kept getting a dirt/stale bread undercurrent. I’m not saying that was displeasing, necessarily.

I was impressed by the $4 plate of mussels because this was the closest thing I’ve encountered to pintxos since San Sebastián. (Er, does that sound pretentious? I got called a snob the other night for saying that I don't like it when people pronounce tapas with a hard A, so can't tell any more. I still don't think being a grammar/pronunciation sticker makes one a snob.) Not only were they creatively plated and priced right for a snack, a lot of thought had gone into the preparation. Each mussel sat atop seemingly aerated smoked aioli made with the bivalves’ liquid and were garnished with Tabasco mignonette, creating a perfect bite.

I can’t really say much about Dig a Pony because it was still two days from opening when I showed up to the meet a friend who had suggested it. We did get some whiskey shots and I got a few photos. I doubt it will be this empty again.

Instead, we moved onto Belmont Avenue and another new bar, Sweet Hereafter, an offshoot of Bye & Bye where I’ve never been so that didn’t mean anything to me. My Portland life generally centered around Southeast (though I also lived in NW and NE) and so too the people I know who still live there—I just can’t get into the whole Alberta, N. Mississippi thing (my excursion to Pine State Biscuits in that quadrant was cloyingly Carroll Gardens-esque). I took no photos because it seemed like a bar, bar, a vegan bar, apparently. They did have cocktails, with bitters, I’m sure, but I continued with bourbon on the rocks.

Driftwood Room. This naturally retro bar was probably the one part of the Mallory Hotel’s 2006 transformation into the Hotel deLuxe that needed the least overhauling. And at five-years-old it’s not new, but to me is. I was last there two visits ago in 2004 while my dad was in the hospital (he did not leave). My sister and I ended up drinking past the last light rail and couldn’t get back to my mom’s in Beaverton. We ended up on MLK thinking that Denny’s was still 24 hours (it’s not—where is Shari’s when you need it?) and ultimately had to flag down a cab. Portland is not friendly to last callers.

Since I was staying at Hotel deLuxe, I had to stop in for a happy hour drink. It was packed, very dim and was scented with truffle oil (truffle fries being a bar food standard now). I couldn’t even gauge how much revamping had transpired. Most importantly, many of their champagne drinks were only $6. The Elizabeth Taylor was the obvious choice; I will always take an opportunity gaze at a crème de violette cocktail. Too bad the mood lighting wasn’t so great for capturing the lavender bubbly.

And I just missed the opening of Portland’s Trader Vic’s and didn’t make it to Kask, Gruner’s next door offshoot, even though it was only a few blocks from the hotel. I always walked past before it was open. If I wait another two years (I suspect it will be longer—I can only take small doses over long periods of time) I will have completely lost track and be so elderly that I’ll give up and return to my decrepit old faves.

Rum Club * Sandy Blvd., Portland, OR

The Bent Brick * 1639 NW Marshall St., Portland, OR

Dig a Pony 736 SE Grand St., Portland, OR

Sweet Hereafter * 3326 SE Belmont St., Portland, OR

Driftwood Room * 729 SW 15th Ave., Portland, OR

Share on Tumblr

Aug 4

Canned Cheese, Pedo-Chinese & Inoffensive Japanese

The day after I paid a visit to my favorite, non-NYC semi-supermarket, Grocery Outlet, fka Canned Food Outlet, an online walk-thru appeared on The Laughing Squid. Yet the only item I found in common was the Wis-Con nacho cheese.

Sadly, the Eugene location near my sister’s house wasn’t even half-way hideous. It was actually kind of pleasant and full of useful things. They had real Willamette Valley wine, organic snacks and hair products, Starbucks ice cream bars…and fresh meat, which they reminded you of on signs inside and out as well as over the intercom. I wasn’t in the market for fresh meat. None of the crap I remember from my younger years trolling the aisles of the Tigard location was to found. Who can top ninety-nine-cent chocolate-flavored wine, though?

There is a fondness for ground meat in tubes. Not the advertised fresh meat, I presume.

We had to drive to neighboring Springfield to fuel my desires for the darker side of suburbia. After reading the haunting Yelp reviews for Gateway Mall (seriously, I’ve wanted to go ever since stumbling on them in April) I knew that I not only had to see its faded glory for myself, but that I needed to eat somewhere nearby.

Far Man, a.k.a. Pedo-Chinese it was. I knew this was the spot the second I typed in the CAPTCHA that granted me access to the filtered review about the former owner’s underage prostitution ring.

A quiet vacuum made a nice tableside sculpture. Its noise, however, might’ve been preferable to the half-man half-grizzly outbursts blasting from the saloon doors separating the dining room from the dark bar filled with more patrons than the restaurant. The voice, akin to that sound of burping out the alphabet but more menacing, appeared to be in response to something on the Discovery Channel. James gathered this intel from peeking into the murky abyss that still felt smoky despite the mandated lack of cigarettes. Normally, it wouldn’t take much to convince me to grab a cheap beer in the middle of the day but he couldn’t talk me into crossing that imaginary line between sane and not-so-much. The staff seemed jumpy and cowed. I wasn’t taking my chances.

Instead, I solaced myself with the cheap and fried. Thursday’s $4.25 special was (and is every week) sweet and sour pork and a shrimp eggroll that’s really filled with celery mush. Minus the sunshine yellow egg drop soup included with most combos, the food is crunchy, greasy, beige broken up by neon red rivers of corn starch thickened sauce and a sprinkle of sesame seeds. You’ll never finish the whole plate, and you probably shouldn’t. Our waiter brought over styrofoam takeout containers mid-way through the meal, umprompted. American Chinese at its finest.

The best part of the Gateway Mall (which houses two movie theaters—one with $1.50 tickets!) was not the newish Cabela’s that I was not allowed to go into because some coworker of my sister’s also works there and she didn’t want to see him (there is a lot of this avoiding people thing in Eugene. My issue was more with the strangers saying hi on the streets and involving you in conversations about time travel unbidden). It was the Ross. It’s always the Ross. My sister and I both found the exact same $6.99 polyester rainbow swirl wrap dress in each of our sizes that we thought would be amazing to wear to a rare family bbq the following night. A trip to the dressing room quelled that fantasy, however. It is no bargain if you look like a crazy lady in a bathrobe.

I almost wish we had held out for Hometown Buffet. I haven't eaten at one since 2001 in Reading, PA. Once per decade is probably a good guideline.

I’m not sure if it’s more socially acceptable to grab a drink at Far Man or the mall’s Nascar bar in the middle of the afternoon.

There are a lot of empty storefronts.

There are also havens for Christians.

And crafters.

As per the comment left by a DragonVine employee on my original speculative Gateway Mall post, "Steampunk is only a wee fraction of what we have."

Epris? Never heard of it. Same for Bello and maurices, two other mystery retailers. This felt very Chinese (not Far Man Chinese). The malls I encountered in Shanghai and Beijing looked so American but so many store names were completely new to me. My favorite was Valued Squirrel.

Now that I am a year older, and maybe more maturely than prematurely gray, I may have to adopt the older women having a blast look featured on one of the boarded up shops.

You do not have to eat sub gum chow mein or even aggressively vegetarian while in Eugene (I was scared of the ‘70s avocado and sprouts on everything legacy). After a stop for a few pints at the Ninkasi Brewery, I shared perfectly nice small servings (not calling them tapas) of Japanese-ish food at Izakaya Meji, across the street. Not only do they stay open until 1am (late night dining was problematic even in more bustling Portland) they do classic cocktails, which is not exactly an overdone trend in these parts. An Aviation for $6? It almost made up for the disappointment of the distressingly normal Grocery Outlet.

Share on Tumblr

Jul 19

Eastern Shore…and More

Sure, all-you-can-eat crabs at Clemente’s is fun, if not unique in Brooklyn, but Maryland’s Eastern Shore it is not.

I spent the weekend leading up to Fourth of July in Kent Narrows, a little sliver on the Chesapeake between Annapolis and…I don’t really know what’s on the eastern side that’s too northwestern to be the more popular Rehoboth Beach or Ocean City. (I’m a west coaster, sorry.)

You can get crabs at a number of restaurants in the area. I only acquiesced to the Crab Deck because it was James’ pick and he had been there many times before with his parents. Not that his family is neccessarily crab experts.

Even closer to their home, crabs don’t come cheap. They are bigger than the blue crabs you often see here, though, and a dozen of larges split between two with a pitcher of beer is a feast. This Old Bay-encrusted pile will set you back about $65. James thought they were kind of small for larges, though they seemed ok to me. Jumbos are decadent. They didn't have Extra Larges.

Hushpuppies are the only accompaniment you need.

You can feed any leftovers to the plump ducks that hang out on the deck looking for scraps.

You can also have a drink at the bar while listening to John Cougar played by DJ Ritchie Lionel.

Big Owl Tiki Bar down the way made me feel young, pale and non-leathery. ‘70s music ruled. Whenever I drink out outside of NYC, I am reminded that people over 40 like to have a good time in public with alcohol. I’ve always attributed their absence here to delayed procreation (and that any female over 28 is made to feel old at most Brooklyn bars). Forties are prime child rearing years in the city where in other locales that’s the start of empty nesting. They’ve done their time; now they’re having fun.

Harris Crab House does big business with busloads of tourists. I had to stand in this spot for some time to wait for them to pull away from the front of the restaurant (they were also blocking in our car).

I just had a soft shell, or soft crab as they call them, sandwich since I’d just eaten six hard shells the night before.

Once again showing my local ignorance, I thought soft shell clams would be the equivalent of soft shell, pardon, soft crabs, but they are the same thing as steamers and are called soft shell to distinguish them from the harder quahogs. On a fried bender here. And beer for breakfast.

The Narrows is a little bit fancier, with tablecloths and grilled fish instead of brown paper and wooden mallets. It was also the scene of my first semi-in-restaurant marriage proposal. A boat slowly bobbed past the back picture windows while its inhabitants held a banner reading “Will you marry me?” If a situation ever called for a battered, fried ring, this would be it…but no.

Crab two more ways: in a dip (with Virginia ham—so local) and in a cake.

We then headed to the big city, influenced by the commercial loop on the Holiday Inn’s TV advertising mostly Annapolis restaurants over and over again. I watched the damn thing at least five times. Level was not part of the promotional show, but small plates (thankfully, they did not call them tapas) and mixology? Maybe.Why not take a break from beer in plastic cups and crustaceans?

As suspected, it was a little dude bro. This wasn’t a handlebar moustache establishment, more like fitted t-shirts and leather strap necklaces. Even so, not everyone was down with the concept. Two women out on the town, probably my age, which is to say older than 30 but not quite 40, sat at the bar on the opposite side of the corner and were asking about wine. The bartender suggested a pinot noir. One of the women firmly said, “no” and when the bartender left them with the menu she said loud enough that I could hear, but not that he could, “what a dipshit” and they stormed off. Total mismanaged expectations. Ladies wanted a richer oenophilic experience and dude just wanted to geek out on homemade bitters. It's a tough crowd in the big city.

I wouldn’t exactly call the cocktails seasonal. My State Street Manhattan (maple cured old forester, cinnamon vermouth, apple bitters) was pure autumn. The Aviator (blue coat gin, maraschino, HUM liqueur, grapefruit juice) was a little brighter. The Smoked Margarita (hickory and lavender smoked herradura, lime, agave, smoked salt) was my favorite; summer but tweaked.

Grilled eggplant, ribs and lamb sausage with spaetzle (ok, more fall flavors).

Back to Kent Narrows, afterward. I’m still mildly traumatized by Red Eye’s Dock Bar, where I managed to talk the guards down to two for $5 instead of $10 to be in the thick of dancing wedding parties and a huge stage with a cover band belting out Warrant and Ozzy.

I was taken with a particular large, spiky bleach blonde, cartoonishly made up wild woman, a biological woman, not a John Waters character as I had originally thought, who was picking fights with everyone and offered me a Mento from a roll she’d been hiding very successfully in her cleavage. She wrote down the recipe for a Creamsicle, the drink she’d been ordering all night.

I sympathized with her chaperone, a sane woman, her Facebook friend who never gets to go out, who couldn’t have been over 30, divorced with two grade school-aged kids with special needs. She told me how lucky I was not to be married or have children and seemed surprised that I’d come all the way from New York City to hang out at Red Eye’s. No obligations, that's me. But when she’s 40, maybe she’ll be free again? Right? Say yes, or I'm going to feel bad.

Share on Tumblr

May 15

Denny’s: Crimes Against Nature

Denny’s—where I spent many a high school evening drinking coffee, eating Super Birds and smoking in the back room because there was nothing better to do at night—are scarce around NYC. The nearest location, 20 miles away, just happens to be in my favorite part of New Jersey; the region that’s also home to Bud’s Hut and the Linfield Inn. I took this as a sign.

But before heading out to Avenel to finally experience Baconalia (I don’t only wait for hotspots to have a month-long cool-down period) I was warned about restaurants defaulting to imitation bacon. No way, not at Denny’s.

denny's maple bacon sundae

The Maple Bacon Sundae was not a purist affair, however. The bacon crumbles, more fatty than crisp, as I like them, were real all right, but the scourge of diners everywhere: maple-flavored syrup, a.k.a. corn syrup followed by high fructose corn syrup on the ingredient list, was the amber imposter drizzled atop and pooled at the base of the vanilla ice cream tower.

Despite the unnatural sweetener, this was not a bad sundae. The spoonfuls of melting ice cream striped with syrup and smoky nubs of pork were welcome sweet-salty blasts; the only thing that could’ve upped the ante would have been a sprinkling of chopped hickory-smoked almonds.

I still had to admire Denny’s moxie. Sure, bacon desserts are old hat to food trend followers (though it’s a faster trickle-down than craft beers now appearing at T.G.I. Friday’s) but that doesn’t mean the average customer is necessarily ready for the meeting of sweet and salty in soda fountain classics.

The disgust and outrage overheard at a nearby table might’ve been initially mistaken for the matrimonial union between two men.

30-something dad: “I love bacon…but on a sundae? This has got to be a joke, right?!”

Son: “Gross!”

After grandma hobbled back to the table, dad proceeded to fill her in on the maple-bacon atrocity. “Can you believe it?”

I did not hear her response. Perhaps, she’ll now finally be able to say that she’s seen it all. I hope she’s already watched Nannerpuss.

Share on Tumblr

Apr 15

Texas Roadhouse

I’m never ever a jerk to service staff, but when “Have you dined with us before?” hits my ears (which isn’t the sole province of chain restaurants) I feel this childish urge to backtalk in some manner. Really, how much explaining should a dining experience require? I always lie and say “yes” to save the spiel. But as a first-timer at Texas Roadhouse, who only knew about the business because it came in fourth place in a survey of favorite casual dining restaurants, I did kind of want to hear what they were about.

“Hand-cut steaks,” sides made from scratch and freshly baked rolls that are whisked from the front counter and brought with you to the table as you’re being seated, it turns out. The staff wearing I Heart My Job t-shirts and periodically breaking into country line dances and why the chicken fingers are called “critters,” were not explained.

While waiting for a table at the bar, we sized up the restaurant with its chilled giant mugs of beer, bloomin’ onions, woody motif and emphasis on steaks, to be an OSI brand. But not so. That fried, battered onion turned out be called a Cactus Blossom, and apparently has nothing to do with Outback Steakhouse, whatsoever.

What the restaurant really reminded me of, particularly the country music and encouragement to throw peanut shells on the floor, was a restaurant in Tigard called BJ’s Roadhouse that I can find no online evidence of (there’s a BJ’s Restaurant and Brewhouse, but that’s not it). I’ll never forget it because it’s where my dad and his wife took me for my birthday right after I turned 21 and I forgot my driver’s license and couldn’t drink away the trauma (no, I did not appreciate chains and suburban trappings in college). The waiter wouldn’t even let me have an O’Doul’s. The evening ended with a watermelon (the only food in the world I hate) and a diabetic cherry pie.

A decade-and-a-half can make all the difference. Now, I’m soothed by honey-cinnamon butter and warm, fluffy rolls and the ability to drink forty ounces of Sam Adams Cherry Wheat beer without being carded. I practically ate the whole basket while scrutinizing the menu. The bread reminded me of the “scones” at a restaurant I ate at once in grade school called Pa’s Kettle (wow, I can’t believe that it still existed in its 1980s form until 2008). They were warm yeasty triangles served with honey-butter that had me in for a surprise when I first tasted a real dense, baking soda-heavy scone (probably at Starbucks, sadly).

Rattlesnake Bites are a take on jalapeño poppers with the chiles and cheese mashed up and formed into a fritter and served with a Cajun horseradish dip. “Hand-battered,” don’t forget. I felt health draining from me with each bite–maybe that's the rattlesnake angle?–but who doesn't appreciate a newfangled popper?

I tested out my favorite Dallas BBQ combo: ribs and chicken. Well, the ribs, despite being a little dried-out and not likely smoked, still tasted more like real barbecue than BBQ’s. Nothing wrong with them. The chicken, though? Ugh, grilled, boneless chicken breast, my enemy. I was picturing a crispy, skin-on leg in my head. This sad poultry part has a place in my weeknight dinner canon, but I never ever want to eat it in a restaurant and I will never understand Americans’ obsession with flavorless white meat. (Apparently, Chinese don’t like chicken breast—or kung pao, but that’s another story.) To be fair, the grilled chicken was moist and not tasteless—the more peppery than sweet sauce helped—it’s just not what I wanted. Baked beans and steamed broccoli, carrots and cauliflower (my attempt at health) were my choices of sides.

They really do hype-up the beef—the cuts are displayed in a butcher-style case in the waiting area—so, James went all big-spender (relatively speaking; the steak and rib combo was $18.99) and ordered a steak and rib combo. I’m still trying to parse our enthusiastic server’s question “Have you had ribeye before?” Did he mean ever in our lives or at Texas Roadhouse? Am I naïve/privileged to think that the average adult in this country has eaten a ribeye at some point? Must tamp urge to sass waitstaff.

No matter. Texas Roadhouse is worth having in my chain restaurant repertoire. I would go again, if only to be able to answer “yes” when asked the inevitable “Have you dined with us before?” question.

Texas Roadhouse * 1000 US Highway 9, Parlin, NJ

Share on Tumblr

Mar 18

Pacific Northwest Eclipses National Average in Insufferability Demand for ‘Local’ Foods

According to a survey of 1,000 consumers in Oregon and Washington by Foster Farms (a company that I always thought was like Perdue or Tyson, but apparently is more indie, or so they would have you believe) 92% think it’s important to buy food grown in the Pacific Northwest, 86% think they are unique and better than the rest of the country for this belief (ok, verbatim: “believe they differ from the rest of the nation”) and over 60% think the Northwest has fresher, more local food than anywhere else in the country.

I would be curious to see the percentage of Northwesterners who ever travel outside of their home states.

This is where I would logically link to the Portlandia bit about the couple who want to visit the farm where Colin, the chicken they are about to be served, was raised. We all know that is funny.

However, I’m also partial to this commercial where Jim Perdue speaks Bloomberg-esque Spanish (mine is no better, but I am not a wealthy man on TV trying to relate to the people). I mean, for purely poultry-related laughs, no Oregon connection necessary.

Original Video – More videos at TinyPic

Share on Tumblr

Jan 30

Picnic Garden

H Mart—at least the brand new one in Edison, New Jersey that anchors a sprouted-up strip mall—is the grocery store of my dreams. I would swap it for Fairway without a second thought. We have one of these Korean supermarkets in Flushing, but as with so much of New York City, businesses become larger, cleaner, brighter, better stocked and more amenable the farther you get from the city’s center, like a pond ripple showing suburbia’s finest at the outer rings.

I’ve never seen a supermarket with so many free samples (and we’d just come from Costco—I don’t know where they’ve gotten the reputation for being sample-centric—in my experience if you see one lady handing out apple pieces, it’s a good day), an entire entourage of tables along the perimeter of the produce section offered tastes of miso soup, roasted sweet potatoes and more.

Upon entering, to your left you’ll see a food court with a vendor, Kono, not Kyedong, selling fried chicken, pork belly and blood sausage, and at the edge is a small platform featuring a lone microphone that apparently can be commandeered by anyone shopping or eating to sing pop songs and ballads. On the right is a tray-and-tongs bakery, Tous Les Jours, that was fairly decimated around 6pm. What most caught my eye when walking in the door was the sign reading no photography (as well as the two teens with Jesus signs strumming guitars and singing on the sidewalk). It only implied what I was feeling, that this was no mere grocery store but an attraction that had already drawn enough snap-happy to the annoy of the management.

So, no photos of the take-out by the pound tables including marinated meats destined for the grill, refrigerated walls of kimchi, pickles and preserves, the pristine fish section with everything clearly marked and ordering instructions. And now I know where to buy a variety of fish heads, a problem I encountered when trying to reproduce Singaporean fish head curry. Most shocking, considering the store is primarily Korean with a few nods the rest of Asia, was seeing fresh galangal. I’ve always relied on a mushy knob I keep in the freezer and slice off as needed for Thai curry pastes.

H Mart is flanked by two restaurants, a tofu house and Picnic Garden, an all-you-can-grill Korean bbq joint that also has a branch in Flushing. The interior is larger than it appears from the outside with three separate seating areas—each table with an individual grill, of course—and a central buffet that houses rice, a few side dishes and a selection of marinated meats to be taken back to your seat.

I was initially confused by the process—it’s not leisurely or solitary. If you come back to your table with a small plate of food intended to feed just yourself, to cook on your own, you would be wrong. As soon as a head-setted staffer sees meat at your table, they come by, toss it on the grill and begin snipping it into bite-sized pieces. They might come back in a few minutes and turn everything over.

I finally got into the groove. You’re supposed to bring back a big plate teaming with meat for the entire table (in my case, just two of us) it all cooks up at once and then you dip in chile paste, wrap with lettuce and eat. Another round means a swapped out grill and you start the process again (I would hate to be the grill-scrubber at the end of the night—on the way to the bathroom I saw an enormous wheeled plastic tub filled with the dirty once-used metal grates).

The selection is more than sufficient but not huge. For non-grillable items there were kimbap, octopus legs, noodles, tempura vegetables, fried chicken, ribs, whole grilled fish, romaine chunks with chile-flecked dressing and a few more things that I’m forgetting. For meats they had shrimp, pork belly, pork ribs, kalbi, bulgogi beef, chicken, sausages—no organ meats or soondae. Dessert is a plate of oranges.

It’s fun, you do get your $27 worth (the dinner price on weekends–$15 during the week sounds like a bargain). I only wish they had beer instead of barley tea. Maybe alcohol would just induce lingering?

Picnic Garden * 1763 Route 27, Edison, NJ

Share on Tumblr

Jan 22

Sage

Whether it’s on Twitter, blogs or even Nightline, I can’t seem to escape mentions of The Cosmopolitan. It’s unsettling. If you’re allergic to hype yet aren’t quite in the market for Robuchon, Sage, Chicago chef Shawn McClain's farm-to-table (not yet done to death in Vegas) restaurant in the Arias, strikes a satisfying balance. It’s stylish and adult with serious food.

As we now know, Las Vegas is the most expensive dining city in the US and indeed, there are entrees at Sage that approach the $50 mark. It’s why the four-course $79 signature menu—which is more of a prix fixe than a tasting—is good value. An additional $40 for wine (or beer) pairings didn’t seem outrageous either as long as you’re not set on prestige bottles.

Tuna tartare with marcona almonds was the one-bite amuse. I was surprised at how accommodating the restaurant was. (Then again, I imagine that non-stuffiness is part of the city's attraction for many.) An older Russian couple who were seated next to us weren’t drinking alcohol, only ordered soup and stated that they did not like seafood, so they were brought a different opening treat (I couldn't see or hear what it was).

Wagyu Beef Tartare
Crushed Caper Aïoli/Slow Poached Egg/Crispy Chocolate

I might eat beef tartare one or two times a year, so it was very strange that I ended up being presented with the dish and ordering it two nights in a row, though technically in two separate years. Obviously, the chocolate was wild card, and the wafers were bitter and a little nutty like cocoa nibs, not sweet.

Maine Dayboat Scallops
Braised Oxtail/Wild Mushrooms/Salted Caramel Reduction

This also sounded like it had the potential to be sweet, but wasn’t. The broccoli rabe helped balance the richness.

48 Hour Beef Belly
Chestnut Puree/Fig Glaze/Celery Hearts

Once again, a sweet-meat combination. The other choice, an Iberico pork loin also had a candied component: smoked dates.

Brioche Bread Pudding
Roasted Pecans/Meyers Rum Sauce/Brown Butter Ice Cream

I’ve stated my preference for gooey, substantial American desserts before, and this is exactly what I got.

Sage * 3730 Las Vegas Blvd., Las Vegas, NV

Share on Tumblr

Jan 17

Lotus of Siam Las Vegas

Manhattan’s Lotus of Siam has been getting a lot of buzz. I liked it well enough, but I won’t be surprising anyone if I said I like the Las Vegas original much more. Even if the food served at is exactly same, it’s difficult to separate flavors from context. Sure, it’s a bit too obtusely Chowhoundish to posit that cheap, out-of-the-way and shabby is inherently better than upscale, accessible and comfortable. In this case, however, it’s just the truth.

For the same reasons I prefer downtown Las Vegas over The Strip, spicy larb and a bottle of Josef Leitz Rudesheimer Magdalenenkreuz from a storefront tucked into a sprawling half-empty strip mall that’s populated by Korean bbqs, a wig shop, a country western gay bar and churches of all denominations, just has more charm than when served on Fifth Avenue.

Onto the northern larb. One byproduct of being in a lengthy relationship is that old married couple roles start emerging even if you’re neither old nor married. This is how a meal might unfold:

“This tastes Chinese.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“I’ve never eaten this before.”

“Um, yes we have. Do you want me to pull up a photo?”

Here we go again. The conflict of not-paying-attention butting up against the know-it-all. I used to think I had been blessed with a good memory, but more and more I realize it’s pretty crappy and selective (friends will bring up things I did or said a decade ago and I will have completely forgotten). Food-wise, though, I always remember what I’ve ordered previously. One of the benefits of maintaining a food blog, even if few read it, is that you have a virtual record of meals past.

The northern larb is often noted as differing from the more common Thai larb in that it doesn’t use lime juice. It’s not tart, and it does indeed have a Chinese undercurrent that’s reminiscent of five spice powder. Maybe it’s soy sauce? The ground pork is definitely stained darker than in typical versions.

Catfish fillets in red curry because the whole fish they had that night, while tastier with fried skin and bones, was too large and pricey for two.

Moo dad daew, a meaty snack that’s described as jerky but much less desiccated and fattier than the American version.

Yum woon sen seafood. Salads tend to be where you really feel the heat and are a good test for a restaurant’s spicing level. At Lotus of Siam you can choose from one to ten. This is an eight, which I thought was perfect. It was fiery but not painful and still let the shrimp, scallops, mussels and squid have a presence.

I’ve been thinking about a second-hand comment (do I even need to mention that it was from Eater?) that took issue with my disappointment over the mildness of the green curry at Lotus of Siam New York, insisting that gaeng keow wan is not supposed to be spicy. I’m aware that not all Thai food is rife with chiles and that not all Thais enjoy crazy heat. My newish Thai coworker has complained that Sripraphai has made her food too hot despite requesting medium heat and our waiter at Lotus of Siam in Vegas said that he eats a level six. But not-fiery isn’t the same as bland, which was exactly what I was served in Greenwich Village. Dullness was never a problem during this meal. And if I return in another two years, I’ll be certain to remember a third encounter with northern larb.

Lotus of Siam * 953 E. Sahara Ave., Las Vegas, NV

Share on Tumblr

Jan 17

Fireside Lounge

As easy as it is to poke fun at the increasingly cliched mixology trend (do you need me to make a waxed mustache or suspenders reference?) Vegas could use a little creativity with their cocktails. Well drinks were $11 in most glitzy casinos (yes, you can drink for free if you gamble long enough, but I don’t), a dollar more might get you a sweet and/or fruity drink in a lounge where you can reserve VIP bottle service tables online very democratically. The one time I attempted to order a specialty Manhattan (at the Aria), the bar ended up being out of the advertised fig-and-vanilla-infused bourbon.

I also played faux-anthropologist and checked out a “hipster bar,” The Griffin, on the edge of downtown, on the same block as the Vegas outpost of Beauty Bar, which was closed on a Sunday night (the same thing occurred the night before at Raku, a much lauded Chinatown izakaya that’s supposed to be open till 3am on weekends but was dark at 1am). The H-word means many things to many people. Here, it meant girls doing “birthday cake” shots (Absolut Citron and Frangelico, which I gathered from the bartender pouring a steady stream of them during my brief vist), men with gray mustaches in leather jackets, others in football jerseys and a few dudes in skinny jeans with bushy hair. One drink was plenty.

The Fireside Lounge (in the rear of the Peppermill restaurant) I knew to be safe haven and it did not disappoint. Chrome, black gloss, neon and flames blasting from a pool of water circled by red, squishy seats, this is the kind of bar I could imagine being the height of cool when I was a kid. I see it and think waterbed. There’s certainly no small batch moonshine or hand-crafted bitters on the‘80s photo menu showcasing tequila sunrises, pina coladas and something new-to-me called a pancho villa.

I hesitantly asked for grasshopper. Wrong era? Our waitress, a young Eastern European in the black high-slit evening gown uniform, seemed incredulous, “Of course we make grasshoppers.” Finally, I could relax. The Fireside Lounge likes using the blender, pre-made mixers…and the drinks are kind of weak, yet I highly recommend the experience for the fireplace alone, especially if you happen to be around when rare snow flurries begin blanketing Las Vegas.

Fireside Lounge * 2985 Las Vegas Blvd., Las Vegas, NV

Share on Tumblr

Posts from the ‘United States’ Category

Cocktail Hour in Portland

Canned Cheese, Pedo-Chinese & Inoffensive Japanese

Eastern Shore…and More

Denny’s: Crimes Against Nature

Texas Roadhouse

Pacific Northwest Eclipses National Average in Insufferability Demand for ‘Local’ Foods

Picnic Garden

Sage

Lotus of Siam Las Vegas

Fireside Lounge

Featured

Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

My Other Blogs

What?

The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101