Posts from the ‘Americas’ Category

Jan 9

Coca

Toronto was brief but fun so I don’t want to sound like I’m whining. I just had no idea that Sunday was such a literal day of rest. For anyone who knows the city, I also looked into Jamie Kennedy Wine Bar, Foxley Bistro and Torito, none were open. And we weren’t ready to go out until after 9pm, which was even trickier. I have a phobia of dining when a restaurant is close to closing time and even more so when I’m the last customer in a room.

Coca appealed to me since I was interested in how Canadians were interpreting Spanish tapas (strange that I have to use Spanish as an adjective but anymore tapas means anything served in small amounts) plus they were supposed to be open until midnight, which turned out to be 11pm. That would still be fine, but it was a little off-putting that we were reminded when arriving at 9:30pm that if we wanted food we needed to order promptly before the kitchen closed. Exactly the kind of thing I hate even though the staff was completely attitude-free. It doesn’t take much to make me jumpy.

I would’ve ordered more food if father time hadn’t been hovering over me. We barely had a chance to scrutinize the menu and chalkboards. Horse bresaola certainly isn’t something you’d find on the charcuterie list at Daniel Boulud’s new much blogged about wine bar. I still can’t figure out how Canadians are pretty much same as Americans except they get wound up over hockey and have no squeamishness about devouring equines.

Also on the never-in-New York tangent, I noticed Czehoski, Coca’s sister restaurant across the street (which was still full when we left, perhaps we should’ve chosen differently) had calve's brain po’boys on the menu. I'm not even sure if the FDA allows us to eat brains in the U.S.

We quickly decided on three items and a couple glasses of big, fruity Bodegas Y Vinedos de Murcia, Caracol Serrano, Jumilla. I didn' t know how to order in metric; wines are served in 60, 120 and 180 ml portions. While I normally find James's Blackberry usage irksome, it was useful to convert milliliters to ounces on the fly.

Elk, lamb and beef sobrasada and machego on toast. See? I wasn’t kidding yesterday about caribou being Canadian food. The oily sausage and melted cheese were very rich; you probably wouldn’t want to eat more than two of these treats.

Hokkaido scallops and chorizo with roasted squash consommé were the opposite. I couldn’t detect the squash and wanted double the portion. And with forks only and no bread, a lot of the liquid went to waste.

I’m still steamed about never getting to try a sugared red pepper coca in Barcelona, despite two attempts. No glazy peppers here but caramelized onions sufficed. Interspersed with gorgonzola and sliced apples, the threesome was perfect on the thin crust. You would hope a restaurant’s namesake dish would be a hit and this was.

Coca * 783 Queen St. W., Toronto, Canada

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Jan 8

beerbistro

Deciding last minute to head to Toronto for New Year’s Eve didn’t leave me with many dining options the night of the big event. Anything creative or talked about was already booked. Enough desperation set in that I was even willing to overpay as is practically mandated by holiday set menus.

Toronto’s big citiest aspect was restaurant pricing, which seemed more European in its painfully large numbers and with no favorable exchange rate to buffer the effect. I’ve heard people say that food is cheap in America, hence our horrible fatness but I do think our higher end restaurants provide relative value. Entrees that might be in the $30 range in NYC, swell into the $40s in Toronto. I just couldn’t buy into that.

I scoured Open Table for the least offensive option and came up with beerbistro, which sold me primarily on its location one block from our hotel. I’m no oenophile, but I did wonder if there was something inherently fratty about a menu paired with beer. On the other hand, I'm not a beer afficionado either so I won't even attempt speaking to the food and beverage matches.

Well, at least it was something different, and the food was better and crowd hipper (well, minus the suave Ralph Lauren-ish guy who kept eyeballing me causing me wonder why the interest until I saw his date, a pretty blonde who happened to be rather big and tall, plus-size modelish. Great, I vow to lay off the pork belly in 2008) than I’d anticipated.

Duxelles in puff pasty and smoked salmon on blini and oyster were kind of like wedding appetizers from a non-bad caterer. Paired with DeKoninck.

Wild mushroom soup with X.O and black truffle cream. I never order soup anywhere. I would’ve chosen the foie gras and pate option but I’d already indulged in cretons that afternoon. Initially, I was swayed by the truffly odor wafting from the bowl at our neighbor’s table. Paired with Innis & Gunn Limited Edition ’06.

Berkshire bacon wrapped partridge stuffed with B.C. chanterelles, braised pork belly, savoy cabbage polenta and nut brown jus. The mains were all fairly hearty. I was tempted by the beef tenderloin that James ultimately ordered because the mashed potatoes contained cambozola, one of my soft blue cheese obsessions, but bacon won out.

The partridge was just the type of thing I enjoy, rich on top of richness. Austere food has its place but not on a holiday. I could’ve sworn the polenta contained cheese, though. Paired with Christoffel Blond.

Desserts were desserts. Raspberry sorbet and chocolate cake were as might be expected. The crème brûlée appeared to be spiked with alcohol of some sort, not beer, thank goodness. The sweet trio got ignored by many since midnight was creeping up and everyone was getting their confetti shooters ready. Paired with Rochefort.

The biggest question I'm left with is how to categorize cuisine in Toronto. Bistro implies French, but this wasn't heavily so. In the U.S. most food that isn't distinctly any nationality can roughly be classified as American. But Canadian? I can’t help but think of caribou, nuts and berries. What is Canadian food, anyway?

beerbistro * 18 King St., Toronto, Canada

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Jan 4

Carousel Bakery

It wasn’t until Monday while I was at the St. Lawrence Market in Toronto that it occurred to me that NYC lacks a fancy indoor market like many cities have. And then the Times wrote about this very thing yesterday.

I’ll admit I skimmed, but two words leaped off the screen: tripe truck! Really? Supposedly, a restaurant consultant is envisioning a South Street Seaport market showcasing talents of chefs, in this instance a Batali-run tripe truck. I think it would be cool to have an international tripe truck serving regional styles. I could have menudo, cold Sichuan with chile oil, lampredotto. I mean, S’MAC and Rice to Riches have worked the single minded shtick. Why not let stomach lining have its day?

I’m one of those soulless types who are ambivalent about farmers’ markets. Obviously, I’m not against locally grown meat and produce, that would be stupid, but I don’t get that excited over it either excited and I never have the energy to actually pay visits to greenmarkets, wonderful as they sound. Maybe it’s because I hate the outdoors and everything in the city ends up inducing crankiness because too many people want to do the same thing and many of those people have abhorrent personalities.

The funny thing was that shoppers were complaining about the awful crowds at the St. Lawrence Market and I’d read as much on the internet beforehand. I was expecting a mob scene and at most there were a few counters with three people in a line. That was it.

Toronto was baffling that way. I’ve been before but can barely remember a thing about it (thank you online diary. Wow, I've really managed to tame my long-windedness since 2000). Despite being the most populous city in Canada, it felt more like a Portland; things close early, aren’t even open on Sunday and the streets are a ghost town after 9pm. And strangers stare at you, like they don’t know they’re supposed to mind their own business and avoid eye contact. Freaks. And they follow rules like waiting for lights to change and get flustered when entering the exit.

We trailed a woman into a liquor store, who half-way through the exit door realized she had done wrong and made a big fuss about getting back around us and going in the proper entrance half a foot to our right. We just continued on in through the exit and predictably miffed her.

I also realized that on street corners and waiting in lines I stand too close to others, making them nervous. It’s a New Yorkism that’s always unsettled me, the worst being the person in line behind you getting sideways and putting their things on the counter before you’ve even been rung up. I only realize that I’m physically aggressive and have no sense of personal space when out of town, though obviously not in China where elderly will mow you down.

So, the market was completely manageable and I picked up two Quebec raw milk cheeses: Riopelle de l'Isle, a super buttery triple cream and Geai Bleu, an almost cheddar-like, semi-firm blue, mild but not squishy like the soft blue cheeses I’m obsessed with.

Bizarrely, I stumbled upon a version of the cheese that started my teenage-born fixation, Bresse Bleu, at a Dominion grocery store across the street. No special cheese, just a superstore offering, but not one I’ve seen in the U.S. I got way more excited by this than the artisanal wedges I’d picked up earlier. Like I said before, I don’t even need farmer’s markets to be happy.

But the winner was a simple peameal sandwich, a regional delicacy I’m ashamed to admit I’d never heard of until a month ago. Peameal sounds kind of unappetizing; fortunately, it’s really just Canadian a.k.a. back bacon on a roll. But it’s so much more, of course.

First off, the bread is perfectly suited to the task, which kind of makes sense since the vendor is a bakery. The crust is just hard enough on the teeth but not resistant and the inner texture is soft but not Wonder Bread pliable. It’s horrible when a bun dominates a sandwich and this is a fine balance of starch and meat with enough strength to avoid sogginess.

The bacon, called peameal for the traditional coating on the slab of cured meat, is more like ham, a little bit fatty and sweet, only barely salty with cooked crispy edges. You get a healthy number of bacon layers.

Condiments are available for do-it-yourself doctoring. Mustard seemed popular so I went with that and chose a maple syrup infused spread from Kozliks, who has a stall just across the cavernous room.

I hate it when foodies oversell simplicity but this two-ingredient snack is definitely worthy of attention.

Carousel Bakery * 93 Front Street E., Toronto, Canada

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Jun 29

Coox Hanal

It doesn’t make any sense that this would be the last Mexico City restaurant I write about because it was one of our favorite, though incomprehensive, meals we had on vacation. Sometimes there’s not a lot to say about the satisfying so I’ve kept mum.

I have no idea how to pronounce Coox Hanal (“let’s eat”) as it’s not Spanish but Mayan. I don’t imagine the first word is like kooks. And accordingly, the food hails from the Yucatan. We only tried two snacky dishes, which was unfortunate, because this style of cooking is unique. NYC is very Pueblan so there are many regional styles I rarely get to explore. I’d also intended to visit a Oaxacan restaurant, La Bella Lula in Coyoacán, but time didn’t allow.

James had panuchos, bean-filled corn tortillas that gets topped with a variety of shredded meat. These ones used cochinita pibil pork, my recent obsession. My salbutes were similar but lacked the beany center and came with turkey, lettuce, cucumbers and tomato. Both are akin to what American would call tostadas, but the tortillas aren’t crisp like chips; they’re fried and pliable. Fierce habanero salsas and red pickled onions are classic accompaniments.

We very lightly scratched the surface. I want to know more about relleno negro, an ominously black stew made dark from a burnt chiles paste. Turkey frequently gets added and I think the relleno is a dumpling-like wad crafted from corn. I’m also curious about sopa de lima, a sour chicken soup using a fruit that’s not really a lime or a lemon, full on cochinita pibil and what everyone in the restaurant was eating that left a cleaned dinosaur-sized bone on the plate. I’m suspecting it was pavo (turkey) based since that seems to be a popular protein.

We considered going back a second time but we were so traumatized by our Centro Turibus experience that I’d sworn off the overrun barrio. Wishing we had a Coox Hanal walking distance to our Condesa hotel was reminiscent of our longing for real Thai food in South Brooklyn. Sometimes foot travel doesn't cut it.

Coox Hanal * Isabel la Catolica 83, 2nd Fl., Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 29

Águila y Sol

Águila y Sol, by some accounts, is currently the best restaurant in Mexico City. I can see why that’s been said but since my repertoire only encompasses a fraction of the metropolis’s offerings I can’t personally concur. Like Pujol, this modern eatery plays with classic Mexican flavors and ingredients but is more grounded in tradition. Even the cavernous room felt a bit more staid, like an upscale hotel. The restaurant just moved to this location in the last few months so I wonder how it compares to the original spot.

You enter on the ground floor and take an elevator upstairs where your arrival is announced from podium to podium by staff donning earpieces. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, that just didn’t seem very NYC. I have no idea if hosts and hostesses in L.A. walk around with wireless communication devices attached to their ears but I like to imagine that they do.

To lean on a recent discussion, Águila y Sol is more “mama” where Pujol is more “show-off.” And yes, chef Martha Ortiz Chapa is a woman. Also in light of the recent McNally/Bruni ladies manning kitchens flare up, it’s worth noting that many top restaurants in D.F. are female run. Mark Bittman wrote about another two just last month.

When the female half of the the youngish American couple seated next to us asked her boyfriend/husband how he’d heard about Águila y Sol he mentioned The New York Times. James was more irritated by this twosome than I was (usually I’m the one irked by little nothings) and swore he heard the words “Carroll Gardens” come from their mouths. If true, there is something grotesque about foodie Brooklynites (reluctantly lumping myself into that demo) clogging up the same restaurants miles from home. But at least I don’t gaze into my partner’s eyes all meal long while saying “I love you.” Thankfully, inoffensive, unromantic Canadians were seated on our other side.

Locals don’t show up until after 9pm. Part way through our evening, the chain-smoking twentysomethings started piling in. Tall skinny blonde Mexican girls with preppie Anglo-looking boyfriends who were probably Mexican too. They mostly drink and eat salads. I think this genre is called fresas, akin to American yuppies (a dated word I never use but whatever. Isn’t NYC completely teeming with wealthy under-30s? It must be a Gen Y fancying themselves as soulful and creative thing because I don’t sense the same disdain for these types that existed in the ‘80s). The staff was all shorter and browner (in the U.S. they just keep these guys in the back) and this seemed to be the case anywhere with $20+ entrees. I don’t want to be a class crusader, especially on vacation; it was particularly noticeable that’s all.

I was scared about taking photos after reading this missive from a stranger, but there wasn’t any trauma. I’m a super quick snapper (and it shows). Attempting to capture a dish with minimal blur is my only aim. Compensating for color distorting candlelight is beyond my grasp.

But the food; it’s quite good. Neither James nor I could decide if we preferred Águila y Sol or Pujol. The style is enticing in the sense that it’s food food. No tasting menus, crazy plating or avant-garde techniques. More like updated classics that would score higher on a Top Chef challenge.

I will say that we chose a wretched wine and I’m snob-free on the subject. Luckily, my cocktail made of jamaica (hibiscus—like Red Zinger Celestial Seasonings tea) and dusted with chile power was dazzling. I really wanted to try something Mexican and I suppose that’s what sommeliers are for. I kind of randomly picked a red on the lower end of the mid-range, just taking a chance. I want to say that the region was Jala but I’m finding no evidence of that on the internet and since the restaurant has no website I’m without a crutch. A full month has nearly passed since this dinner so details are cloudy.

We both ordered ceviches for starters. James had one of the specials and I didn’t want to copy so I chose another version from the regular menu. His was spicier and more exciting. Mine was fresh with clean flavors enhanced by cubes of cucumber and plantain chips. I don’t know what the black seeds sprinkled over top were. Where’s Mexican Menupages when I need it?

This was the man’s meal (except I ordered it). As I eventually learned arranchera is charcoal grilled meat and is wildly popular in Mexico City. There’s even a chain called Arranchera that serves sandwiches on hefty wooden boards. This was a Lincoln Log approach to steak that my intentionally bald, bespectacled, beige-suited dining neighbor (and possible real life neighbor) also ordered and said looked like the woody toys.

On the far left is a salsa that was unbelievably hot; I really hadn’t anticipated such fire from an upscale restaurant so after my first blob my mouth was a little shocked. It seems like chefs here tend to tone down strong flavors in proportion to the price. There’s also a pile of pickled onions, jalapeños and shredded dried chiles that I want to say are guajillo. I’m always swayed by sides and one of the main reasons I ordered this dish was because I wanted to know what frijoles chino (Chinese refried beans) were. They’re hidden in the little tortilla cup and covered with wild streams of fried potato. They just tasted like refried beans. I thought maybe they were going to mash black beans or edamame (yes, Japonés not Chino but you never know). I’m not complaining.

Handmade tortillas in a variety of styles.

There’s a fish in there under the cephalopod-esqe dried chile. I did not taste this.

Ok, I nearly lost my mind when our meal ended with a freaking molten cake. As you may or may not know, these gooey clichés are the bane of my culinary existence. I truly wish I had a menu to jog my memory but I swear even with my mediocre Spanish comprehension, there was no mention warmth or baked or hot, any clues. The words chocolate, caramel and hibiscus caught my attention. I knew it was going to be a cake; perhaps I should’ve just assumed the worst. For the record, it tasted wonderful and chocolaty but I wanted something more inventive.

These were our post-dessert treats. James thought the waiter said the wrapped goodies were ensconced in rice paper. After no tasty dissolving on the tongue, we discovered it was merely tissue paper. All I can remember is that the brown nubs in the back were crazy salty and sour and might’ve been tamarind paste coated in salt. I’m not sure if that qualifies as a nice parting gift or not.

Águila y Sol * 127 Emilio Castelar, Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 25

Sanborns & Bisquets

I cannot rest until I post all eating venues from Mexico City, no matter how banal. (Not true—I won’t go into Geisha, the pan-Asian restaurant that coats all sushi in cream cheese. I later learned that’s a common Mexican addition. Or the nondescript café where I discovered molletes, a pizza bread smeared with refried beans and topped with melted cheese and frequently chorizo. Apparently, this is a typical breakfast dish because I saw it on a lot of menus.)

I merge Sanborns and Los Bisquets Obregon together because they’re both chains in a Denny’s vein. That’s sort of a strange reference considering I haven’t been to one in probably a decade (I take that back—I did eat at one in Reading, PA around 2001) if only because they don’t exist here.

Sanborns’s food is no great shakes but they’re ubiquitous like Duane Reade and reliable for a bathroom, atm and genuinely crisp air conditioning. (Like Spain, Mexicans aren’t as into being artificially cooled as Americans. That’s one thing you could count on in all the modern Asian cities I’ve visited: surprisingly solid air conditioning. Sanborns_tacos I enjoy the swampy to sweat-stopping contrast as opposed to experiencing varying degrees of warmth.) And their original location in the Casa de los Azulejos (house of tiles) is full of 16th century charm. The same couldn’t be said of Denny’s.

We were too late for breakfast so I had to settle for pibil tacos, which were on the oily side but not hideous. I always anticipated the bread basket and pickle dish because you never knew what might turn up in either. Here, you received an overwhelming amount of crackers, rolls and tortilla chips.

I was thinking Bisquets in Roma was closer to our hotel than it was. I just wanted to try the café con leche even though I’m normally a black coffee drinker. They prepare the coffee tableside using one pitcher of coffee and one with milk, which gets poured from high in the air almost like Malaysian teh tarik, though not quite as dramatically.

I liked how they come around with a baked goodie basket while you’re perusing the menu (they’re not freebies but it’s a nice touch). Bisquets also had baby potatoes in their spicy pickled mixture. I’d seen cauliflower at cantina in Coyoacan but potatoes were strange and new. I then picked a crazy breakfast jumble of eggs, tomato sauce, peas, American cheese, plantains and tortillas, which was no fault but my own. It seemed more Caribbean than what I’d eaten in D.F., more like crazy mishmashes I’ve eaten in Colombian restaurants. Of course, I ended up nearly cleaning my plate, crazy breakfast or not.

Sanborns * Madero 4, Mexico City, Mexico

Los Bisquets Obregon * Av. Alvaro Obregón No. 60, Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 22

Nevería Roxy

Nevería Roxy is totally the Eddie’s Sweet Shop of D.F., which might mean more to you if you’ve been to the frozen-in-time Queens ice cream parlor. Condesa is no Forest Hills, though (but hey, that Trader Joe's shaping up nicely).

If I’m correct helados are ice creams and nieves are sorbets. The reader board menu behind Roxy’s counter seems to roughly devote a column to each style, though it’s not broken down as such with headings. (Damn, I shrunk the photo down so much that I can’t read the flavors anymore.) I had a scoop of turrón in a cone on my first visit. It was likeable but I decided that I shouldn’t have ordered creamy and candy-like when fresh and exotic fruit was so readily available.

On our second round a few days later, I tried a cone-less scoop of tamarind and zapote. The latter randomly chosen because I really wasn’t sure what it was but suspected it might be a freaky fruit with black innards. I chose correctly. The tamarind was sour and refreshing as expected; the zapote was hard to pin down flavor-wise. I immediately liked it more, it was sweeter, richer and vaguely prune-like. More like a dried fruit than a juicy one.

If I’d gone a third time I would’ve found out what a harlequin was, listed under Preparados.

Nevería Roxy * 89 Fernando Montes de Oca, Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 22

Flor de Lis

I’m not tamale crazy in the least but it seemed remiss to pass up Flor de Lis since it was so close to our hotel and gets talked up all over the place. And I almost went tamale-less because dining during the late end of lunch a.k.a. la comida meant many of the varieties were gone. My original order of chile verde pork in corn husks became a chicken filling in banana leaves. I’m fine with either, really.

Some of the reasons I’m not crazy about tamales is because even when they’re light like these were, they’re still kind of dense and I worry about the insides to outsides ratio. Even though our next meal was a good five hours away, the meat and masa stuck right with me.

I’m still not sure when the proper time for tamales is because you’d see people on street corners hawking them from giant metal steamers in the morning as well as the wee hours. I never did eat a street tamale aside from the one stuffed into a roll and that appears to be an anomaly.

Street food has never scared me but today I received an email from a stranger who in addition to giving me Mexico City food tips said that there’s two tons of dried feces in the air so watch out for uncovered food. I snorted out loud at work when I read those words. I’m not sure of the veracity of that boldly disturbing statement, and since I basically find and fact check statistics and all day long at my job I can’t help but wonder about that number. This will have to be looked into further because I would hate to eat a poop tamale, wrapped in banana leaves or corn husks.

Flor de Lis * Huichapan 21, Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 18

Pujol

Pujol is the type of establishment that many might describe as being “like a New York restaurant.” The same has been said of Cinc Sentits in Barcelona, which also gave me pause while trip planning. Who wants to eat at a New York-esque restaurant when you’re trying to escape the city? I would just say modern. You know, kind of starkly decorated with deconstructed dishes, custom serving vessels and tasting menus.

Originally, I wondered if I really needed to eat foam while on vacation in Mexico City. But it turned out that I did. Enrique Olvera, Pujol’s C.I.A-trained chef, is clearly of the molecular gastronomy school (I really need to come up with a more apt short hand for this style since it’s not as scientific or clinical as that moniker implies), a frenzy that hasn’t fully seized Mexico yet.

Targeting the likeliest clientele, Pujol is located in Polanco, the neighborhood often referred to as the Beverly Hills of D.F, which only furthered my impression of the capitol as more of an L.A. than an NYC. The diners certainly reflected this. Though the cream on ivory room was fairly quiet when we arrived at 8:30pm–a group wine tasting was being conducted in the back–it soon filled up with parties that all seemed to know each other. 9pm seems to be prime time for cena.

It almost felt like we’d crashed a private party. I noticed this at both higher end restaurants, large, obviously wealthy groups dining together. Pujol attracted the 40-plus types where Aguila y Sol enticed younger crews, which seemed mis-matched because the latter felt like a stuffier restaurant in some ways. I don’t get that so much in NYC or else I just don’t frequent those types of restaurants. It was nearly a highbrow meatpacking scene but with foodie food.

This shot was intended to show the room, not me looking grim. The silver stand on my right is a portable purse-rack.

We opted for the seven-course tasting menu without wine pairings. Strangely, a dining time is listed on the menu. The one I was given on request to take home was not a match of our dinner and reads, “7 tiempos (90 minutos)” though I swear ours said "60 minutos" and didn’t have the four wines listed for pairing. The dinner lasted more than an hour. I wish I could remember the wine. All I can say is that it was Mexican, similar to a cabernet sauvignon and was miles better than the one we had the night before. The degustacion was 495 pesos (395 per person extra for wine parings), which I thought great value for the caliber. That’s about $45. I’m not sure where else you’ll find an equivalent for such a price in NYC.

The menu is entirely in Spanish (so the English descriptions below might be a bit wonky) and the staff was accordingly monolingual. One of our servers would helpfully try to translate, though his accent was as heavy as I’m sure my Spanish one is. We got by, though it’s certain that nuances were completely lost on us. You have to be familiar with the original to understand the riff and I suspect that many dishes were plays on traditional flavor combinations.

The thing about these restaurants is that they’re not conducive to furtive food photography. It seems that the more a meal costs, the subtler the lighting gets. Nice for atmosphere but not so nice for flash-free shots. The colors were so much more vibrant in person. I’ll openly admit that these pictures do little justice to the subjects.

This was a big amuse (though you can’t tell from the photo) and it immediately came to mind when I saw Clay’s awkward apple construction on the premiere of Top Chef 3. I don’t know what this was, though the green gelatinous component seemed like nopales and there were a lot of crumbs. Olvera seemed enamored with crumbs and they appeared a few more times throughout the meal. I really didn’t want to eat the whole thing because it was awfully filling right off the bat.

Ensalada de nopal tierno curado en sal, guarnición tradicional, masa tostada, nieve de orégano-limón/Salad of salt-cured cactus paddles, traditional trimmings, toasted masa, oregano-lime sorbet

This was really good. I’m always wowed when I see a bunch of vegetables and they end up tasting like so much more. This was tangy, creamy, crunchy, warm and cold. I’m not sure what is meant by traditional trimming (garnish), perhaps the cheese crumbles. The little cactus tuile sticking up doesn’t seem very traditional.

Jaiba de concha suave, emulsión de chilpachole, gelatina de epazote, chips de ajo/Soft-shell crab tempura, chilpachole emulsion, epazote gelatin, garlic chips

Initially, I had no idea what was presented but guessed it was seafood tempura. After closer inspection, I noticed the soft-shell crab shell on top of the fritter beneath the garlic crisps and epazote leaf. Soft-shell crab worked well with the chile sauce and bouncy, herby cubes. Ok, I just learned something. Like I was saying, this fanciful cuisine might mean more if you know the original. Chilpachole is a Veracruz-style crab stew, so the crimson swipe wasn’t merely a chile sauce but an approximation of this regional dish in sauce form.

Capuchino de flor de calabaza, espuma de leche de coco, nuez moscada/Squash blossom”cappuccino,” coconut milk foam, nutmeg

It took a while to figure out that “noo meh” meant nutmeg and was akin my favorite baffling ingredient description in Thailand, “ding gah” that we didn’t figure out was ginger for quite some time. Rick Bayless sipped this creation on one of his episodes so it kind of made me laugh when the streamlined glass mug appeared. Because, you know, Rick Bayless is kind of a cornball. Earnest and knowledgeable, but a cornball.

Filete de mero envuelto en hoja santa, huitlacoche rostizado, veloute de jitomate y masa, cracker de comino/Sea bass fillet wrapped in hoja santa, roasted huitlacoche, tomato and masa veloute, cumin cracker

The entrees were both full on nueva cocina mexicana. Cumin, huitlacoche, hoja santa, masa—uber Mexican ingredients. The flavors melded in a dirty, earthy licorice way. Foam was definitely present, though it doesn’t appear in the description.

Top Sirloin, mantequilla de limón verde, aire de tortilla, puré de aguacate-chile serrano, sal de Nayarit/Steak, key lime butter, tortilla air, avocado-serrano puree, Nayarit sea salt

This was awesome and I’m not joking. Despite the insane tortilla “air,” this dish was one of the simplest. It’s basically rare steak with guacamole, lime butter, sea salt and a hint of tortilla, like a fancy carne asada taco. I’m still not sure how the essence of a tortilla was so perfectly captured in such an ephemeral medium.

The not-my-type but handsome and stylishly besuited dad dining with his teenage son at the table nearest us (we had a very private table with no other next to it, a rare luxury in NYC) had the full-sized entrée and I couldn’t help but ogle it. He didn’t eat all of his butter either. They got little candies at the end of their meal that we did not (they didn’t finish those either). The staff seemed to know him, though.

Plato de quesos artesanales de Ensenada, Atotonilco y Atlixco/Plate of artisanal cheeses from Ensenada, Atotonilco and Atlixco

I don’t know what these cheeses are, and I was sad that I was so full at this point. I could barely enjoy them. The middle one with an apricot-like jam was my favorite. The one on the right was creamy and very pungent and came with sliced prunes. The left one was similar to gruyere and had a berry blob.

Pie cremoso de limón verde, merengue, helado de yogurt/Key lime cream pie, meringue, yogurt ice cream

Yep, it’s a deconstructed key lime pie with more of those crumbs. No complaints, and thankfully no molten cake ending.

Pujol * Francisco Petrarca 254, Mexico City, Mexico

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Jun 14

Open & Shut Case

I wasn’t sure what a tinaguis meant literally (and was bothered by the McGriddles-style singular S) but they seem to be markets that set up in neighborhoods different days of the week. Condesa, where I was staying, had one on Tuesday off of Avenida Veracruz and another on Friday around Calle Campeche. I ventured out early (for me) Tuesday morning to see what I’d find.

I never ever frequent farmers’ markets in NYC (though I would if there was one less than five blocks away like this tinaguis) and it’s not like I could’ve done much with raw meat or even fresh fruit and produce since no refrigerator or stove were at my disposal. I was more interested in surveying the cooked food scene, anyway.

I didn’t even attempt capturing vendors and their wares on camera because it’s not my thing. When I was in Kuala Lumpur a few summers ago I met up with some photographically blessed bloggers (EatingAsia, Masak-Masak and others) and tagged along to a few wet markets. A lot goes into those seemingly effortless shots: time, set-up, tenacity. I’m a hands-off peripheral person, which is why I’ve never have spot-on photos and rarely include humans.

Speaking of Latin America vs. Asia, I was almost hoping that I’d get the same feeling for Mexican food and culture that I do for Malay-Singaporean stuff because there’s already such a glut of S.E. Asian boosterism, home and abroad. For no particularly valid reason, I feel like I should have some natural affinity or sense of ownership for a cuisine, and why not Mexican? Yes, it’s strange to want to be possessive of a style of food.

Regional Mexican food is insanely diverse and nuanced compared to many other Latin American countries that rely heavily on the rice+beans+meat combo. It’s a big country. I like what I know but it feels like a just good friends thing where laksa, noodles and curries are full on crushes. I’m no advocate of arranged marriages or learning to love so I’ll have to face the facts. White male hipsters and dorks all over the country are allowed to cozy up to Asian gals, so why not me with food? My… I’m getting off track.

I was surprised to see lychees and such a preponderance of melon, my most hated food (not fruit, food). I managed to avoid most of the guys handing out samples until one literally stuck a small wedge in my hand. I panicked, then wondered if maybe I was missing out on an amazing flavor experience like people who say, “I never liked green beans until I ate freshly plucked from the earth haricot vert in Brittany” or something. I nibbled a piece and yes, it tasted like melon, then I wondered if I was going to suffer fruit-induced bodily harm later in the day.

We stuck with the non-raw stuff and randomly picked a quesadilla stand from the many on hand. I do regret never getting to try a tlacoyo. For both antojitos, some were made with blue corn tortillas, others white. Initially, I wasn’t positive that the narrow oblongs on grills were quesadillas because they were so skinny. I stayed simple and had a chicken and cheese one that I dabbed with lots of deep dark chipotle salsa. I’ve always liked horchata but now get why it’s so good. There’s nothing more refreshing with hot food and weather. It’s like ultra water and serves a need like coconut water.

It was when I spied the woman with a giant metal tamale steamer and plastic cooler on the corner in front of the OXXO that I got excited. From a distance she appeared to be stuffing something in a bolillo (roll). Was this a new sandwich species? In my stilted Spanish I asked, “¿es un tamale en pan?” paired with a smiling yet confused expression. A younger woman who might’ve been a family members confirmed with a “si,” and they both laughed like they also thought it was funny.

Fun is good, especially when it comes to sandwiches. I used to think Hawaiian was a wacky torta style but in Mexico City it appeared by be as commonplace as VW bugs on the street. Much weirder were tortas Rusa and Kentuky that I saw listed on a few signs.

shut tamale sandwich

open tamale sandwich

The tamale lady then rattled off a list of tamale choices; dulce and mole are the only ones I recall now. I chose mole because a sweet tamale in a roll just didn’t seem right, though I know they eat ice cream sandwiched between bread/brioche in Singapore (I still can't get over the awesomeness of these insane colors–I'm a sucker for any edible that's unnaturally hued) and Italy. Savory starch encased in starch immediately brought chip butties to mind, but really mealy bready snack is more akin to a vada pav or panelle sandwich.

All three of those brown on brown treats are greater than the sum of their parts, so too the tamale sandwich. It’s not until you really get a few inches into the creation that all of the components make themselves known. You do spend a bit of time just chomping on corn and wheat products before getting to the meaty, moist heart of the beast. I didn’t see anyone adding condiments, thought that would’ve seemed logical. Such a multi-facted monster does exist and it’s called a mother-in-law sandwich.

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Posts from the ‘Americas’ Category

Coca

beerbistro

Carousel Bakery

Coox Hanal

Águila y Sol

Sanborns & Bisquets

Nevería Roxy

Flor de Lis

Pujol

Open & Shut Case

Featured

Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

My Other Blogs

What?

The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101