Sep 4
Hong Kong has no corner on re-imagining Starbucks in Asia. Japan has a number of concept shops, and they seem to have a penchant for using historic homes in subtle ways.
Supposedly, there was a Starbucks at the Great Wall but I didn’t see it on my visit. I did patronize an illy café there, though.
What happens something I love: chains (duh) teams up with something that makes me want to cry: faux speakeasies? Inner turmoil.
Su Casa, the semi-secret bar above the kind of new West Village Qdoba, is serving appropriately freakish cocktails and a benign roster of burritos and such. Orange Kool-Aid and Patron? It’s a shame that I’ll be out of town on their official open date of September 10 because I could really go for a Satan’s Horse (raspberry liqueur, tequila, minced ginger and Red Bull).
The new Restaurants & Institutions' "2009 Consumers' Choice in Chains" report has been released. Yes, stop the presses.
The favorites by age is kind of interesting, though. Gen Y and Boomers are crazy for P.F. Chang’s for a variety of reasons—cleanliness, service, reputation, atmosphere—while the pan-Asian chain doesn’t even score with Gen X, my people (let’s just say I fall somewhere in the rambling 27-41 range). We are the frumpkins, apparently who can’t get enough pizza and pasta: Carrabba’s, California Pizza Kitchen and Macaroni Grill, all highly rated. I tend to think it’s because the Gen X’ers have the most kid-friendly needs.
Clearly, P.F.Chang’s is onto this, as they along with the Cheesecake Factory, introduced children’s menus this very summer. When I hear Baby Buddha's Feast all I can envision are bald kids with little potbellies.
On the other end of the spectrum, The Olds love Culver’s, which is new to me, and Golden Corral, which I’ve just started seeing commercials for but suspect doesn’t exist in these parts. This is all I need to know about Culver's: "Step into a Culver’s and you’ll experience fresh, delicious food served with a great big side of friendly smiles and warm hospitality. That’s what it means to be Culverized."
P.F. Chang’s has eluded me for some time. I vow to give them another try despite the disconcerting scene I faced on my one and only attempt at Saturday night dining in Hackensack (the Northwesterner in my can't hear that without thinking hacky sack). The restaurant is on a strip with upscale chains like Rosa Mexicana, valet parking was present, as were lots of bronzed ladies with long hair and exposed leg. We were quoted an hour and a half wait (I didn’t realize you could reserve) and I almost stuck it out to absorb the spectacle of the black hipster bartender with a Sanjaya poofed mohawk. That’s how they roll in these flashy Bergen County ‘burbs.
Sep 2
Food memories? Everyone seems to recall being mesmerized by a grandmother lovingly preparing meals; forming the perfect gnocchi, composing a sublime kugel, rolling the flakiest biscuits. It helps if they were immigrants or Southern. With the exception of one mock apple pie, I can’t remember a single thing my grandma ever cooked (though it’s impossible to forget slogging through a sad bowl of puffed wheat poured from a plastic pillowcase-sized 99-cent store bag when we spent the night) and I have no idea where her ancestors hailed from.
In our household, enchiladas and lasagna were reserved for company. I guess that made them special, but there wasn’t much kitchen wisdom to be gleaned. We ate a lot of fried eggs and bacon for dinner. There was a spell in 1982 where we ate taco salad with Catalina dressing on a weekly basis. My entire senior year in high school we nearly subsisted on Taco Bell takeout, later supplemented by my summer job at Pizza Hut. My mom had long given up the charade of cooking.
What we didn’t do was go out to eat very often. Fast food was a rarity and a sit down restaurant practically unheard of. Maybe Salty’s or Sizzler for Easter, Rheinlander for Christmas and graduations, Denny’s when you were too young to get into bars but wanted to sit someplace and smoke in the evening, and Heidi’s to discuss bad grades over marginally German desserts (never in academics, but grade school benchmarks like makes good use of time and gets along with others—two subjects I still haven’t mastered).
I do remember the colorful plastic markers indicating the doneness of your non-aged, un-prime conventionally raised steak and cast iron pots of sharp alcohol-spiked fondue, every last nub of rye bread skewered and ready to wipe out any last remaining streaks of cheese, black forest cakes, piled high with whipped cream and filled with canned syrupy cherries. This was fun, certainly more so than home cooking, even if the food wasn’t even exemplary. That kind of wasn’t the point.
This was also before the rise of the chains we know today. Applebee’s, Olive Garden and all the heavy hitters didn’t seep into my consciousness until I was an adult. Shiny, caloric, excessive, they held a lot of foreign appeal; particularly in brown rice burritos and tofu scramble laden Portland, Oregon. Radically suburban, blowing away even my own suburban upbringing with a grotesque luxury I wish I had known sooner.
In 21st century NYC there’s little need to fall back on the safe and predictable. We have food diversity in spades, in all price ranges. Mediocrity feels more egregious when unnecessary. Yet I feel myself drawn to chains with semi-alarming frequency. I will admit I prefer them in their natural habitat, as the charm doesn't translate well to the city's constraints.
Comfort is meatloaf or mac and cheese for some. For me, it's settling into a spacious booth and being dazzled by promotions and carefully calculated menu offerings. Nothing soothes rattled urban nerves like a big parking lot and equally big portions. It’s all about balance. There’s no reason why someone can’t enjoy a Never Ending Pasta Bowl and Marea’s spaghetti with sea urchin and crab.
Recently, I have been feeling apathetic to mad rushes and the shock of the new, grand dining and chefs as rock stars (oh, those are farmers and butchers now, right?). So, I will be writing about chain restaurants, the misunderstood, vilified genre—from classics like Red Lobster to independent offshoots like Fatty Crab (man cannot live on Cheddar Bay Biscuits alone). Either the novelty will soon wear off or I’ll gain a deeper understanding of…something. Maybe chains just need a little love.
* * *
The Chains of Love logo is inspired by the 1946 cover of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Robert Jonas, my favorite paperback illustrator. I think he’s still alive and hope he doesn’t take issue with my infringement, er, homage.
For more examples of his work, here is a bountiful Flickr set. I have a couple that aren't in this batch but never have the energy to take on scanning projects. Thank you, people of the world who do.
Even as someone who appreciates chains, I do have to side with modern Spanish gastronomy and Food & Wine's Kate Krader in this instance. Plus, who wants to align themselves with bankers, Jack Daniel's Ribs & Shrimp or not?
It never occurred to me what a fuddy-duddy I am. I don’t think I’ve ever ordered a secret menu item or even know about any. I just take what I’m offered. Even substitutions are a foreign concept to me.
But Mental Floss has a top 10 list of these hidden menu treasures. I’m still trying to figure out if Popeye’s “naked chicken” is skinless or just breading-free. Not that I would eat my pseudo-Cajun chicken without a solid quarter-inch of golden crust.
I can’t help but suspect that all of the customization touted in the comments wouldn’t be accommodated in NYC.
There are so many dining events in NYC–pig roasts, cook-offs, food festivals–and generally I ignore them. Not because I think the food won’t be good but because I just can’t deal with crowds. And they’re never not crowded. I know my limits, lining up for food, waiting an hour for food, heck, running out of food you paid for, just aren’t enjoyable things, so I sit these out.
I feel kind of bad about it, maybe I’m missing out, but after reading this piece on World Hum about introverted travelers, I realized I’m just an introverted eater. I don’t enjoy striking up conversations with strangers and being surrounded by hundreds of hungry people certainly doesn’t make me feel more alive, just aggravated. One man’s convivial is another’s claustrophobic.
But I’ve been meaning to pick up lobsters at Red Hook Lobster Pound all summer and do like Rocky Sullivan’s. So, Lobstah Feast Fridays at Rocky Sullivan’s? Yeah, I’d give it a shot. Rocky Sullivan’s is where I go when I just want a beer and no hassle. Even on the weekends, even when a random ska or Irish hip hop band is playing and the only clientele are their friends, it’s not packed. Normally, it’s just us, our pints and the sprawling upstairs wooden deck in the back. No more than a few mosquitoes and a family of black-and-white cats who trick you into thinking you’re seeing the same one popping up on opposite ends of the roof.
Normally, I wouldn’t go on the first night of a new undertaking. But it’s always desolate Red Hook and I’d only read about the event on a few blogs—how busy could it be?
Pretty darned busy. Slammed. There are really only three rectangular tables that seat around eight. Part of the trouble is that you can reserve for parties or six or more, which meant families ordering pizzas and parking themselves while smaller groups waited…and waited. I expected a wait, though.
The bartenders were incredulous, wiped out and unable to keep up with the demand (I was told that a lot of staff had taken vacation this week). Pint glasses were soon replaced with plastic cups. An older regular remarked to his lady friend, “This is how it should be on a Friday!” I can see that. I’m all for good business, and didn’t mind the 45-minute-wait I was quoted to be seated for food because I’d finagled a spot at the bar. And they had me…until they skipped my name on the list.
This seems to be a recurring problem in my world. I don’t think I’m unattractive and offensive nor mousy and forgettable (not that either of those should cause being skipped over in line) but without fail I get screwed over in a just wait and see scenario. I joked about it right after I got my party of two on the list, “What do you bet that they never call us?” That’s why I’m a cynic who avoids these situations. And don’t bullshit me over anticipating negativity manifesting itself in reality. Thinking good thoughts is all it takes to sail through life, really?
No, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that I’m too polite. Yes, too polite. After 11 years here I still haven’t developed the art of pleasant aggression, yet on rare return visits to the NW I’m viewed as an impatient menace who stands too close to people in line.
By the time I realized walk-ins were being given tables after we’d waiting at the bar for an hour, it was too late. I should’ve said something sooner but I had hope since I'd heard the three groups written on the pad of paper before me being called loud and clear. I don’t want to have to get all Chinese on people's asses, blindly pushy looking out for number one, or even all New York about it, which is essentially the same as above but being more calculated and less obvious (and refraining from hawking loogies).
We ended up ordering food at the bar because scoring a table started seeming hopeless and I was afraid the food was running out. I never saw a menu so I don’t know the exact deal. It appeared to be one lobster, corn on the cob and potato salad or coleslaw, I think for $23. It was fair but I think I will leave Rocky Sullivan’s as a drinking establishment and steam lobsters on my own time.
It wasn’t the wait that bothered me. It was Friday night, I didn’t mind sipping a couple beers. Everyone was being served at the same slow pace. Tables actually clapped when their food arrived and staff members were congenial despite being harried. What I didn’t appreciate was being ignored, plain and simple. Out of curiosity, we asked the hostess/waitress where we were on the list as we were leaving and she flipped back three pages to my name, not crossed off, with every name after it penciled through. We were then offered a table. Uh, I start to take these things, benign as they might be, personally.
Pardon Me For Asking seemed to have a fine experience, though. Always Hungry also enjoyed their meal and got brownies from Baked, which I didn't even know was part of the menu. So, like I said, these things just seem to happen to me. You might be luckier. I’m sure they’ll streamline their process as the weeks go on. And I will continue to avoid foodie events. No hard feelings.
Le Relais de Venise is responsible for cutting my lunk-headed
attempt at banning sugar, starch and alcohol from my diet for the month
of August three weeks short. I am weak in the face of golden skinny
fries and inexpensive red wine. $20 bottles of drinkable Bordeaux? I
caved.
Locations already exist in London, Barcelona and Paris, where the restaurant originated. I can’t put my finger on why…well, maybe the maid outfits the all-female servers wear combined with a blind Francophila (I’ll never forget the story about Japanese tourists in France being so traumatized by rude treatment they had to go into therapy)
but I can see Japanese loving this place. And from what I understand
the no reservations policy creates line-ups in other cities. No such
thing on an early Friday evening in Midtown. This could be the result
of the office-heavy location, lack of awareness or possibly because New
Yorkers don’t like their steak soft and sauced.
And
you will be ordering steak since that’s the only entrée on the menu.
The $24 prix fixe includes a salad with a mustardy tarragon dressing
and walnuts and steak frites in two portions. This quirk is intended to
keep the food warm; plates are kept at side stations atop little
flames. It could also induce panic to Americans accustomed to big fat
slabs of meat rather than a fan of rosy protein that could fit into the
palm of your hand.
I do prefer minerally beef with fatty rims
and charred exterior, pale pink inside, but I can appreciate non-aged
sirloin as well. I’d take this over Outback Steakhouse, you know, just
for chain comparison. Oddly, medium-rare is not a choice. Degrees of
doneness start at bleu, go up to rare then jump to medium (let's not
talk about well). We took a chance on the medium, banking that it would
be on the rare side. It was.
The
sauce is butter rich, herby and possibly flavored with liver. That
sounds a little odd but there was an unmistakable offal funk in the
background. I actually preferred the sauce with the fries, which were
perfect in their golden yet still pliable form.
Service
is swift. Despite only a handful of the tables being occupied in the
spacious corner restaurant, courses came quickly. Our seconds were
brought before we had polished off our firsts. My barely eaten fries
were topped off and made equal to James’s pile that had a deeper dent.
Advice to fried potato gluttons: the more fries you initially eat, the
more will be replaced.
The
dessert list was surprisingly long. We opted for cheese since I was
still operating under the delusion that I was detoxing (though I’ve
gone soft on alcohol, bread and potatoes I do restrict my sugar) and
fat is preferable to me than sweets. Comte, brie and a blue of some
sort were a nice finish. For only a few bucks more you can get a glass
of port with your cheese but we still had wine to carry us through.
I
don’t have a good feeling about this location and the concept seemed to
confuse many who walked up to the window menu with only one meal
listed. But it’s definitely worth at least one try even if you’re not
in the immediate neighborhood.
Le Relais de Venise * 590 Lexington Ave., New York, NY
Ok, I'm breaking my August silence because I'm kind of obsessed with the Brooklyn mom in this month's Gourmet (not talking about the one with the furry, cratered green blob on the cover yet). This is the season where all magazines are awash in alfresco porn, but Gourmet keeps veering younger and hipper with their models, so much so that I can’t even avert my eyes when trying to take a month off. I know that's not their core readership (once again: a 50-year-old woman with a household income of $81,179) so are these photo spreads succeeding in wooing their bloggy target audience?
I initially thought freewheeling Brooklyn mom but she actually strikes me as a bit young for motherhood in this milestone-delaying city (maybe all that cycling keeps you youthful). Maybe she's more Portland or Austin or Madison, Wisconsin. You always see those young families with amazing houses in Dwell or quirkier versions in ReadyMade, but they live in places like Minneapolis (unless they are power couple architects and then it's NYC and SF). It's not as if they don't stage cookoffs, can preserves, read Meatpaper, drink fair trade coffee, beekeep as a hobby and, I don't know…pay $300 a night to do farm chores, in the rest of the country, right? Please tell me they do that elsewhere.
Would Yerba Buena Perry be a mere offshoot or a bonafide chain? It’s all in the eye of the beholder and for my nefarious purposes: chain.
I’m very much not a party photographer if that isn’t painfully obvious. Besides, I don’t really get off on the blogger role during events and openings and the like—I just want to mingle and enjoy the food and drink without making the poor servers stop and hold their trays still. Not that that was even possible at the new Yerba Buena (which should open today) because the food was literally decimated before the plates made it more than a few feet out of the kitchen.
I did snag a pretty, layered pisco mojito (pisco, bitters, lime and yep, yerba buena) and moved onto wine from there (and then dark chocolatey stout at Spuyten Devil after that—not so smart for a Monday night).
Breaded fried avocado slices were a hit (El Almacen has also been doing these—anyone else?) though I finally encountered the unthinkable: something breaded and fried that completely grossed me out, which isn’t to say the dish was ill-conceived, I just happen to hate melon more than any food on the planet. Yes, they’ve coated and crisp-fried slices of watermelon. Other “Latino Fries” will include more sensible hearts of palm, yuca, plantains, jalapenos and cactus.
Cheesey manchego croquettes, arepas topped with pork and a spicy fish taco were also promising. Of course these were all nibbles. I look forward to trying something more substantial. Maybe the parrillada?
Yerba Buena Perry * 1 Perry St., New York, NY
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