Goodies First

May 20

La Vaguada

Ok, this is it, no mas. I'm finally finished the with sporadic Madrid recapping. But I would feel empty inside if I didn't briefly mention my mall excursion. I always visit a mall when on vacation. Obviously, I only travel to big cities, but even Penang had one, which only surprised me a little since Asians have quite an affinity for mall culture. Only Mexico City posed problems with its Santa Fe mall hidden way on the outskirts, inaccessible by public transportation. (Not really surprising at all considering their seeming lack of a middle class. Maybe that's why NYC can't sustain a proper mall either, too-rich and too-poor all smooshed together.)

Madrid had more than one centro comercial to choose from; we picked La Vaguada because you can get there smoothly on the subway. I figured it would be a rinky-dink Manhattan Mall atrocity, but it was the real deal with an enormous supermarket, or rather a hipermercado, Alcampo, that was way larger than Fairway, and that was just the bottom floor. Upstairs, they sold washing machines, plus-size smocks, saws, and more relevant to my needs, a cheap corkscrew. I should know the answer to this since I cover retail topics at work (I’ll look into it tomorrow) but why do we not have grocery stores inside US malls? Here, I'd appreciate the convenience. In other countries, for the fun of experiencing packaged foreign food.

I feel self-conscious taking photos inside grocery stores, but do regret not capturing the entire towering aisle heaving with hoof-on whole jamon. Canned seafood is also allotted an unusually large proportion of shelf space.

The heart (or I guess if you were corny like me, you could say stomach) of any mall is its food court. I didn't know what to expect from a Spanish food court. And it wasn't really fast foody (no Cinnabon but a homegrown chain Canel Rolls with savory versions like cheese and bacon) but a level ringed by sit down restaurants and tapas bars (and a hair salon, movie theater and video store), almost exclusively Spanish in culinary style.

Bocatin is a taberna specializing in sandwiches, a.k.a. bocadillos. Way in the background is Gran Sol Marisqueria and Cervecería. I like that beer is prominently mentioned everywhere. Drinking in an American mall just seems weird.

The non-Iberian offerings included The Wok, Istanbul, L'Alsace and Cantina Mariachi. It was also hard to ignore the plywood covered a giant coming soon ad for Taco Bell, fittingly with a larger than life packet of mild salsa. The first public (naval bases don't count) Taco Bell in the country opened not so long ago in December. The chain has never been a success in Europe (or Mexico, duh) so I wonder how the Spanish will take to Crunchwraps.

We chose a random casual eatery, Cervecería Gambrinus, that I later saw all over the place. Their logo is a portly pageboy’d Falstaffian guy called Gambrinus. From what I could deduce the lore is German not Spanish. Maybe it’s like our use of Friar Tuck in association with drinking establishments.

I love gambas al ajillo, maybe even more so for the saucy remnants. I could just pour the shrimp, chile and garlic infused olive oil into and dish and eat it alone with crusty bread.

Ok, so we ordered chicken wings, a.k.a. alitas. You get what you deserve doing such a thing but we were curious. Pallid tomato sauce inevitably accompanies fried chicken parts in other places (marinara in Hua Hin). I realize putting blue cheese or ranch dressing on poultry is an American abomination.

Because I'm childish this café gave me pause. I thought a bit, and duh, it's a cute abbreviation of Vaguada Mall.

One of the cool things was that despite housing a clean modern supermarket (and a weirdo smallish storefront that only sold packaged frozen food—can you imagine an entire store devoted to Tombstone Pizza, Banquet Chicken and Hungry Man Dinners?), the shopping center also had a series of rows emulating traditional market stalls: seafood, produce, dried legumes and nuts, butchers, cheese and the like.

Just across the way, on the same floor, was a tattoo parlor. Not so traditional, I would say.

La Vaguada * Monforte de Lemos 36, Madrid, Spain

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May 18

Sandwiched

I could eat a banh mi every day of the week, but still, you have to admit the city has become oversaturated in the past few months. I can play devil's advocate, check out my banh mi alternatives in Metromix.

Since I wrote this, two new contenders have already sprung up: Aamchi Pao and Asia Dog. Long live Asian sandwiches of all stripes.

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May 18

Yip’s

This is $2.60 worth of food. Ok, oily, sitting out food, but sometimes it hits the spot. Leeks, mushrooms, bbq pork and sesame chicken. (6/5/09)

I’ve developed a strange new obsession with Yip’s, a block from my office. I had managed to steer clear of the bi-level (restaurant upstairs, buffet downstairs) Chinese joint for over two years. Curiosity fueled by a cheapskate quest for a few pieces of char siu my cheapskate ways finally got me in the door.

Keeping a lunch under $5 (ok, I’ll go up to $6) in the Financial District is no easy feat so the banner touting the $3.49/lb buffet after 1:45pm (and a still not expensive $5.39/lb before then) was perfect since I rarely eat a midday meal before 2pm anyway. And if you spend more than $5 you get a free can soda. I've never hit this mark yet but I wonder if they'll give you bottled water, for some reason water is considered more precious.

The thing is the sweet barbecue pork is nearly gone by 1:15pm and the whole thing is decimated by 2pm. People go nuts for sweet and sour pork, fried fish and spareribs, apparently. There is also traditional salad bar (you know, with lettuce and vegetables—yet also sushi and crab legs) in the center of the room but it gets less play. I couldn’t help but notice the poor tray of bitter melon with beef that had all the beef picked out. The place is full of carnivorous heathens.

No, it’s not particularly healthy and way oily but sometimes I need a cheap lowish carb break from my typical midday cup of soup from a carton (black bean chipotle is good, sweet pea puree isn’t bad). I stay away from rice, noodles, heavily breaded things and dense bones (the duck chunks do call my name, though). I end up with 40% vegetables and 60% mixed hodgepodge, a ration I'm trying to reverse.

This is what I got for $3.88: salt and pepper shrimp and squid, bean curd with mushrooms, spinach, green beans, roast pork, zucchini and black beans (the chicken had been all picked out). Lots of mismatched items in small doses that are satisfying enough for my junk tooth.

This isn’t my first foray into questionably cheap Chinese food. There used to be a place on the ground floor of a downtown Portland hospital called Dollar Chinese Food. Actually, I don't know if that was its proper name or if it even had one, but that’s what everyone called it because of the $1 Chinese Food advertised on the sidewalk sandwich board. If I remember correctly for $1 you got a small paper plate with rice, a scoop of an entrée of your choice, and I'm fairly certain one of those tiny hard cabbage filled spring rolls.

Yip’s is way less depressing, if you can imagine. (5/17/09)

Yip’s * 18 Beaver St., New York, NY

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May 17

Kulto al Plato

Kulto al Plato appears to have next to nothing written about it in English. I only knew that it had won best tapas bar of 2008 from Metrópoli magazine, which could mean anything. No one ever agrees with best ofs and I'm not sure what kind of weight that publication holds among food-lovers in Madrid.

From what I had read, it seemed like it would be a nice in-between restaurant, not formal like Sergi Arola Gastro but more creative than a typical tapas bar, being Basque and all (I have no idea why their cuisine is so tradition-breaking). The casual environment with serious food almost feels more Manhattan than Madrileño.

The food is very playful and employs plenty of twists on classics, which obviously weren’t classics for me. That’s the tough thing, it’s not just the language. If you’re a foreigner you’re lacking the appropriate taste memories. I know enough from reading about Spanish cuisine to recognize some of what they were tweaking but have no original dish to compare it with. I’m sure I missed things that locals wouldn’t have.

We chose the eight-dish tasting for 25 euros. If you sit in the restaurant I think you have to do a tasting (there’s also an 11-course version for 40 euros). In the bar, you can order a la carte. There didn’t appear to be any menus, just a giant chalkboard with lots of words using X’s and K’s interspersed with little cartoons and commentary. I was facing the board and close enough to scrutinize much of it (though, sadly not close enough for a decent photo).

We didn’t really know what we were going to get but it was for the best. Picking from the menu would’ve been a little overwhelming and I’m sure I would’ve missed some gems. It was like a little Spanish culinary lesson. But it’s really about the taste, isn’t it? Would it really matter if a diner came in blind and had never heard of gazpacho? Does identifying the riff make a new-style tomato soup more enjoyable than judging it on taste alone?

Aceitunas con vermu. This was a lot of olives for two people or maybe I just have a small appetite for olives. But of course these were no ordinary olives. Thankfully, they weren’t doing that Adrià alginate olive spherification thing that seems to wow people (not that I’m above wowing, but they’ve even done it on Top Chef now). These were real olives, it was the red centers that were faux pimento. Instead the olives were filled with a sweet, boozy gel meant to mimic vermut. I never tried the popular aperitif when I was there, but it’s common enough that bars have it on tap. From what I understand you drink it on ice with a lemon slice.

You can also buy a 12-pack to go. I almost considered picking a few up as fun souvenirs. We were flying out the next morning but I was afraid they wouldn’t keep or they’d get confiscated.

Salmorejo con brotes y flores. Ack, I knew I wasn’t going to get of Spain without being served flowers. It happened on my last trip too. I have a phobia about eating flowers, even stems on things like spinach, give me the creeps. Not that there’s anything wrong with the taste. I tried to concentrate on the rich, chilled tomato flavor and tune out the pretty foliage.

This menu was like a research project. It wasn’t until I returned home that I could look at my blurry, harshly lit chalkboard menu photo and try to put together what we’d eaten and what half the words meant. Flores=flowers, sure, but salmorejo means nothing to me. Now I know that it’s a cold tomato soup similar to gazpacho, but thicker due to the use of more bread. I think brotes are sprouts in this circumstance but I’ve also seen it as microgreens.

Txangurro+aguacate+regaliz. We all scream for ice cream, well at least they do in Madrid. Frozen savories seem to be quite a thing, and I’m all for it. Left to right, these tiny spheres were licorice, avocado and crab. Individually, they might be kind of weird but as they melt and flavors meld, it’s just right, though licorice dominated by a hair. The crunchy sea salt atop the sea green scoop added nice texture and salinity. Here’s a recipe and a prettier photo of the dish from their original restaurant in San Sebastian, A Fuego Negro.

Espinaca roja, verde, cebolla y queso feta. The spinach salad was no great shakes. Feta, red onion and lots of sesame dressing.

La txiki-huerta en tempera con ketxup casero y ali-oli de patata. I didn’t know what the heck txiki-huerta was (Spanish is enough to decode—Basque is just asking for trouble) and I still don’t, but obviously these were tempura’d vegetables: carrots, onions, chile peppers, eggplant. The dips included homemade ketchup and potato aioli. The aioli was the odd component, for sure. Creamy, rich and yep, starchy not eggy.

Bacalao con “currymigas” sobre coliflor. Salt cod is ok, though I managed to eat not one bite of it until our last day in Madrid when I had it for lunch as part of a menu del dia at La Camarilla (I never wrote about it because it’s wasn’t that exciting—despite how it appears, I don’t actually write about everything I eat), and then again here for dinner. There was no question that this was the superior preparation, but once again, it’s one of those regional things you may or may not know about. Migas that Americans might be more familiar with is the Tex-Mex style using sautéed torn up corn tortillas and eggs, Migas in Spain are breadcrumb-based peasant dish often associated with Extremadura. Of course, I’ve never eaten migas, I just recall reading about them in The New Spanish Table. Book smart, street stupid.

So, they’ve flavored their breadcrumbs with curry and use them as a crunchy garnish for super Spanish salt cod. The thick cauliflower puree offered a nice mild pillow for the strongly flavored fish.

“MakcoBe” with txips. Ok, now hamburgers, I understand, they’re speaking my language. But there still had to be an un-American in joke. There was a cartoon dog next to the menu description with the caption, “De Cobi no!! De wagyu” I have no idea how I recognized the line-drawn dog as the ’92 Barcelona Olympic mascot, Cobi, yet I did and felt very pleased with myself for getting the humor. Essentially, no, it’s not Cobi meat, it’s kobe/wagyu.

All you need to know is that this is a mini burger with chips. The sesame seed bun was adorable and I think it might’ve been ketchup-flavored. The chips were like homemade Terra Chips. Frankly, I don’t remember the quality of the beef at all because I was more caught up in the presentation.

The pineapple cake with coconut ice cream was fairly straightforward. A decidedly non-tropical sprig of rosemary kept the sweets from being too sunny.

Kulto al Plato * Calle Serrano Jover 1, Madrid, Spain

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May 16

Joya

You think I would have the good sense to steer away from Cobble Hill Thai food in a restaurant with a DJ booth. I shot down suggestions of Grand Sichuan House and Anselmo’s in the name of open-mindedness and the quest to give seemingly so-so neighborhood restaurants a fair shake. Now, I’m afraid my mind has been shut for good. I had issues (actual screaming matches) with a scary, marathon-running, MBA know-it-all coworker from a few jobs back. She insisted Joya was the best Thai food she’d had in NYC and I wasn’t having any of that nonsense. But I was able to garner one of my favorite quotes that I’m positive I’ve mentioned many times before. Picture this being said in the nastiest, condescending, 5’1 tough office lady voice, “Have you even been to Thailand?!" Ok, you win, Brooklyn pad thai is totally the same as street food in Bangkok. Better, even. And so I went to Joya. Hmm…I don’t know how to say this without coming across racist and/or elitist (and for the record, that dijon kerfuffle is utter crap. My family totally ate Grey Poupon on our backyard-grilled burgers in a blue collar suburb 20+ years ago. It was mainstream then, and certainly is now) but it’s a genuine question Why is Joya, a mediocre Thai restaurant in a gentrified, overwhelmingly white neighborhood, filled to capacity with Long Islanders (this wasn’t a judgmental inference based on the usage of dawtah and cah [that would be daughter and car], the two loud tables I was sandwiched between were talking specifically about Long Island and how far they’d driven into Brooklyn) and well, black people? I’m not all “Stay out of my neighborhood.” Frankly, you can have it. It’s more, “Why are you coming here for this restaurant?” Do they know something I don’t? Everyone seemed to be having a good time, so who am I to ruin their fun with my killjoy spirit?And the food was barely passable. I didn’t even bother with photos. The chili basil mussels we started with were fine enough but the stir fries and curries were flat and flavorless, even more so than your typical Americanized Thai. I like “bad” Mexican and Chinese, but I can’t abide bad Thai because it doesn’t even translate into craveable greasy junk food (hard shell tacos, sweet and sour pork) it just ends up pale, bland and sad. I tried to take the when in Rome approach, and maybe after a few glasses of Yellowtail Reisling, the fortyish woman next to me who’d clearly been downing cheap white wine all night, would cease hurting my spinal column with her shrillness. But there’s no ignoring deafening shrieks about farts, queefs and explicit sex acts (now, I really will get blocked by work filters) punctuated by maniacal laughter. There’s a time and a place, people. And this is coming from a loudmouth who likes to drink.I freakin’ love New Jersey but Long Island scares the crap out of me. And now, so does Joya. No matter who tries bullying you into thinking this is good Thai food, do not listen. This is no time to be open minded. In an unprecedented move, I am downgrading the two shovel rating naively bestowed on the restaurant in 2003, when I was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, to one shovel. (5/15/09)

May 16

Prime Meats

I’ve been feeling guilty for ignoring restaurants within a three-block radius of my apartment for those in neighboring states. I can dig the Brooklyn scene, too. Or at least I can try.

I showed up to Frankies 457 when it first opened, liked it fine, yet didn’t return for four years. So, who knows if my urge to finally visit Prime Meats will garner a return visit any sooner than 2013. If you’re lucky like me, the Portland Coffee Messiah will pass you by as you stroll down lower Court Street.

Initially, we were scared off by the quote of a 40-minute wait at 9:05 on a Thursday. It’s not a big place so I ordered a Prime Manhattan (Rittenhouse rye, Buddha’s hand bitters and some sort of vermouth, I assume) and figured if I finished it before being seated, we’d move on to another plan. I don’t have a problem eating at bars but I do like to sit when ingesting more than snacks or finger food, and Prime Meats is stool-less for the obvious issue of space constraints. I was still sipping about 20 minutes later when we were whisked to the outer edge of a table for six already occupied by a young couple in the attached corner booth. Perfectly bearable wait.

We just ordered two things from the brief menu. A red cabbage salad that was slicked with just enough oil and punchy vinegar. The walnuts were the right finish, and they tossed in a few more than were probably necessary, which is absolutely how I would’ve made it.

The lighting is abysmal (for food photography, not romance, but I wasn’t there for romance, in fact I got into a tiff over something stupid…James having no opinion on which salad to order. I’m not passionate about salad either, but you must know which one of the three choices sounds the most appealing, right? Ok, I’m a snap decision beast) so despite the fact that I’ve gotten quick and stealthy with my largish camera since acquiring it at the beginning of the year, I was stuck taking candlelit photo after candlelit photo to no avail. Pure blur.

This is what prompted commentary from the peanut gallery at the other end of our table, “She’s Twittering her meal.” Ugh, boo to communal seating. “Dude, you’re supposed to talk behind people’s backs not in front of their face.” And clearly I’m blogging it. Twittering? Come on now.

It’s hard to order choucroute garni and not think fondly of Irving Mill’s charcroute plate, but the two restaurants are vastly different animals and must be judged on their own merits. There was a nice variety of meats—brisket, pork belly, super sagey weisswurst and bratwurst–swimming in a pool of sauerkraut soup. The combo needed mustard and brown bread. Oh, the paying for bread debate. They did have it for a charge and I’m not against the practice, but with a cash only policy I had to be careful with the extras.

Prime Meats * 465 Court St., Brooklyn, NY

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May 16

UnConference Call

Is someone messing with me? I bemoan Portland’s stranglehold on the food media and the pain of being the oldest gal in the bar, and then I get e-mailed an invite to an “UnConference” (I shit you not) called PDX Gen Y? Really?

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May 15

35 Is the New 35

Rarely do I find a blog I get excited about. Don't get me wrong, I skim through what seems like hundreds of feeds every day (and then hit another slew of e-commerce/internet marketing ones for what I’m actually being paid to do all day) and I wouldn't if I didn't find them enjoyable. They just don't always speak to me; I don't shop at greenmarkets, eat cupcakes or hot dogs, I've only eaten at Momofuku Ssam once (Ko once, too, I guess) and don't attend Brooklyn cook offs. I like to eat, though.

I also like to drink and I loathe being the oldest lady in the room. Single women in their mid-30s should not be made to feel elderly (and if I hear one more woman in the age range of Drew Barrymore being referred to as a Cougar I will claw their eyes out like a real wildcat). I will neither rub shoulders in frat holes or with kids wearing '80s accoutrements, nor resign myself to Brooklyn happy hours surrounded by toddler-toters.

That's why I was happy to read about 35Saturdays, where two 35-year-old women (with the same name) search for Age Appropriate bars (caps, theirs). This is a blog concept I can totally get behind.

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May 14

Moghul

I just can't seem to stay out of the suburbs. I've been in New Jersey the past two Saturdays…by choice. There was some reason why we needed to go to Home Depot and Wal-Mart, but I couldn't tell you why now. Light bulbs? A mop? I clearly have issues with Brooklyn if I'd rather drive 26 miles (hey, that's a marathon) to accomplish simple errands.

But it does allow me to explore the dining world outside of New York City. Jackson Heights is fine but Edison's Oak Tree Road is hardly shabby. A few weeks ago while doing some non-blog research, I tried assorted mithai, paneer poppers and a vada pav at Sukhadia's, a vegetarian fast food joint. Sure, we have one in midtown too but I never seem to get up there.

One of my favorite spots in Edison is a strip mall with an Avon storefront, pool supply shop, and a Chili's in the parking lot. Oh, Indians and their love of fiery food. And apparently we'll be selling to them on their home turf soon. Actually, I'm not sure what the hubbub is over, the chain has existed for some time in “spicy” countries like Malaysia, Indonesia and Mexico. I wasn't surprised in the least to find one inside the Petronas Towers.

Behind the run of the mill stores is a mini Indian complex, complete with a Bollywood-heavy theater (X-Men Origins or Mitrudu, it's up to you) and a clump of eateries that I think are all affiliated. Moksha is non-vegetarian South Indian, Ming (where I've never eaten) is Chinese-Indian, Singas (which has a location walking distance from my apartment that I need try for at least novelty’s sake at some point) has individual pizzas served in strange bags, Mithaas is like a Desi Starbucks but with emphasis on sweets by the pound and meat-free snacks, not coffee (it just has that '90s leather chairs cafe look—check out their ambience page if you don’t believe me)

We decided to try Moghul, the fancier than usual Indian restaurant with photos of the owners with Jon Corzine and Mother Teresa in the foyer. It's almost like a Cheesecake Factory in there—lots of ironwork, travertine and intricate light fixtures. The type of place where people bring their own white wine (they don't serve alcohol, which we discovered too late to do anything about). Absolutely no connoisseur of Indian food, I was still able to tell that what was being served was more balanced and wide ranging than what you see on a typically see on NYC menus.

I had no idea what to expect from the aloo papri chaat, but I liked the yogurty hodge podge. There were chickpeas, dumplings, wonton-like creations they call “flour crispies” and potatoes, all drizzled with tamarind chutney and plenty of cilantro.

You like starch? Well, here's basmati, papadums and garlic naan. I have remind myself that bread and rice should be either or.

I should've ordered a real vegetable after all that but I wasn't thinking. Kafta naramdil are Twinkie-sized cheese dumplings stuffed with "dried fruit" (I honestly couldn't say which) smothered in a mild creamy curry. This can't possibly be healthy, which means that it was tasty.

There were plenty of more outré lamb dishes and tons of tandoori items that I would've explored if we had more people to share with. But the lamb vindaloo was surprisingly good, much spicier than anticipated and vinegar tart to stave off any richness overload.

My sugar-free weekday existence is always thwarted on Saturday. I’m like a binge drinker with candy (and well, alcohol too, on occasion). First, I couldn't resist a box of Crunch & Munch at Wal-Mart (I have a serious weakness for caramel corn, though I prefer the classier more caloric Poppycock) so I was determined to ignore Mithaas on the way back to the car. But it just couldn't be done. I was restrained and only chose half a pound of goodies.

I get the sense that not everyone is a fan of these colorful sweets that are practically all variations on condensed milk and sugar. To me, they’re irresistible even though many have the texture of Play-Doh. I like them even more than kueh, another colorful candied obsession. But I must admit the Malay treats that are practically all variations on glutinous rice and coconut milk aren't always as compelling in the mouth as in a display. Mithai totally have better payoff according to my palate. Now, I just need to learn all of their names so I can do more than just point at pans. Or better yet, they could put up little signs. Just for me.

Moghul * 1655-195 Oak Tree Rd., Edison, NJ
Mithaas * 1655-170 Oak Tree Rd., Edison, NJ

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May 12

In Polite Company

I'm plan-crazy, pretty much because it's a way to procrastinate pressing matters, and my latest time-waster involves researching what to eat and drink in my hometown of Portland, where I might possibly go for a short getaway in late summer. It's not as if the scene will radically change in the next three months.

In the 11 years I've been away good ol' Stumptown has apparently morphed into the epicenter of all that's twee, do-good and cloying. I mean, it was always an indie-spirit type of place but full of poor downtrodden folks who couldn't get their shit together if they tried where now it's teeming with transplants with the emotional and financial stability to make good on their dreams.

I don't know what to think. Frankly, I'm scared of the place, which is probably why I've only been back twice in over a decade (the real reason is that with limited funds and vacation days I'd rather leave the country than visit the west coast). But I'm alone in my wariness judging from number-one-ranked, "Frugal Portland" being the most e-mailed story in the New York Times on Sunday. (For the record, Portland also takes the number one spot in depression and suicidal tendencies as well as general unhappiness)

As I explore restaurants online, I've noticed a growing trend (ok, two so far—I'll only need one more example to seal the deal) of passive assholiness at the bottom of menus.

Beast and Le Pigeon both use the phrase, "Substitutions politely declined."

Now, is that really polite? I don't have any problems with chefs putting the kibosh on substitutions (I've never asked for one in my life) but New York me wants them to just say what they mean, no need to be all squirrelly and Northwest about it.

Image from Chinglish

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La Vaguada

Sandwiched

Yip’s

Kulto al Plato

Joya

Prime Meats

UnConference Call

35 Is the New 35

Moghul

In Polite Company

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