Feb 18
If Denny’s is anti Nannerpuss, who needs them. We don’t have them in NYC, anyway. More importantly, where can I find a restaurant that serves an octo-banana atop a pile of pancakes?
Wow, I love this mom who rigged up her own Nannerpuss. (Heavens, it’s completely SFW.)
Yes, it’s taken me a while to digest some of those Super Bowl ads.
1/2 There’s absolutely no rhyme or reason to Valentine’s Day restaurant choices in my household. Last year I was surprised with bizarre, unromantic, now-shuttered Crave while this year during widespread economic gloom and doom, I was treated to Jean Georges. No complaints, here. And knowing my aversion to gimmickry, reservations were made mid-week rather than the 14th proper.
We went all out (though not so with wine, an apply-pear-ish 2001 German Riesling that I did not pick out but enjoyed) and ordered the seven-course signature tasting menu. I’ve never eaten at Jean Georges before so sampling classics seemed like the way to go. Honestly, I would’ve been fine with the $98 three-course prix fixe (I was curious about the Jordan almond-crusted duck breast despite reading about the dish being too sweet in more than one source. I love candied savories, though.) but James seemed hell bent on the egg caviar, which came with a $25 supplement charge with the lower-priced option. In his mind, this was thriftier because you were getting more food and not paying for extras.
A shrimp egg roll and tiny Boston lettuce leaf, chicken broth spiked with meyer lemon and salmon with what I swear was said to be kumquat though I don’t recall tasting it and see no evidence of said fruit in this photo. This trio summed up what was to come: flavors that were sharp while remaining refined overall, heavy on the salt and acid with the occasional tiny nod to Asia.
Ah, the eggs topped with eggs. The insides are an insanely creamy blend of egg, vodka and crème fraiche while the saline caviar adds a nice popping texture to the smooth interior layer. I never would’ve ordered this a la carte but I now understand why it is a classic. Total food porn.
Sea Scallops with Caramelized Cauliflower and Caper-Raisin Emulsion was actually the first course I would’ve ordered off the prix fixe because I was picturing something delicate and sweet. Oddly, this wasn’t dried grape sugary in the least but tart with a sauce that tasted of curry and mustard (but very well may have contained neither).
Young Garlic Soup with Thyme and Sauteed Frog's Legs. I didn’t feel the urge to dip the crispy appendages into the vivid, strongly seasoned broth (that salt and acid I was talking about) with my hands as suggested but did appreciate the warm water finger bowls strewn with rose petals that followed.
Turbot with Chateau Chalon Sauce is another type of dish that would never occur to me to order. Just too simple. But of course that’s not true at all. The fish was poached to just-right firmness, the wine-based sauce was rich and buttery yet completely light and the miniature cubes of zucchini and tomato added fresh interest (despite not being quintessential February produce).
Lobster Tartine with Lemongrass and Fenugreek Broth and Pea Shoots might have been my favorite. Of course I was amused by the presence of fenugreek, now the official culprit of the NYC-area maple syrup smell. Here the subtle natural sweetness paired well with an equally restrained lemongrass flavor and enhanced the pure meaty hunk of lobster and claw. The orange sprinkles around the plate tasted like dried, pulverized shrimp though I imagine it was lobster-derived.
Our server sauced most of these dishes tableside, spooning mine from a silver vessel first. I did notice (as did James) that I tended to get more, which resulted in less for him. I received about 75% of this wonderful sauce and made sure not to waste any by using crusty rolls as edible sponge. James had white plate peeking through the bottom of his peach-colored pool.
Broiled Squab, Onion Compote, Corn Pancake with Foie Gras was the final savory course. Normally, at this point I might be feeling a bit overstuffed but the portions were sensible (the lunch at Robuchon a Galera nearly killed me and there were fewer courses) and I was still excited about what was yet to come. This was the richest dish of all, dark meat spruced up with five-spice, sliver of preserved Meyer lemon and a warm nugget of foie gras. What’s a tasting menu minus foie gras?
I didn’t realize there were two schools of thought on a squab’s degree of doneness until watching this week’s DVRd Top Chef (obviously, I couldn’t simultaneously watch while enjoying this meal). I would say that this version leaned more towards done than rare. Not that it was overcooked, no nitpicking from me if I were a TV cooking competition judge, I just don’t recall seeing much pinkness. It was also impossible to extract all of the meat from bones with a knife and fork. More finger food.
Desserts could be chosen from four themes: winter, apple, caramel or chocolate. Just the night before I proclaimed my love of all things caramelly over chocolate (just like with shoes, purses and babies, I don’t understand where chocolate’s stereotype as a lady obsession comes from) because I enjoy making pointless declarations aloud.
Obviously, I chose caramel. From the top left: Chocolate Pop, Coffee-Cardamom Ice Cream; Vanilla Soda, Liquid Caramel Sphere; Warm Caramel Tart, Crispy Olive-Hazelnut Praline, Caramelized Bacon; Caramel Curd, Dehydrated Sponge, Roasted Pineapple Sorbet. The gooey blob in the front was my favorite. Yes, you can still win me over with bacon, and the also savory olive component added extra intrigue.
This is a poorly photographed example of the winter dessert plate. All I remember is that there was a concord grape snow cone, a beignet and something meringue-marshmallowy and that this plate of treats looked more soft and comforting than mine.
I was just talking (ok, Twittering) with a friend who was impressed by someone she knew who’d recently received a dessert and candy course (at The London, it turned out). I, too, was wowed by such sweet overload at Robuchon a Galera, my first and recent encounter with this practice. You’re not going to find such overkill if you only ever go out for pizza and veggie burritos, I’m afraid.
I suppose technically these are mignardises not simply candies, but I’m American not French. The mini macarons didn’t taste terribly distinctive from each other. I think they might’ve been chocolate, strawberry and coffee. The gelees and chocolates were nice but the marshmallows—cranberry, vanilla and banana—were most impressive being cut with scissors from a coil tucked in a big glass jar wheeled out on a trolley.
There’s a place in hell for people who don’t eat their sweets. Is it just more refined to leave them on the plate like most of the diners finishing around the same time we did? I’m a freaking diabetic and I still ate mine (justified by only eating Wasa crackers, mushroom soup and oatmeal leading up to dinner, ugh, that sounds so beige and Eastern Bloc). I did manage to save the two take home gift chocolates until the following day.
Jean Georges * 1 Central Park West, New York, NY
I honestly didn’t have high hopes for a Valentine’s Day treat involving Chickenjoy or spaghetti studded with frankfurters at Jollibee on opening day. In the Philippines the homegrown chain is way bigger than McDonald’s. There’s serious nostalgia at work (though not for me, obviously). I could see from blogs that the East Coast’s first branch in Woodside, Queens was tempting visitors from as far as Toronto. James’ Pinoy coworker was packing up his family and heading in from New Jersey’s outer reaches.
I wanted a piece of the action, but went in cautiously expecting a crowd. Sure enough, around 4pm there was a line composed of anxious customers wrapped around the block. We estimated at least a four hour wait. Ack. (Sorry about the oddly colored photos–I'm still getting used to my Christmas gift camera and forgot to change a setting because I rarely take outdoor pics.)
I could stand to wait a few weeks for the hype to die down. Remember how quickly Pollo Campero mania faded? After the initial ruckus, the Guatemalan fried chicken chain couldn’t even sustain enough business in Sunset Park to stay open (there’s still one in Corona, though).
So, we had an impromptu late lunch at Sripraphai instead. No waiting and no photos necessary since I order nearly the same thing every time (crispy watercress salad, crispy pork with chile and basil, drunken noodles and a curry—this time a super bony, more fiery than usual catfish version with apple eggplants).
Since no one gave me holiday candies I gifted myself with assorted mithai from Delhi Palace. These colorful sugar bombs will kill you, total diabetes in a box (seriously, everyone thinks that blacks and latinos are the kings of insulin resistance, but Indians have the highest rate of Type 2 diabetes in the city, which I only remember because the New York Times’ article on the topic last year, “Bedeviled by the Sugar Sickness” was illustrated with a photo of Delhi Palace) but I love the creamy sweet assault on rare occasions.
I almost would’ve forgotten it was Valentine’s Day if I hadn’t been handed plastic wrapped flowers by a waitress at Sripraphai just before she ran out. By the time we were done eating, the usual Saturday night hordes had amassed in the lobby and outside…and yep, there was still a massive queue at Jollibee. I’ll be back.
I’m never surprised to see In-N-Out Burger at the top of a list. In this case, the highest customer satisfaction ratings according to a survey by Sandelman & Associates.
What I am surprised by are the regional chains I’ve never heard of. Number two with a 59% overall excellent rating is Baton Rouge-based Raising Cane’s. What on earth is that (and what's up with the horrible apostrophe S) ? Apparently, a whole eatery founded on chicken fingers. And that’s seriously all they serve, either with starches in a similarly tan color palette: Texas toast and crinkle fries, or three crispy strips on a bun.
Only two of the ten restaurants exist in NYC: burrito purveyors Chipotle and Qdoba. Panera Bread and Chick-fil-A can all be found in close proximity to the city. But the rest? I don’t think so. I do know that Pei Wei is the budget P.F. Chang’s only because I have a P.F. Chang’s fetish despite never having set foot in one.
Anyone have other random chains they love? I feel so out of here sometimes.
I’m impervious to the elusive charms of Restaurant Week, having had exactly one experience with the promotion seven years ago at Odeon, a month after the World Trade Center attacks. Not that 9/11 had anything to do with my meal but that’s my mind’s association with Restaurant Week. All I recall is that we didn’t end up ordering off the three-course menu and I’ve always had the perception since that one may as well just eat regular food any time during the year and be free of restraints.
With that said, I went to Chinatown Brasserie Friday based on an extended Restaurant Week promotion. Unfortunately, the version of the menu I’d seen online had peking duck as an entrée choice but this was absent in practice. Damn them. We just ended up ordering the bird flat out since that’s what we had wanted and supplemented the feast with a few dim sum treats.
Despite the cavernous packed-to-capacity room at 8pm on a weekend, we were given an unusually spacious corner banquette on the slightly elevated floor to the left. I point this out only so that people don’t think I only whine about cold, cramped tables. I was very impressed, and being me, half-suspicious over the desirable seating arrangement.
Initially, I missed the googly eyes adhered to the shrimp and pea shoot dumplings. At least I think the black specks were intended to create a face. To me, these screamed elephant—that crease is totally a trunk, right? James was unable to see the pachyderm in these plump, very fresh and green-tasting pockets.
These were heartier, both in dough thickness and filling. The lamb potstickers went so fast I can barely remember them. I can justify a $9 appetizer no problem, but I’ll admit it’s hard to suppress thoughts of what regular dim sum costs in comparison. I’ve never had a lamb dumpling (or eyes painted on my wonton wrappers) in Chinatown, though.
So, the peking duck was pricey at $48, but quite good and we still spent less (on food, those glasses of Riesling and Huckleberry Finns—rum, huckleberries and mint—add up) than if we’d each ordered the $35 Restaurant Week menu. The skin was super crisp and the dark meat was rich without any greasiness. Still scarred from a paltry half-serving of duck in Beijing, we always make sure to get enough now. Thankfully, the portion was just right split between two, enough to be decadent but not sickening, and the pancakes matched the amount of poultry so no naked duck had to be consumed.
Chinatown Brasserie * 380 Lafayette St., New York, NY
I wouldn’t exactly call it an epiphany but Saturday I woke up (I’d like to say bright and early but it was more like 11:30am) with the strange and sudden urge to know more about Mexican food. Not just to eat it, that’s easy (despite all of the transplanted complainers who seem incapable of looking beyond lower Manhattan), but to cook it more too, maybe even learn more about the cuisine first-hand (I know Oaxaca is a gastronomic destination but I’m thinking Merida).
Just how a certain subset of white dudes seem unable to resist an Asian girl, I have a fetish for the food (though I rarely dabble in the Korean or Japanese realms). It’s illogical and uncontrollable. Maybe I’m drawn to noodle soups, dumplings and curries because of their very foreignness. Though by that logic I’d also be a goulash or fufu fanatic, which I’m not. I think it’s the complexity of a spice blend or layers of sweetness, salt and spice that appeal. How lots of mixed up tastes blend into something exciting. But that’s not unique to Asian cuisine.
My resistance to Latin American food, Mexican specifically, stems from the feeling that I should know more about it. I wasn’t really raised with it, it wasn’t served in local restaurants growing up and I certainly wasn’t handed down any kitchen wisdom from a knowing abuela (nor an Anglo mish-mash grandma—to this day, I can’t recall my mom’s mom who’s still very much alive, cooking anything, period, let alone notable. My only memories involve puffed wheat cereal from enormous 99-cent store plastic bags, slicing Neapolitan ice cream from a rectangular carton into slices with a knife, and a mock apple pie) and yet it seems really accessible. I mean, I could be south of the border in a few hours by plane and even communicate with people (on a very rudimentary level, to be sure) when instead, I fantasize about locales that are literally my polar opposite where chitchat is futile.
I think that’s the scary thing. No one expects a foreigner in Malaysia or Beijing to know everything or to be able to speak Malay or Mandarin. You risk looking like a stupid American even when trying your best. But cultural floundering feels more shameful in a country so nearby, and one with which I share a heritage.
While cobbling together ingredients in Sunset Park for dinner, I discovered that epazote is easy to come by while recado rojo is not (they even sell the Yucatecan paste on Amazon so it’s hardly obscure). I (or rather James) had to make it from scratch.
In the mean time, a torta was in order. We stopped at Ricos Tacos. My sugar and starch limiting means very few sandwiches in my life. But sometimes you simply need something gut-busting between two pieces of bread, in this case a fluffy bolillo. My pierna was a serious mess, only compounded by the copious amount of string cheese, avocado, beans, pickled jalapeños, and yes, mayonnaise, normally my nemesis. But just like with the banh mi, my aversion is waylaid by overall awesomeness.
I wouldn’t say that Ricos Tacos specialty are tortas, that’s just what I wanted. That might be the advertised tacos arabes, a take on schwarma stuffed into a pita. Maybe next time.
I can say that intrepid DVD hawkers know no ethnic boundaries. African-Americans tend to stick to subways and blankets strewn across sidewalks while Latinos and Chinese ladies prefer the restaurant-to-restaurant roaming approach. I have no interest in discounted copies of Hotel for Dogs, though that doesn’t stop genuinely interested others from completing transactions while eating.
What seems to be uniquely Mexican are roving bands setting up shop in tightly packed eateries. No stage or prior arrangements necessary; these are not Filipina entertainers. We happened to be sitting near the door, therefore entitled to an accidental front row seat when a five-piece band, accordion, stand up bass and all, decided to give the jukebox a run for its money. No one seemed to mind. There’s no way this wouldn’t wreak havoc anywhere else outside of a subway car.
Because one can never have too much pork (I’d already eaten two strips of bacon as breakfast), dinner was to be lomitos, based on a recipe from Diana Kennedy’s Essential Cuisines of Mexico. This was thrifty because we used leftover scraps from the Super Bowl ribs that had to trimmed St. Louis style.
These were eaten with soupy black beans and corn tortillas. Simple. Not the prettiest, but tasty.
Lomitos
1 tablespoon simple recado rojo
2 tablespoons Seville orange juice or substitute
2 pounds boneless pork, cut into ½-inch cubes
2 tablespoons vegetable oil or pork lard
12 ounces tomatoes, finely chopped
½ green bell pepper, finely chopped
2/3 cup finely chopped white onion
2 teaspoons salt
1 small head of garlic, unpeeled
1 whole habanero chile or any fresh, hot green chile
2 to 2 ½ cups cold water, approximately
Dilute the recado rojo with the orange juice and rub it into the pieces of meat. Set aside for about 30 minutes to season.
Heat the oil in a skillet and fry the tomatoes, pepper and onion together over fairly hight heat, stirring well and scraping the bottom of the pan from time to time, for about 10 minutes. Add the salt and set aside.
Toast the whole head of garlic on a griddle or comal, turning it from time to time, until it is browned on the outside and the cloves inside are fairly soft. Toast the habanero chile.
Put the meat into a large, heavy saucepan with the water, which should barely cover the meat. Add the tomato mixture and the toasted, unpeeled garlic and chile and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer the meat, uncovered, until it is tender—about 1 hour. (The sauce should be of a medium consistency; if it appears to be too watery, turn the heat higher and reduce quickly.) Serve hot.
Just got back from discount oysters and nearly half-priced beers at The Libertine. Not sure if it’s a true indication of Wall Street’s collapse, but the bar was dead (granted, on a Monday night). As a cheap crowd-phobic who has a job for the time being, I will continue indulging in cut-rate specials. Enjoyed my half-dozen West Coast bivalves, but the most entertaining part was how due to renovations the bathrooms are actually in hotel rooms on the Gild Hall’s third floor via key cards available at the front desk. I guess only common decency would prevent one from bouncing on the bed or whatnot. It did not inhibit whoever used the room before me from taking a odorific dump in the toilet, though.
This was the second time in less than a week that I had the lights turned off on me while still eating. Maybe someone’s trying to give me exposure therapy. They say you can overcome phobias by being repeatedly exposed to the scary-to-you experience. I say that’s crap but I’d rather tackle my aversion to talking to strangers on the phone or walking up-and-down staircases without using the handrail before dealing with my fear of being the last diner in a restaurant.
It was partly my own fault because I thought the newish Bay Ridge churrasquiera closed at 11pm not an hour earlier. Then again, I would’ve been done by 10:07 instead of 10:37 if it hadn’t taken 30 minutes to get half a rotisserie chicken. I’m still not sure what the deal was and whether or not running out of food on a Friday night is typical or an aberration. I noticed people waiting for takeout for long stretches of time and another couple who sat down left after being informed they were out of both chicken and ribs.
Portuguese food is scarce in Brooklyn and The Woodburning Pit serves a subset of the cuisine, focusing on grilled meat. They did have caldo verde, but this isn’t a formal place offering sit down dishes made with staples such as bacalhau, clams or sardines. The premise is not dissimilar to a Peruvian pollo a la brasa takeout joint or jerk chicken storefront. The main difference is that this eatery is aiming for a bit more ambiance, providing a handful of wooden tables for dining in, Portuguese beer (Super Bock to name one) and imported metal sconces (at least that’s what the Made in Portugal sticker visible from where I was sitting implied) to liven up the walls. Oh, and that normally you have proteins at the ready, waiting to be chopped up and crammed into aluminum containers.
We initially ordered a rib and chicken combo to share then freaked out that it might not be enough food. I’ve been trying to reign in my gluttony, though trying to be dainty is less attractive when faced with a $3 sharing charge. Obviously that wouldn’t apply to to-go orders, which only reinforced my initial impression that take away is probably preferable here.
To supplement the unknown quantity of food coming our way, we ordered garlic shrimp. These were similar to Spanish gambas but had a touch of vinegar, as did much of the food. I think it comes from a Tabasco-like sauce if not actual Tabasco. I’m glad we did have an appetizer because we were informed our chicken would be another 15 minutes. I was not in a rush so this wasn’t a big deal.
The service, by the way, was pleasant in a mom-and-pop, part of the community, knows the locals kind of way you see in parts of Brooklyn you’d expect like Bay Ridge and still thriving in enclaves like Carroll Gardens despite its increasing new-school nature. They just seemed to have misjudged supply and demand. I’ll make allowances for businesses getting up to speed.
I do think that half a chicken and four ribs supplemented by some of the longest fries I’ve ever seen and a slew of rice was plenty for two. The meat was a little gnarled, at first glance it was hard to tell the pork from the chicken in the pile of burnished brownness, but nothing was dried out. The skin could’ve been crispier, but everything was moist and had a peppery zing.
This would’ve been a perfectly acceptable mid-week meal but I require more oomph from a Friday or Saturday night dinner. Is that weird? The Woodburning Pit would be suitable for takeout or delivery if you happen to live near the Bay Ridge/Sunset Park border.
The Woodburning Pit * 6715 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY
If you believe what you read in trend pieces, separate checks, perhaps the ultimate in dining gaucheness, is apparently becoming more acceptable in Chicago. Will this “I only had water while you downed five $15 glasses of wine” craze hit NYC?
While I think separate checks are juvenile, I have never found equal check splitting to be fair. I don’t think it’s tacky for everyone to pay for what they consumed and only what they consumed. And I still can’t believe that the only polite and socially acceptable way to handle a group birthday dinner is for the guest of honor to treat (must be the same people who have second homes and destination weddings. I don’t know these people). At least according to the Times, who irked me by not only disallowing comments on the Social Q's column but removing all old comments–there were originally quite a few in favor of the host as benevolent payer. Serious Eats commenters seem split on the concept.
Group birthday dinners are an awful beast worth avoiding at all costs anyway, and yes, I’ve had a few. I’ve literally ended friendships over them.
All of this fenugreek talk has got me thinking about exotic spices. You know, like American Hamburger Mixed Spices.
While perusing Sunset Park’s lovely Rossman Farms, better known to me as The Produce Store, I noticed a new friendly black-and-white cat that hangs out by the cabbage and a moderately revamped side room.
One shelf was filled with a brand of Israeli spice blends from a company called Pereg that looks like Perez in the script font. American Hamburger spices jumped out at me in two different packaging styles. I’m actually not sure what American hamburger spices are. Based on the photo (no, I didn’t look at the ingredient list) it appears the jar may contain chile, garlic, coriander, allspice, cumin and salt, not sure. Isn’t adding packet of Lipton onion soup mix as wild as we get in this country?
Other blends include Meatball, Falafel, Kabbab and Za’atar, the source of monkfish trouble on last night’s Top Chef.
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