There’s a Yakov Smirnoff Joke in Here Somewhere
It says something (what, I’m not sure) when Siberia gets an Ikea before NYC.
May 17
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La Mancha
La Mancha’s the weirdest place. It almost feels hidden in plain sight or at least ignored, not innovative enough to ride the Spanish new wave and lacking the history and rundown charm of the West Village holdouts. The food is straightforward, hearty, a bit stodgy and not inexpensive (though portions are generous). I felt kind of bad for not returning in over three years, though I never have such guilt over avoiding also nearby Smith Street restaurants.
And after having lackluster dining experiences the past two Saturdays, I was determined to have a pleasant evening this weekend and thankfully succeeded (three glasses of Tempranillo might’ve helped--I did notice my photos becoming progressively blurry, a final interior shot was completely unfocused and useless). James is the one who declared Ghenet and Kimchi Hana to be busts and insisted on making 9pm reservations this time, despite my protests that this was strange and unnecessary.
The room couldn’t possibly be teeming and it wasn’t. Maybe 40% full, there was a family with small children, one couple, one solo diner, a few groups and then a foursome who stomped in loudly and a woman in their party proceeded to fall out of her chair. Were they drunk? Or at least that’s what I thought until I realized it had collapsed beneath her, which normally might be funny but somehow wasn’t especially when I noticed how wobbly mine was too.
Pickled vegetables, like giardiniera (I just like that word because it’s so close to giardia) but probably escabeche to be properly Spanish.
Green salad with an aioli dressing comes with entrees. This touch, as well as the warm bread with little foil-topped plastic packets of butter is what make the meal seem fusty. These are trademarks I associate with an older audience, requisites that are expected of a sit down restaurant dinner.
Picada, a tapas sampling worked out well because ordering three individual items would’ve been too much to spend and eat. Jamon Serrano, nicely fatty around the edges and not paper thin either. I’m reminded of how salty and boring prosciutto is when compared to meaty, substantial Serrano. I’m honestly not sure what makes a ham prosciutto or Serrano and if it’s related to the pig or the processing (I’ve fantasized about curing my own ham, and it looks like a fellow Brooklynite recently did just that). Triangles of manchego, green olives and sautéed garlicky chorizo rounded out the plate.
I just wasn’t swayed by any of the meat-centric entrees, which revolved around veal, chicken or steak. They might be good but descriptions involving wine, garlic and olive oil (yes Spanish, staples) just seemed kind of blah and continental. We went the obvious route with paella Valenciana.
It was a fair enough rendition, the grains of rice neither mushy nor overly firm, with plenty of chorizo, clams and octopus. I always worry about dry chicken (when I’m eating it, not all the time) and yes, the hunks of breast meat had a little too much life cooked out of them. The serving for two easily could’ve fed a few more if you were sharing other main dishes.
The food isn’t dazzling, but the mood is easygoing and service friendly. It’s resolutely a neighborhood joint and I wouldn’t want to fool anyone into thinking it’s a destination restaurant. But as far as the Henry/Atlantic nexus is concerned, you could do much worse.
I later trotted across the BQE onramp and over to the weirdo side of Carroll Gardens that's only three blocks from my apartment (no, that's not Red Hook) where stroller madness in bars has yet take hold, and for good reason: the hodgepodge area is brimming with old school freaks. While sipping a few pints of Brooklyn Lager at Moonshine, I was fascinated by brothers who had to take turns coming and going due to restraining orders. But most baffling and frightening was the human personification of Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force. I’ve never heard such a pitch perfect voice, yet with a ponytail attached to the balding noggin.
Thankfully, he wasn’t harassing me because I’m old and attached, but the ladies sitting at the bar next to me got a detailed cooking lesson about how to make a steak (add balsamic vinegar) and mashed potatoes (don’t use a blender). This imagined meal riled up Carl, he got all crazed and spouted, “I want to take a bite out of crime…and you’re crime!” then after a pause, “But not in a sexual way.” Because that would just be wrong. (5/11/08)
May 10
Kimchi Hana & Bon Chon Chicken Staten Island
Coordinating out-of-the-city errands isn’t always easy. I wanted drivable Korean fried chicken but that would involve Queens or Northern New Jersey and neither of those were places where I wanted to shop (Union and Middlesex counties).
Then I remembered Bon Chon Staten Island, which would be en route to my desired part of the Garden State. Initially, I didn’t believe there was such a branch, but more than once I found those keywords misguidedly bringing searchers to this site so I had to investigate. Yes, there’s Korean fried chicken in Staten Island. Weird. For all its bravado, Brooklyn certainly lacks in the Asian food arena, multiple Chinatowns or not.
But I wanted sit-down rather than takeout, which was the impression I’d gotten about S.I., so fried chicken was nixed and general Korean was substituted into the schedule. I’ll admit that I’m kind of a Korean food idiot having never ventured past the obvious like bbq and bibimbap. I do like spicy and pickled so there’s no reason why I should avoid it, it’s just never around.
Based on some internet randomness, I settled on Kimchi Hana in South Plainfield’s Middlesex Mall. Now, Middlesex Mall is only a mall in that there’s a row of storefronts; some are empty, others occupied by the likes of Dollar Tree, Radio Shack (which saved my life with in-stock earphone pads. Do you know how difficult it is to find replacement pads for earbuds in stores? I ended up ordering from Amazon and incorrectly buying the wrong size, which were the circumference of an oatmeal cookie) and a more busted looking Macy’s than the one on Fulton Mall, which also isn’t a real mall. I knew what I was in for after reading a local resident’s lament.
What didn’t occur to me was to make a reservation. I clearly don’t have the suburban know-how down because I don’t equate strip mall restaurants with advance planning. And it was busy at an early-ish 7pm, but not insanely so. No one was waiting in the lobby when we showed up. We weren’t asked if we had reservations, though, just whether or not we wanted a bbq table. It seemed like getting a grill would be a problem, plus I trying to expand my culinary horizons, so we went the easiest route and agreed to any table available, which ended up being a standard four-seater in the back half of the smoky room.
This was fine for about ten minutes while we tried to interpret some language on the menu. There was a section of grilled meats but it said you could only order those at bbq tables (though later we noticed cast iron plates of kalbi and the like on grill-free tables. Perhaps they meant you just couldn’t cook it yourself?). While pondering, a woman who seemed to be the boss, came over and told us that we needed to move because someone had reserved this table.
Here we go…the Saturday night nuisance again (and I don’t need anonymous assholes telling me to stay home, thanks, everyone’s entitled to a reasonable dining experience). I don’t mind sitting at a two-top but I could already foresee a problem with fitting dishes into the abbreviated space. The banchan alone (which I do love about Korean cuisine) would take up a majority of the open area.
There were seven dishes, a spinach-like vegetable was off to the left. Those pictured included kimchi, baby bok choy, bean curd, octopus, radish and seaweed.
And sure enough, after ordering two appetizers and two entrees we were admonished, “That’s a lot of food.” No, not really. We were ordering a reasonably sized meal and it was now up to them to figure out how they were going to fit all of the dishes.
Sashimi came first, and the raised wooden board wasn’t too much of a hindrance. These were some hefty slabs of fish and considerably fresher than the disconcertingly room temperature slices I’d been served the previous day at Gold St. in the Financial District.
The girthy pajun arrived soon after. Pan-fried cakes can get a little doughy, though this seafood-stuffed one maintained a fair amount of crispiness. I will admit that these greasy treats are probably better divvied up between more than two diners, especially since it doesn’t lend itself to leftovers.
The seafood hot pot was a bit problematic to eat because of broth’s high temperature (the photo is steamy) and the weight of the vessel. Normally, I would ask for two small bowls as other tables seemed to have but there was nowhere to put them. So, I had to carefully rearrange the other dishes and scoot the little cauldron near me, trying not to splash, eat a few bites, then maneuver it back towards James so he could have some.
The soup was black pepper and chile flake hot, the type that doesn’t hit until you swallow and get the urge to cough. A little of everything was included: shell-on crab chunk, clams, tiny shrimp, hefty tofu squares, wedges of fish and decorative pink-rimmed fish cake slice. It seemed right for a spring day that had turned chilly and wet.
Chicken was a misstep. I still had fried chicken on the brain so those two words jumped out at me from the kan poong gi description, but as you can see it was essentially sweet and sour chicken. There was a hint of heat and a scattering of bizarrely firm peas and carrots. It wasn’t horrific by any means but wasn’t what I was craving.
The danger of not eating what you wanted is that you (ok, I) will just end up double dinnering to make up for that empty feeling (in your soul, not your stomach, duh). But really, would two measly midnight snack wings harm anyone?
Microwavable Molten Cakes & Blue Cherries
Western Beef will always be my favorite utilitarian grocery store, but when I’m suburban-ing it up as I’m wont to do every month or so, I lean on Shop Rite. It seems kind of the same as Stop & Shop, which I’ve had an on and off again relationship with, but it’s a little more quirky, open 24-hours so you can have the place to yourself at night (because most people have better things to do at 11pm on a Saturday) and they sell Greek yogurt (three brands at that–I eat this nearly every day so a store without it is most unhelpful) unlike S&S or Western Beef.
I’m specifically referring to a Linden, New Jersey location at Aviation Plaza; I can’t speak to the whole chain. This is an area I’m growing fond of in general because it satisfies most of my rudimentary shopping needs and desire for breathing room (never mind that it’s a 20-mile drive, $16 in tolls and I’m not calculating gas). Despite the sense that there is a sizable African American and Eastern European population (the ATMs have Russian as a language choice and there’s a Polish & Slavic credit union in the same strip mall. You can tell a lot from an ATM. My bank, Capital One, formerly North Fork, formerly Greenpoint, which I only joined because it was the most convenient bank when I lived in Queens, is the house bank at this Shop Rite and even has an office right inside the entrance with two sit-down windows. The fast cash option here is $40, the lowest I’ve seen. In Carroll Gardens it’s $60 and the Wall St. branch near my office it’s a whopping $100. You can also choose to take increments of $10 from this ATM, which is something I haven’t seen offered since my Portland days and they probably are up to a $20 minimum by now.) it feels like a Roseanne neighborhood.
There’s a bowling alley, taverns and lots of ratty motels. If there were a slew of used car dealerships, junk/thrift stores and no Italian delis, it would be the type of no nonsense environs my grandparents lived in when I was in grade school (when they weren’t living in a mobile home in our yard—I’m not joking, though it was probably only for a few months it seemed like a year in kid time).
If it weren’t for the pesky problem of getting to Manhattan for work, I would buy in New Jersey, this part of New Jersey, definitely not the areas teeming with garish new construction. House/condo buying is a real possibility in the next year (through no means of my own) and I like to pretend that I have some say in the matter. I’ve also been entertaining nearby Red Hook but isolation and scrappiness shouldn’t cost $1 million-plus. Same goes for Gowanus. I don’t like being in the thick of things; I want to grow out my nasty gray hair in peace…er, and then go check out a new restaurant. Food is really the one thing that keeps me enamored with NYC. It’s certainly not the people. Though I’m not there yet and may never be, I do understand why at this very moment my sister and her British husband are scoping out property in rural Southern Oregon (I’m still not sold on the idea of a cob house, however).
But back to Shop Rite. They aren’t perfect by any means (and apparently there was a lazy-eyed fat woman with a pregnant accomplice robbing people in aisle nine a few years ago). They don’t have those self-serve bottle return machines that are not only rare in the city, but always hogged by the homeless (hey, five-cent refunds aren’t just for the destitute). I was thwarted by their lack of loose green beans or even prepackaged ones in Styrofoam and plastic wrap. They only had $3.99 bags of organic, which I wasn’t buying.
But they do have maraschino cherries in rainbow colors. Yes, I’m obsessed with the Roland cherries.
And they have ethnic candles and cookware. I have no idea what ethnic cookware is and don’t think they mean woks. I also love that brands La Fe and La Cena are mushed together into single lowercase words.
I don’t generally hang out in the boxed baking mixes aisle so I was surprised at the amount of molten cake madness on the shelf. Americans love the warm and gooey. Those soft-centered monsters are my biggest culinary pet peeves next to Tuscan kitchens. I will admit to being tempted by the 150-calorie microwavable Betty Crocker Warm Delights Minis even though (or maybe because) sugar is my enemy.
Obviously, there’s more to Shop Rite than snack food and candles but that’s for another time. I have my loyalty card so there’s no doubt I will return for more than just savings.
Shop Rite * 637 W. Edgar Rd. Linden, NJ
Bar Q
Another short-lived venture. (2/09)
I’ve yet to be swept up by the bbq mania that’s taken hold in NYC over the past few years. That could be why news of Bar Q’s opening didn’t initially motivate me. I’m not unfamiliar with Anita Lo’s refined Asian cooking and am aware that she wouldn’t be mesquite smoking brisket and slathering KC Masterpiece with abandon, but the words Bar and Q just dissuaded me.
Luckily, all it takes is a friend suggesting a food-related outing and I’m game. Sherri, my Momofuku Ko companion, tends to be my partner in dinner splurging. Small and pricey isn’t an easy sell for everyone (but then, I’m someone who balks at spending more than $30 on an item of clothing).
The cacophonous white-on-white space was full when I arrived at 8:30pm for a 9pm reservation. I was banking on a table opening up sooner and one did shortly after ordering a Filipino Spritz at the bar. This was sort of a joke to myself (I was out trying to kill time because James’s mom was in town for some Hispanic conference and spending the night at our apartment. The woman is insane beyond words, not in a funny way, and totally baffling in that she looks completely white, but was born and raised Filipina yet has weird disdain for the culture and claims to be Spanish, which appears to be her first language. So, James has this bias against Filipino things because of her influence, which just makes me like them more. I’d go to Manila in a second, he even has an office there, but it’s just not happening) but the prosecco, calimansi (which I falsely predicted would be big in 2004. Elderflower is hands down the cocktail ingredient of 2008, and yes, it was on the menu), aperol weren’t sugary and cloying, just slightly sweet and a touch bitter.
We ignored the raw bar menu (is the fish on Monday taboo still relevant?) mostly because everything cooked sounded so appealing. Ultimately, we split two appetizers and two entrees. Words like stuffed, fritters, crispy and tea smoked are magic to me. This is my favorite type of restaurant food; super concentrated flavors thanks to savory fish sauce, pickles, Chinese sausage and lots of pork. But portions are sparing enough that you don’t feel bogged down or overly monstrous. I guess Fatty Crab and Ssam Bar are cut from the same cloth, but there’s something so personality driven and over hyped about those two that I can’t bring myself to relent.
I hate breadbasket haters, it’s so Atkins 2004 but uh, I’m not supposed to be eating bread (I interpret this self-imposed dietary restriction semi-loosely, especially when it comes to things like pork buns) so marginally less starchy crackers were a boon for me. It’s not like I’m saying shrimp chips are healthy, but psychologically it deluded me since it wasn’t a hunk of French bread. I can take or leave pappadums, though.
unagi scallion fritters with a sweet soy dipping sauce. The problem with fritters is that sometimes the batter just clouds the ingredients. The eel was a bit subtle for me and got a little lost in the puff.
spit-roasted pork belly with kimchee, takuan and steamed buns. The pork buns more than made up for the fried nothings. It’s not soft unctuous pork belly but crackly like lechon (with the Filipino again) or chicharrones. Tartness always compliments fat, so spicy vingared kimchee and daikon added appropriate fresh crunch. I don’t know what the green sauce was.
stuffed spareribs with lemongrass bbq, peanut and thai basil. Tender boneless ribs were hiding out under a tuft of what I want to say was shaved daikon, and were stuffed with a blend of citrus from lemongrass, something funky either fish sauce or shrimp paste with a touch of peanut sweetness for balance. The combination was Thai-ish but not hot.
tea-smoked long island duck breast with chili and lemon. Chile (I can’t spell it chili) and lemon doesn’t fully explain the components, especially since sesame noodles are almost equally prominent as the medium-rare duck. I know some people lament surprises on the plate, but who is put off by noodles? I wasn’t, though I would say this was one of the more preciously sized dishes.
warm walnut soup with malted rice crispies. I only had a small bite of the dessert but it tasted like earth tones, kind of cinnamonny and graham cracker-ish. I’m not sure how fond Americans are of dessert soups, but at least there weren’t any Asian riffs on molten cakes.
Bar Q * 308 Bleecker St., New York, NY
When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Order Bloomin’ Onions
What was the most brilliant article in today’s New York Times? No, not the one about treating gang violence like an infectious disease nor the creepy piece about parents tracking their children’s grades and attendance in real time.
No, it’s "Déjà Vu Dining," an earnest in-depth review/round-up of suburban chain restaurants by their “in the region” writers. I could’ve written the whole thing myself, and with great pleasure.
I have no idea who these writers are but one can only imagine. The overall Manhattan-centric Times always seems woefully out of touch with reality, and I can’t understand how their bedroom community counterparts appear to be equally removed from the scary dietary habits of regular folks. The article gives the impression was that these restaurants were their first encounters with chains.
At least that’s what I gathered from statements like, “in the league of the best Italian restaurants” in regard to a Long Island Olive Garden. All that says to me is that the state of Italian cuisine in Massapequa is sad and that independently owned has no correlation to quality despite the common perception.
And only someone who feeds their kids gluten-free chicken nuggets and whole grain French bread pizza would say “my teenage daughter is a fan of spicy food, so she was enthusiastic about a visit to Chili’s in East Haven, Conn.” Or maybe I’m the naïve one because I had no idea that Chili’s was known for piquant flavors (though the chain does exist in heat loving Kuala Lumpur) But compared to an Amy’s burrito, Southwestern eggrolls probably do seem spicy.
I wonder if this is meant to be a nod to recession-fighting tactics. While the rest of the nation is supposedly subsisting on 99-cent frozen dinners and Manwich, tri-state denizens are dallying with stuffed potato skins and chocolate lasagna? If so, I’m all for this cost-saving plan.
Here's a real penny-pincher; make your own 3,148-calorie battered onion treat at home.
Ghenet
1/2 I’ve frequently suspected as much, but now I’m convinced that my timing is hopelessly off kilter. From now on whenever I get the urge to dine out, I’m going to wait 45-minutes to realign my bad luck.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve arrived at a restaurant, been quoted a semi-reasonable wait that eventually doubles, then get seated at the same time as another party that’s just arrived, crammed in right next to them only to have the entire room clear out within minutes. There’s something infuriating about being stuck only six inches from the only other patrons in an empty room.
Park Slope’s new Ghenet branch did nothing to change my exasperated view of the cosmos. Saturday night I was considering Korhogo 126 (primarily because it’s walkable from my apartment) but opted for straight up Ethiopian at the last minute. I know better than to attempt recently opened restaurants on weekend nights but I’m drawn to patience-trying situations like um, Marcus Samuelsson to new projects (trying to stay on point with the prettied-up African food and all).
The space is pretty, dimly lit, with lots of geometric cut out metal screens, and slightly incongruous on still-busted Fourth Avenue. When we arrived at 9:30 another couple was waiting at the bar and we were quoted a 20-minute wait. I could handle that. The staff seemed friendly enough, too. After ordering a glass of shiraz, the other duo was seated. From that point on not a one of the 12 tables budged despite numerous groups having finished their meals. On two different occasions our hopes were raised and we were promised that a table was about to open up…but no.
I should’ve just left. I think that should be my new M.O. because my heart can’t take it (I don’t mean that hyperbolically; not only am I newly diabetic but have also had inexplicably high blood pressure since my twenties. This past week I’ve been trying to get off my medication because it slows my heart rate and I’m convinced that it’s been messing with my metabolism for the past seven years. The downside is that I’m so twitchy and anxiety-ridden I can barely sit still). I’m so impatient that I practically had a stroke by the time a seat opened up 40 minutes later.
I don’t like to take circumstances beyond a staff’s control out on them, and rarely do (I just internalize it, hence the blood pressure) but what makes me snap is when everyone around me is oblivious and enjoying themselves when I’m being inconvenienced. It’s not about entitlement but about fairness. What tipped my indecision over being annoyed into full blown annoyance was when the threesome who’d been waiting 15 minutes that was seated directly next to us at the same time received apologies for the long wait and were served first while we were given no such acknowledgement for waiting almost three times as long. My impression was clouded beyond repair.
And eating while angry is no fun. Plus, James wanted to kill me because he had zero interest in Ethiopian food in the first place, ranking it down with Filipino food, which are fighting words because I’m totally an apologist for Filipino cuisine. But he swayed me a bit. I mean, after being traumatized and hungry do you really want to eat little blobs of mush with your hands?
I sort of did. I dug the injera, the slightly sourdoughy, chamois-smooth flatbread used as an edible utensil. I don’t know that they actually used traditional teff, as the grain is hard to come by in the U.S., but I was kind of hoping so since it’s a low glycemic product and I’m now all about blood sugar friendly bread-like items.
Sambusa, a.k.a. chicken turnover
We ordered a combo, which allows a meat and two vegetables per person. I quickly learned that wett means spicy and aletcha means mild. That’s all you have to know plus main ingredient to make a decision. I’m fairly certain that Ethiopian food in Ethiopia (and perhaps other parts of NYC) is genuinely hot. That wasn’t the case here, which didn’t surprise me given the location.
The dark mound in the center is doro wett, which is a little tricky because there’s a whole drumstick and hard-boiled egg in there. The presentation almost feels Malaysian, lots of complexly spiced scoops but on injera rather than a banana leaf, but the actual flavor of the chicken in particular reminded me of mole. It must be all of the spices working together and probably attributable to the berbere.
The top left is sega wett, beef, but despite the name wasn’t exactly the same as the chicken. The carrots and beans are obvious, lentils are in the front right and the two pools of an unspecified bean weren’t far off from frijoles. Yes, again with the Mexican food comparison.
I’ve long felt that I need to learn more about regional African food–I’m interested in Ghanian edibles–but other cuisines always seem to take precedence when I’m out and about. And after this underwhelming experience I’m afraid that I will have to convince a new dining partner to accompany me on my mission.
Ghenet * 348 Douglass St., Brooklyn, NY
Organic Wood-Fired Balsamic-Glazed Duck Embryo on a Bed of Microgreens
Glancing at my wardrobe, pantry and home décor, it’s obvious that I love me some Target (with a huge proportion of above items also originating from Ikea and Old Navy—yes, I’m cheap with middling tastes). I buy the occasional Archer Farms product, but I’m totally not seeing the logical connection between so-so foodstuffs gussied up to sound gourmet and Andrew Zimmerman, the Bizarre Foods guy and Pepto Bismol spokesman who has become the new SuperTarget Meal Adventure Guide.
Indigestion, diarrhea and larvae-eating are going to make middle America want to try Spinach & Goat Cheese Torino Wood-Fire Pizza or Strawberry Basil Balsamic Vinegar?
What do I know? I was also confused by Wanda Sykes voicing the mouthy Applebee’s apple. Ha, which has been scrapped for the new Applebee’s new emphasis on quality, better finger foods and improved bar scene. I’m inclined to believe this new CEO knows her business because I never eat at IHOP but on my last visit I totally ordered the stuffed French toast, which apparently is this lady exec’s legacy.
Despite not being directly related, I must say that I appreciate how even diarrhea isn’t immune to user-generated content commercials.
Crochet balut from joylimos on etsy
Apr 26
Centro Vinoteca
I’ve decided that Wednesday nights right after work are perfect for dining out and that there’s no shame in being a mid-week early bird. Last Wednesday I was on an inexplicable burger rampage and this Wednesday one my irrationally un-favorite cuisines, Italian (I think I’m turned off by the blind American fetishizing of Tuscany. You can’t turn on a home and garden channel without getting the crap scared out of you by a hideous Olive Garden-inspired kitchen oozing travertine, marble, granite and horrific grape and/or wine motifs. And you can only watch so many leathery divorcees looking at brokedown yet charming Tuscan villas on House Hunters International) began to seem alluring for no reason at all.
This is not Centro Vinoteca
You have to go with these gut feelings. I considered newish, nearby, weirdly located Bar Tano, but ultimately nixed Brooklyn. I wasn’t up for anyplace super new either. Centro Vinoteca is one of those places I was never inclined to visit when it opened, so why not now. It is a handsome little space: clean, modern and thoroughly non-Tuscan.
We chose one item from the list of piccolini, which are more like bar snacks than small plates, though you could certainly cobble together a meal from them. The off-white sauce tasted almost like pure garlic, and it sort of was; agliata is no more than garlic, bread crumbs and vinegar. Our cauliflower fritters had a parmesan zing but could’ve used a little more salt and this comes from a chronic under-salter. If I think something’s under seasoned, it’s seriously in need of saline.
The grilled shrimp with panelle was a smart choice. I’m not sure if it was an herb or a dressing component, but something lemony lifted up the whole dish while the light chickpea wedges were earthy and Indian-feeling, possibly from cumin, not like the Sicilian versions I’ve had before.
I didn’t take pictures of food that wasn’t mine but an appetizer special of soft-shell crab and favas with an aioli looked amazing. I don’t like ordering the same dishes as fellow diners so I was polite and conceded this super spring-like pairing to James.
I’ve never been into pasta (though I love Asian noodles) and am presently starch-limiting, but figured pastas were a strength and were unlikely to be massively portioned. No, they weren’t gut-bustingly huge, but mine was heavy and wintery considering the weather (this was the day my office decided to prematurely turn on the air conditioning). It was a strange warm day for rich boar ragu, hefty gnocchi and fried onions. Abstractly, I enjoyed the deep, bittersweet flavors but I was burning up; the sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows overheated the small space like an oven. There’s a good reason to only dine after sundown.
I got into the quartino in lieu of single glasses of wine, which yields about a glass and a half per serving. I tried two wines from Alto Adige, a rose first and a pinot noir with the ragu. The boar could’ve handled a bigger red, but I’m not a genius at pairing.
Off the subject, but I really liked the woman who cleared plates and that might’ve been a server (I don’t understand front of the house restaurant dynamics). All the others were perfectly professional young, metro/homo sexual men, ours possessed a vague Karim Rashid look. But the lone female could’ve come straight from a New Jersey diner or possibly a woman’s prison. She was a little rough around the edges, kind of wild-eyed, tattooed, middle aged (or maybe just a candidate for 10 Years Younger) and said things that a poised male staff member couldn’t get away with. Upon asking us how we liked our food, to which we enthusiastically replied “oh, we liked it.” she glanced down at our just-shy-of-clean plates and kind of huskily cackled, “I can tell.” A West Village guy can’t tell you that you’ve been a pig without being rude.
Also, I don’t understand young women who go out to a relatively nice restaurant with tons of creative options and order a salad, pasta and tap water. I would just as well stay home with a nice aluminum tin of Pasta Hut or actually partake in Carroll Gardens’s fine Italian offerings.
Centro Vinoteca * 74 Seventh Ave. S., New York, NY
First Things First
In a hopeless attempt at becoming less me-centric I’ve finally gotten my new URL www.goodiesfirst.com up and running. www.project-me.com should still work just so old links don’t break, but from here on out it’s Goodies First all the time.
