Posts from the ‘What to Eat’ Category

Feb 11

El Born

Brooklyn has never been strong for tapas, and North Brooklyn has never done much to help matters. Mercat Negre was kind of odd, so was Cadaques to a degree and now it’s shifted French, and Bar Celona had that hard-to-get-past name and died a slow death. El Born, joining the new Greenpoint restaurant brigade, has potential. At least it’s trying something new.

Keeping with the original tapas spirit, the narrow room is taken up mostly by a long bar with a few small tables and stools against the opposite buff brick wall (there are a few larger tables in the back). Good for a drink or two and a few small plates of food. With that said, it’s still one of those mysterious math places where a majority of menu items are under $15 and yet you still end up spending $100 when all is said and done.

The restaurant also taps into the Spanish fondness for gin and tonics, a.k.a. gintonic, with four variations including #2 (Bulldog gin, Fever Tree tonic, lemon peel, licorice) and #4 (Hendricks gin, Schweppes tonic, cucumber, black pepper, lime) pictured here. And yes, there’s a kalimotxo.

Many of the ingredients are Spanish, but the preparations aren’t totally classic. Pa amb tomaquet, which was brought out like an amuse, was one exception.

Croquettes are a tapas staple, but less common are ones filled with mint, goat cheese and pine nuts propped on a base of apple sauce (not applesauce).

I was going to say that Greenpoint is having a rabbit moment, but the fate of Glasserie’s much lauded shareable hare is undetermined and I don’t see the conill amb allioli on El Born’s current online menu. The bony chunks are coated in chestnut flour, fried, presented in a paper bag (I could’ve sworn there was rosemary in there too) and served with a citrusy aioli. Definitely order this chicken nugget alternative if it’s available.

Picaña’ amb brou is the Catalan answer to roast beef au jus. Slices of rare steak on toast with a rosemary-perfumed pig foot broth is high on presentation, though not necessarily the easiest to share or decipher. Sipping makes more sense.

The only dud was the cauliflower gratin, which apparently wasn’t impressive enough to merit a iPhone shot (this was not intentional). Instead of a browned casserole thick with manchego and bechamel, the reality was a dish of steamy florets sitting in a pool of thin white sauce. Who needs a gratin anyway? Eat a salad if you’re feeling vegetable deprived.

El Born * 651 Manhattan Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Jan 28

M. Wells Steakhouse

If you’ve heard anything about M. Wells Steakhouse, it’s that steaks aren’t necessarily its strength (oh, and that it’s hidden away at the ends of the earth amidst a bunch of grit and rubble–never mind the towering luxury dwellings and five subway lines running less than four blocks away). That makes perfect sense for a restaurant sprung from the contrarian Québécois school where more is more and things are never what they seem.

Prices, portions and descriptors can be at odds. Can a lobster tail really be $10 when the caviar sandwich is $50? Should one pay $60 to eat something called a Dog Bowl? I knew that the $25 side of beef butter was actually a small steak, but where does that fit into the meal?

Two of the things I did want (Solomon Gundy, bison rib eye) were already unavailable at 8pm on a Sunday. Not that that didn’t leave plenty of other choices; the menu is sprawling. I would’ve preferred the excess of the smelt and trout egg waffle to the shrimp on shrimp, which is exactly what it sounds like, plus cocktail sauce and the flavor of Old Bay.

The onion and bone marrow soup was more like it. Who cares that the gratineed beef gelatin enriched with pork belly, caramelized onions, and yes, containing a scoopable bone, hardly qualifies as a soup. This is the M. Wells-ian decadence people–and by people, I mean me–want.

The steaks were ok. Or maybe I’ve just been unduly influenced. I had to nix the châteaubriand for two because that tender cut is like the steak fries of steak. And that’s not a positive. The côte de boeuf probably would’ve been more up my alley, but the Minetta Tavern price tag was not. The grass-fed Kansas strip had moments of greatness. Medium-rare was exactly that and some bites had nice char and punches of minerality, but overall it was a fairly innocuous piece of meat. That said, the half I saved for dinner the next night was one of the better things I’ve eaten in my apartment this year. It’s all about context.

The T-bone was more what I wanted–fat and flavor–though my dining companion preferred my strip steak, which only proves that meat is very subjective.

Sides were more fun. Potatoes come five ways and the aligot, more cheese and butter than actual tuber, is the one to get if only to test its elasticity with a fork.

Salsify with shaved black truffles was almost candied, as the roots were browned in copious amounts of butter, bringing out the natural sweetness.

After all this (and a Manhattan and a bottle of Russian River valley pinot noir that I can’t recall) dessert wasn’t entirely needed. I wanted to see the fabled dessert cart rolling about the former garage’s floor (as long as I live, I’ll never forget the two sweets trolleys at Robuchon a Galera in Macau) but that wasn’t the drill. Next thing, I’ll find out that the trout are already dead and caught elsewhere and and that there’s not going to be freaking catamaran at all.

At least a pavlova is light. The meringue shell was drizzled with a passionfruit sauce and branded with gold leaf. The interior contained blood orange curd.

The menu is ranging enough to pay an additional visit and try all different things. I’d be up for a non-steak second meal, not because the meat was all that disappointing but because other dishes are just more interesting.

M. Wells Steakhouse * 43-15 Crescent St., Long Island City, NY

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Jan 21

Gotham West Market: El Colmado & The Cannibal

Apparently, there are two new bacon boards in Hell’s Kitchen: one at BarBacon (which I only learned of today) and another at The Cannibal inside Gotham West Market. The latter might get lost in all of the charcuterie on offer, but it’s worth a look if you aren’t into delving into pig’s heads, chicken livers or raw lamb.

Left to right, this is house made back bacon a.k.a. lardo, what I heard as “lamb bacon” but another thought was “ham bacon,” though admitted that was redundant, and jowl. The firm and crispy mystery bacon in the middle was the universal hit, despite being the slightest bit gamey. Lardo draped on the hearty wheat bread and drizzled with maple syrup (left condiment) is also a good move.. The bacon fat is only for the hardcore.

We all know fried brussels sprouts flavored with mint now. These, tossed with generous crumbles of salty country ham are different, meatier take. I got overly excited at the sight of liquid white cheese, thinking of my processed favorites. This blend was oddly flavorless, though, almost like thick opaque water. There was a mild sharp cheddar after taste, but not enough to make an impact.

El Colmado has a happy hour deal worth walking three avenues for in the urban arctic. $11 will get you six oysters (Malpeques on this occasion) with mignonette sauce and a glass of cava. To be honest, I just a seat at the nearest counter upon entering because I had some time to kill. The oysters were a nice surprise.

The mini bocadillo contained an octopus body (grilled, not crispy as advertised and as I’d envisioned–like the ones in Madrid) paired unexpectedly with a minty sauce.

Patatas bravas were not only spicier than any version you’d find in Spain, the plate was also larger than anticipated, which is one of those things that’s hard to gauge with NYC tapas, regardless of using price as a guide ($10 vs. $7 for the bocadillo). Instead of pure potato with a spicy brava sauce on the side, these were coated in a chile powder then swathed in aioli.

Ivan Ramen will have to wait.

El Colmado and The Cannibal at Gotham West Market * 600 Eleventh Ave., New York, NY

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Jan 18

Solero Tapas & Bodega

If you wondering if you could find Spanish food in Dubai, the answer would be yes. Why, is a separate question. Honestly, the only reason I paid week-old Solero a visit was because my hotel was “dry,” I wanted a glass of wine (something non-residents can’t purchase in stores without a license) and this new tapas bar in inside the Kempinksi Hotel inside the Mall of the Emirates was technically across the street (the NYC equivalent of being on the other side of a BQE overpass).

Pa amb tomàquet, the simple toasty snack that I never bother attempting because how often do you get a tomato with enough juice and flavor? I have no idea where tomatoes come from in Dubai in December, but this rendition wasn’t an atrocity.

Neither was the cazuela filled with stacks of meaty coins of octopus, doused with smoked paprika and olive oil. Being mildly pork-deprived, the logical choice would’ve been a plate of jamon, but I feared not only the dirham to dollar gouging but the metric to imperial conversion. I always screw up ordering in measures that aren’t ounces or pounds and end up with double instead of half of what I’d intended. Pulpo a la gallega was safer–and satisfying. I decided to stay a little longer and sip a gin and tonic, despite my aversion to dining alone.

The staff, both service and behind the open kitchen with bar seating, was almost wholly imported from Spain (minus the one Chilean cook I spoke to). Even the DJ appeared be playing Spanish pop hits of the ’80s, which only the hard-partying couple next to me, two chefs from another restaurant, seemed to know, based on their shrieks and hollers. The rest of the diners were far more subdued. There were even a few obviously Muslim women present–I mention this only because there’s a security guard outside the door at the mall’s entrance who on a different occasion had steered a group of curious men away by saying, “That’s a bar.” It’s really more of a restaurant, though.

Solero Tapas & Bodega * Kempinsski Mall of the Emirates, Sheikh Zayed Rd. * Dubai, UAE

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Jan 15

Thailand’s Center Point

Confession: I’ve never eaten at a Gray’s Papaya in my close-to-sixteen years in this city. (Deeper confession: I don’t like hot dogs–and yes, I also eat pizza with a fork and sometimes a knife, too.) More embarrassingly, though, since I kind of consider Thai food to be my thing, is that I had never eaten at Thailand’s Center Point until this year.

I know, I know. It’s what Sripraphai used to be, it’s mom and pop (or rather mom and daughter), there aren’t hordes and a ticketing system, it’s BYOB. All valid arguments. I’m probably one of the last remaining Sripraphai apologists. That’s just where I’ll go if I’m in the neighborhood.

Center Point does have charm. It’s more personable, and I appreciate the thrift of drinking your own bottles of Brooklyn lager (four cocktails at Bar Below Rye afterward cost more than dinner) though it’s also impossible render a verdict after three dishes–three dishes that came sequentially, the next arriving only after the former was finished. It wasn’t clear if this pacing was intended or just how the kitchen was handling orders. I like being able to take a bite here and there.

The crispy fried papaya salad is kind of the answer to Sripraphai’s crispy watercress salad; a weird treatment that works. It’s essentially a som tum with seafood (squid, shrimp, mussels) except that the unripe fruit has been battered and fried. I’m all for this. You lose the freshness but gain a different kind of crunch. This is a papaya salad for temperatures sinking dangerously close to single digits. The dressing wasn’t overly sweet, a common complaint, but it was heavy on the lime and garlic with no heat for balance. Of course, that can be remedied with ground chiles or chile-infused fish sauce from the condiment caddy shared among the handful of tables.

It wasn’t that my request for spicy (and no, I’m not trying to prove something by obliterating the taste of the food) was misunderstood because the next two dishes, both pork because of lack of foresight, were just the right amount of hot; appreciable, some bites more tingly than others, but not brutal. The larb was a good rendition with meat that was just a shade away from medium-rare. Make sure to scoop the liquid from underneath the lettuce because that’s where the heat hides.

I can never not order crispy pork. It’s always going to happen if it’s on the menu, which is why the larb should’ve been something else like the also rich-and-fatty duck that I didn’t notice on the specials board until the end of the meal. Here, the fried chunks of pork were stir-fried with chile and basil, a classic. While it tasted unmistakably Thai, there was also something vaguely Chinese-y about this version compared to Sripraphai’s. It’s not like five-spice powder or soy sauce jumped out. All I can attribute it to is that Sriprahai’s is drier with fewer distractions while the Center Point style includes thickly sliced onions and green and red peppers more prominently. It was a very likeable dish, nonetheless.

I am certain I will return because there is no shortage of people who enjoy eating here that I could tag along with. There is much to be explored on the menu still.

Thailand’s Center Point * 63-19 39th Ave., Woodside, NY

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Dec 31

1 Knickerbocker

R.I.P. That was fast. (6/17/14)

It can be hard to gauge a restaurant this fresh, especially during the lull between Christmas and the new year. At least in this East Williamsburg deadzone that everyone calls Bushwick where it appears that 80% of the neighborhood has returned from whence they came for the holidays. Only two blocks from the Morgan Ave. L and the streets are dead and dark at 7pm, making the area seem more desolate than is actually the case (grousers who would like to cling to the area as gritty and undiscovered should take note).

1 Knickerbocker hits all of the stylistic notes that one has come to expect from a gastropub and that are still in vogue on the cusp of 2014: tin ceilings, house-made bitters, boutique vermouths, pickles, offal. Oh, and a scotch egg, which I’d like to deem a local prerequisite even though The Rookery is the only other example I can think of (shocked at Dear Bushwick’s omission).

One thing that separates 1 Knickerbocker from its ilk in other neighborhoods is the size. The place is enormous and a perfect antidote for those averse to squeezing between two inches of table space. Booth for six? No problem. And on this particular evening, a luxury for two. (For the record, The Randolph Brooklyn also ranks highly for booth-lovers.)

You can start with a nice Manhattan riff. With rye and an absinthe rinse, the drink is a little Sazerac-y. Birch bitters up the herbal quotient.

Admittedly, it was the fried pig ears that drew me in. This version plays up the crunch more than the chew (I don’t mind a bit more gooeyness) and gets its lusciousness from mayonnaise flavored with pickled peppers. Fried curry leaves were a distinctive touch. Where curry powder tastes like fake Indian food, if you’ve ever smelled or nibbled curry leaves–maybe without even knowing it–the flavor is recognizably Indian.

There is synergy with the scotch egg, which also relies on a flavored mayonnaise–black garlic, in this case–and a pickled hard-boiled egg fried in a pakora-like coating, so one or the other would probably suffice. Thankfully, the sausage is chicken instead of the usual pork, so overall this isn’t as heavy as it looks.

Shredded brussels sprouts and chickpeas with a peppery yogurt dressing.

Ok, more pickles and eggs. The farmer’s plate did have a hearty selection of smoked meats, and substantial cheeses, though clearly, I was remiss in ordering any warm entrees like the roast elk or pork cheeks, mostly because I was snacking and drinking. Despite saying gastropub, the mains have touches like caraway, spaetzle, juniper and dill that are less London and more Berlin bistro.

1 Knickerbocker * 1 Knickerbocker Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Dec 28

Six Cuisines in Five Hours: An Old Dubai Crash Course

Four hours, forty-nine minutes and thirteen seconds spent sampling food from all ends of the Middle East does not an expert make, but it’s a pretty good crash course, nonetheless. Beyond the obvious Levantine favorites like hummus, tabouleh, shawarma, and a few long ago forays into Atlantic Avenue’s Yemeni restaurants, I’m stunted when it comes to regional specialties.

Dubai is funny in that there are still perfectly accessible vestiges of the pre-glitz era, entire neighborhoods even. Just cross the creek into Deira and you’re in the Queens of the Emirate. Any eating that required being outside for more than three minutes was nixed on my previous Ramadan-hindered visit, which meant no strolling and no chowhoundy missions. Plus, who has an appetite when it’s 112 degrees? (Boo to Celsius. Tell me it’s 20 degrees or 40 degrees and I’ll comprehend nothing.) Even during the winter there aren’t many pedestrians minus the occasional sun-burnt Brit. Lest you think I exaggerate, the bus stops–many sponsored by Tim Hortons–are air conditioned. I’ve yet to master exposure on photos in the dark with bright blown out signs, so evidence deleted.

Arva, a food blogger who grew up in Dubai and still lives in Deira, started a food tour business called Frying Pan Adventures this year, and it’s become popular for a reason. While I’ve always shied away from guided group activities while traveling (and in life, generally) it’s very useful in a city where it’s easier to read up on ventures by ’90s chefs like Gary Rhodes or find the latest American import than where to get the best kunafa or find lesser known items like Iranian sangak.

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Dec 16

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Rashed Ali Cafeteria

For a country where drunkeness–public or otherwise–is seriously frowned on, the United Arab Emirates certainly produces one of the most mind-bending late night snacks I’ve ever encountered. It’s hard to imagine a brain on mocktails coming up with something so ingenious.

Rashed Ali Cafeteria is in a strip mall in Al Ain, the second-largest city in Abu Dhabi, which didn’t seem all that large. It’s open 24 hours. At 2am on a holiday weekend Saturday, there were still cars pulling up and doing the classic honk-and-order. Drivers in the UAE turn any business (including liquor stores where leaving your tinted windowed SUV could draw undue attention) into a car hop with a few short beeps.

The order: four San Franciscos, 5 dirham apiece or roughly $1.35. I have no idea if that’s the official name–or the price– because I didn’t see a menu and my driver who I’d met the day before, an expat sister of a Brooklyn friend, speculated that was the “white girl price” because it had been cheaper before. (There was also paranoia that the server was being rude and wouldn’t give us change from the 20 dirham note because he suspected we had been drinking.)

Four originally sounded excessive but these sandwiches that a New Yorker would call gyros are petite. What they consist of I can only guess. Presumably, the main ingredient is hot chicken, orange-ish, hinting at tandoori spices. The bread isn’t pita or khameer, an Emirati pita–there is a whole canon of Arabic breads I’d never encountered before–but chewy, pliable and buttery like a roti or what they would call paratha (which I kept hearing as “burrata” because P’s are pronounced like B’s). I’m pretty sure it’s a paratha.

What sealed it for me was the processed cheese (not burrata). Numerous brands–Borden, Kraft, and something called Puck–vie for shelf space (sometimes it’s refrigerated, sometimes not) for their plastic squeezable containers and small glass jars. Called spreadable cream cheese, it is not that. The taste and consistency is more akin to white Cheez Whiz, obviously an angelic version.

And it is the gooey, salty schmear that elevates the San Francisco to greatness. The heavy layer of un-crushed wavy potato chips doesn’t hurt either. I ate two, one on the car, one back in the apartment, conked out, and didn’t wake up until the next afternoon.

Rashed Ali Cafeteria * Slemi, Al Ain, United Arab Emirates

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Dec 10

Dishy: Covert Khao Soi

It’s inevitable. No matter how much amazing local (and not so local–I broke down and tried pulpo a la gallego one evening) food I may eat while abroad, when I return to NYC the first thing I want is Mexican or Thai (assuming I didn’t go to Mexico or Thailand, obviously) and preferably delivered to my door. (I did actually go as far as registering for 24h.ae, the Seamless of the UAE, and attempted to place an order for a mixed grill and fatayer but it kept rejecting my credit card.)

Qi is my neighborhood (home and work) standby for better-than-you’d-think Thai. It’s usually crispy pork and basil and a beef tendon if it’s dinner or duck salad if it’s lunchtime. Maybe what they say about travel is true and now my horizons have been broadened because I broke out of my routine and ordered something listed as salmon wild ginger curry with kanom jiin noodle a.k.a. Brooklynized khao soi (it’s not served at the Times Square branch). And it was good.

The lip-tingling coconut milk broth, seven on a scale of one-to-ten, with fish balls resembling mini bocconcini comes separate from the base components–musty strips of krachai, sour, slightly sweet cabbage, bean sprouts, chopped green beans, sliced red onions, thick round rice noodles–to reduce transitory sog. I couldn’t say whether the kanom jiin (more commonly spelled jeen) were fermented over a period of days as tradition dictates. I do know that the egg yolks remained impressively wobbly while the salmon skin had lost most of its crunchiness, as would be expected as side effect of delivery. The main thing that was off was the proportion of liquid to stuff (the primary photo is half of what came in the plastic containers). It got a little soupier after a stir, though.

That’s the Brooklyn Flickr filter, by the way (I’m two-timing Instagram). Could you tell? What neighborhood in Brooklyn do you think that is?

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Dec 4

Alder

Alder was not exactly what I expected. The food was fairly straightforward, at least in comparison to WD-50, which wasn’t a detriment for the dishes since most are memorable close to a month later. I couldn’t conjure up a single detail about the room if I tried, though. Perhaps that wasn’t the point.

Even though I’ve been trying to work my way through two pounds of Chinese sausage picked up at Costco, I still ordered the pigs in a blanket that wrap flattened hot dog buns around the sweet fatty links of lap cheong. The emphasis here is more on the link than the normally puffy coating. Served with sweet chile sauce and Japanese mustard, these are the perfect cross-cultural snacks. They will not be forgotten come Super Bowl.

The quail scotch eggs, whose shrunken size provides a good coating to innards ratio, also tread in bar snack territory.

Grilled octopus combined the most unusual flavors and it was also the most successful composed dish. Octopus and chorizo, I could buy in that Portuguese-y pork and seafood way. Sweet potato–why not? Banana, though, seemed, well, bananas, one step too far. It was not. Oily sausage, paprika and octopus coins are strong enough for a sweet, starchy accent.

Instagram works. I might not have considered the goat if I hadn’t seen the whole animal being prepped before service. I’m not sure what else went into this take on Jamaican goat curry and coco bread, but based on taste it was less a riff than a rendition, just presented spilling out of a wedge of acorn squash.

Alder * 157 Second Ave., New York, NY

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Posts from the ‘What to Eat’ Category

El Born

M. Wells Steakhouse

Gotham West Market: El Colmado & The Cannibal

Solero Tapas & Bodega

Thailand’s Center Point

1 Knickerbocker

Six Cuisines in Five Hours: An Old Dubai Crash Course

Rashed Ali Cafeteria

Dishy: Covert Khao Soi

Alder

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