Posts from the ‘Manhattan’ Category

Dec 28

Grand Sichuan

Thank goodness for Jewish friends and those sticking in the 11211 zip code over Christmas, no matter how much I rip on it. For practically a decade I was stuck entertaining myself, this year I had two options: classic movie and Chinese food and low key Brooklyn party. I thought I might handle both but I got sidetracked.

We started out watching Juno at Union Square, which barraged me with enough sass and quirk to last me through the entire new year (and could a character just get an abortion already in 2008?). But can I say that Michael Cera is completely hot and totally legal? Then, we needed walking-distance Chinese. I was trying super hard not to be an authenticity snob but given a choice between Grand Sichuan St. Marks and Sammy’s, there’s no floundering.

I figured G.S. would be safe for all three palates involved. Last Christmas I had a hard time with my spice-hating friend Heather putting soy sauce on her Vietnamese noodles, and as we were dining together again this December 25th I vowed to ease up on the intolerance. You can order things like bbq ribs, scallion pancakes and sesame chicken and it’s no biggie, so accordingly, we had all three.

Plus, Todd Barry was one of the seeming hundreds who thought they’d be the only one waiting for a table. It would’ve been a total indie comedy Christmas if the Flight of the Conchords guys showed up. And if Mo Rocca made an appearance I would’ve totally plotzed.

Even if I know I’ll be eating the bulk myself, I can’t resist tendons or tripe bathed in chile oil, buzzing with peppercorns. These had a subtle tingly creep that only kicked in after a few mouthfuls.

No one hates a rib.

Or a scallion pancake either. Peacemaking food.

Chicken with dried chiles were just that. The crispy bits were punchy but not painfully hot.

But then, I’m no judge of hot because Heather insisted her benign choice, sesame chicken, was spicy.

I figured red-braised pork would be safe since the amount of fat included is way scarier than the heat level. I’ve never encountered a pork belly dish I didn’t like, plus the richness of chestnuts pushes boundaries.

Pumpkin seemed like a wise seasonal vegetable. I was mildly concerned that the green strips in the photo would be bell pepper, which I’m fussy about. But luckily, it was a mild green chile.

I’ve resolved to leave town next Christmas (but I’ve been saying that for years to no avail). But if for some pathetic reason I’m still skulking around NYC on the 25th in ’08, there would be worse places to while away time than at Grand Sichuan. (12/25/07)

Dec 25

Skyway Malaysian

1/2 Assessing a restaurant based on two take out dishes is never wise. So I won’t. My foray to Skyway Malaysian was kind of peripheral anyway. I wanted to make something non-labor-intensive for Christmas Eve dinner, but still interesting and most likely S.E. Asian. This meant no complex spice and herb pastes because I don’t have the energy for pounding or foraging for obscurities.

I initially researched devil curry recipes before it dawned on me that I just made that Eurasian holiday meal two years ago. Duh. Even if no one else reads this site, it at least serves as a great memory-prodder for me. I don’t think Alzheimer’s runs in my family (though that’s hard to determine since no one makes it past 60) but keeping track of life’s minutiae might prove become practical in a decade or so.

As it turned out the only ingredient I needed for my roast chicken was kecap manis, oh, and the chicken, which still precipitated a four-subway-stop trip to Chinatown. I’m all about efficiency so decided to pick up a vegetable side dish at Skyway, just a block from Hong Kong Supermarket at the F station. Shrimp and green beans seemed right with chicken. I had to stop myself from ordering the curry fish head casserole because that would be overkill.

I couldn’t resist getting prawn mee to go, though. It could be a late lunch (I didn’t end up eating it until 7pm so now my dining schedule is screwed up). I hate dining in restaurants alone or else I would’ve just eaten the soup on the spot. Luckily, they do package the broth separately from the noodles, shrimp, kangkong and hard boiled egg, so sogginess is averted.

I was imaging a more coconut milk-based, Singapore laksa-like soup but this was a deep, spicy, very shrimpy broth. I could just eat a big bowl of the liquid but the chiles might make me cough if I slurped too fast. My only criticism is that it was a little too salty. But I’m very sensitive to salt, so it might be spot on for an average palate. I'm not sure why the broth looks frothy after I combined the two plastic tubs.

All I can say is thank god that I’m stuck here for the holidays. The sidewalk in front of Skyway happens to be one of those cheap Chinatown bus’s stops, and there was a massive luggage-toting crowd filling the entire stretch of Allen Street and blocking the door to the restaurant. It looked like a fun bunch of people: pushy non-lining-up Chinese and African Americans mocking the way the driver was saying Richmond. Ok, it did sound like he was yelling, “Reecheemon” but everyone knows you’re supposed to make fun of others quietly. Uh, or on your blog.

I was thinking the subway wouldn’t be crowded even though it was rush hour because the city had thinned out for Christmas, but no luck. I still had to stand with all my bags and the seated woman I was hovering near began covering her nose. “Oh shit, my shrimp paste.” I’d also bought a baggie of dried shrimp at the grocery store, which couldn’t be helping matters. I felt nervous for a second, then I was like, “Fuck you and this whole subway car. Oh, and seasons greetings.” I’m annoyed on a daily basis by my fellow riders, so grossing out strangers for fifteen minutes on Christmas Eve was the least of my concerns. In fact, I kind of enjoyed it.

Thank you, Skyway for empowering me to shed my usual self-consciousness. I should stink up subway cars more often—a lofty goal for 2008.

Skyway Malaysian * 11 Allen St., New York, NY

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Dec 24

Artisanal

The first and last time I visited Artisanal was Valentine's Day 2001. There's no particular reason why it took me nearly six years to return; it's just that it never occurred to me until last week when fondue seemed in order.

The melted cheese with crudites and air-dried beef was perfectly acceptable but I wasn't bowled over either. I do enjoy letting the thin coating of cheese on the bottom of the dish char into a frico disk.

Duck rillettes (they spell it with one L but that looks weird), on the other hand, were very satisfying and generously portioned. You can't let the layer of fat scare you. The fondue felt a bit skimpy, but maybe I'm just a cheese pig.

My goal was really to binge on cheese. We stayed away from bistro entrees and ordered a cheese and charcuterie plate, which made me want to forget proper dinners forever and just eat cheese, fruit and nuts every night. This was the best decision ever because one of the four cheeses presented to us, Cato Corner Farm Hooligan, made me insane (in a good way).

The next day I was obsessing at work over whether I'd have time at lunch to get to Murray's and back. I'm still thinking about it. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone carries it in Brooklyn except at the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket, which does me no good since it's Sunday.

This Hooligan is seriously awesome and I don't use that word willy-nilly. The oozy cheese is one of those classically smelly washed rind beasts that divide people. At a recent holiday party the hostess had to put the cheese plate in the fridge because people (well, her ex-boyfriend that she still lives with) were complaining about the stench. I was like bring that shit back out.

Left to right, the cheeses are Constant Bliss, Berkswell, Hooligan and Valdeon. (12/23/07)

Dec 15

Bacaro

Apparently, sales people don’t eat sardines, chicken liver or octopus, or at least that’s what I was led to believe by my coworker who planned our holiday party at newish, strange-for-the-neighborhood Bacaro. I didn’t want to believe the meat and potatoes of it but I’m afraid it might be true.

As I grow more entrenched in market research surveys, I see people in percentages. I’d love to find a study on eating habits by job function, which would probably correlate to personality types. My half-baked theory is that extroverts are conservative eaters and introverts more culinarily adventurous.

At lot of food went to waste and that concerned the spend thrift in me. Even though I did try everything except the dessert (tiramisu, panna cotta and possibly cheesecake) I had to remind myself that just because the catacombs (yes, the subterranean dining rooms are tricked out with stone walls, wooden beams and lots of candlelit nooks and crannies) were teeming with plates of pasta and antipasti it wasn’t my duty to eat everything in front of me like my sweet but obese cat would.

Really, holiday parties are more about drinking and socializing; good food is just a fringe benefit. Normally, I’d be all for unlimited alcohol but I was still feeling the disastrous effects from the previous night’s holiday party (the best part of James’s company’s fete was the free photo booth. I was too scared of the caricature artist and most definitely avoided the face painting station. I’m not sure if I loved or hated the DJ playing Bell Biv DeVoe and Journey) so I stuck with a reasonable number of glasses (uh, five instead of 8+) of fizzy, fun, low-alcohol Lambrusco.

It’s hard to fairly assess catered food since it’s served in bulk and tends to sit out. And I have no idea what the portions and pricing are like when ordered a la carte. Though we were offered most of the cicchetti on the menu so at least I’m now familiar with the majority of what Bacaro does. There weren’t really any misfires and I would have no problem returning for snacks and wine, though if I’m ever near the East Broadway F stop I’m more inclined to think Chinese.

The dreaded sarde in saor . There was lots of grumbling about these poor pine nut, raisin, onion and olive oil dressed fish. I love that Moorish combination of ingredients. One of my favorite tapas ever uses similar flavors with chickpeas and morcilla, but there would’ve been a mutiny if blood sausage made an appearance at the party. My only complaint was that this was difficult to eat standing up with a drink in hand.

Meats and cheeses seemed benign enough, but numerous people expressed dismay/confusion/fear at the dark red folded slices. I’m fairly certain it was bresaola. I was like “it’s beef.” Don’t all non-vegetarians like beef? Air-dried beef isn’t scary and everyone seemed to dig it once they took a bite. The rest of the tray contained prosciutto, salami, mortadella, parmesan and mozzarella.

I also assumed crostini would be inoffensive. I liked the chicken liver spread best. The dark ones were kind of dull and mushroom based. The light ones might’ve been salt cod.

Gnocchi con funghi was a hit. I forget how likeable gnocchi is because I never eat Italian food. These potato blobs were unusually large and pleasantly chewy. I’d like to say toothsome but people hate that word. I might say pillowy instead and that would still set off some florid prose meters. Personally, I like cliches.

The second pasta, risotto al nero di seppia, also had a lot of takers despite its squid inky color. I did hear someone say, “What’s that? Dip?”

I didn’t eat much of the frito misto. It seemed to be a mix of octopus and vegetables, heavy on the octopus.

Insalata polpi. I guess you either love or hate octopus. This was a simple salad with tiny wedges of potato and slivers of celery. Fresh though not wildly exciting.

Polpette. That’s a spicy meatball. No really, they were. Even these straightforward little orbs gave people pause because they didn’t know what kind of meat they were made from. I’m guessing pork but it could’ve been a combo with beef or veal and I wouldn’t have known the difference.

Bacaro * 136 Division St., New York, NY

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Dec 4

Amy Ruth’s

1/2 I had no idea I’d be eating at Amy Ruth’s on Saturday. I’d been sent to review Uptown Renaissance across the street, but it was shuttered and blanketed by a large For Rent banner. Urgh, it figures that when I’d venture out of my usual dining radius, I’d end up on a wild chicken and waffle chase. And I still wanted fried chicken, so crossing 116th Street was the obvious solution. And I was kind of happier because I like pork in my collard greens and Uptown Renaissance was halal.

Do restaurants really need velvet ropes? Maybe it’s all the rage above 42nd St. and I need to get out more. Luckily, it was still early and crowd control wasn’t necessary at 5pm. There were plenty of empty seats, and I’m still mystified regarding what’s so great about the upstairs dining room. I didn’t see it, but it must be amazing since it seemed like every other group that was seated in the main room made a fuss until they were relocated.

I love sweet/meat combos so honey-dipped fried chicken, The Terry Rivers (pardon my ignorance, but even after a cursory Google, I’m not sure who that is, though this Terry Rivers brightened my day) was kind of irresistible. I’m totally a diabetic waiting to happen and if anything is likely to increase my insulin resistance, it’s fried chicken swimming in honey.

Honey coated the bottom of the plate, perfect for dipping nubbins of crackly battered skin. The unexpectedly grotesque development was how ill matched honey and potatoes are. The treacly wetness soaked into my not-that-crispy-to-begin-with fries and rendered them sticky and creepy. Maybe if I closed my eyes and pretended they were sweet potato fries it would’ve be ok.

Hmm, it's a gold on gold entree. I didn’t want to copycat James’s chicken and waffle, The Al Sharpton (who needs no Googling). We both got sugar shocked, though I noticed very little maple syrup applied to his food. Instead, James also added Tabasco, a combo that reminded me a bit too much of the lemonade diet, which I'm still kind of angry for getting sucked into. The waffles are Belgian, by the way. Wha? I'm starting to think that I'm just confused and these big-squared concoctions are standard waffles.

And yes, I got my porky greens.

Amy Ruth’s * W. 116th St., New York, NY

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Nov 30

The Smith

Can a chain pizzeria convincingly transform into a bistro? I’ll admit the novelty of eating lamb schnitzel (I’m hell bent on this pseudo-Teutonic trend taking off) in a former Pizzeria Uno was The Smith’s main attraction for me. It did feel a little strange. Eons ago, I actually dined at the Pizzeria Uno, but I can’t remember a thing about it. Thankfully, I’ve been documenting this crap for eons.

I’m fairly certain that the room was less airy before, it must be all the new sparkling white subway tile. Or maybe it just seemed so bright and open because the room was nearly empty at 6:30pm. During the course of our meal tables began filling up with two distinct groups: college kids and over 45s, both likely to live within walking distance. Pesky millennials and boomers. Strange, because a lot of the surveys I find at work compare the attitudes of those two demographics exclusively, like that unpleasant Gen X has ceased to exist. Apparently, the 30-45s’ opinions don’t matter and they don’t early-bird dine at The Smith on a Wednesday.

The menu reflects this schism, too. Cheaper bar food (wings and burgers) and simple but pricier dishes (skate with brown butter and short ribs) play both ends of the spectrum. I suppose hot potato chips with gorgonzola fondue are kind of a high fat bridge. Every table, including ours, ordered these freshly fried potatoes drizzled with a mild blue cheese sauce. They do get soggy quickly, and the portion is indecent for two but after a couple beers it seems sensible.

So yes, I had to try the schnitzel even though I’m not fanatical about breaded pan-fried cutlets. You can never taste the meat, just the crust, and mashed potatoes only add to the starch. In a way, lamb is kind of fitting for this preparation since the flavor is distinct enough to not get completely buried by crumbs.

James insisted I was picking a fight by bringing up a survey about 86% of Americans bringing someone they’d been dating for less than a year home for the holidays (again with the surveys—I never considered myself one of those work/life imbalanced people, but I’m starting to wonder) so he wouldn’t let me take a picture of his strip steak with peppercorn sauce. Not only do I spout useless statistics at dinner, I hold up the meal with my camera, too—no wonder no one wants to celebrate Christmas with me. I did snap a photo anyway.

That would’ve been it for me, but James was into the dessert menu. Normally, I would’ve been too because it’s all fluffy sundaes with cake but I was all schnitzel’d out. Everything we’d eaten felt overwhelmingly heavy, and he probably ordered the richest dessert, too. I can’t recall its the cutesy name, but it was constructed from chocolate cake, peanut butter ice cream, chocolate syrup, chunks of peanut nougat candy and whipped cream. It almost killed me, but was worth it for future reference. Do you know how hard it is to find an ice cream sundae at midnight?

The nicest touch might’ve been free sparkling water. We were brought a whole second bottle unprompted, even after we were 95% done with our food. Hmm, it doesn’t bode well when water is the most impressive part of a meal. But if I lived nearby and was under 30 or over 45, I might return.

The Smith * 55 Third Ave., New York, NY

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Nov 24

AJ Maxwell’s

1/2 I’d never heard of AJ Maxwell’s, but then there are countless steakhouses with men’s names so it’s not that surprising. Last year at this time I was working a block away from AJ Maxwell’s and it still didn’t ring a bell, though it’s not the sort of place I would’ve been dining on a part-time news library salary anyway. Wendy’s and Au Bon Pain were about as good as it got.

Oysters on the half shell were really too large for our two-seater. They had to take our bread basket away (with the promise of its return) to make room for the presentation. And of course, they forgot to bring the bread back. Carbs are important to me.

There’s something highly impressive about the dinosaur-like bone poking from the rib eye.

I tried lamb chops just to be different, though I would’ve preferred beef. Despite the pretty greenness, jellied mint sauce rarely does much for meat.

Brussels sprouts with bacon were extremely good. Because we’re scrounges we wanted to take leftovers home. Unfortunately, they tossed everything except the meat. I suppose that implies that the typical clientele would never take home uneaten hash browns and brussels sprouts. Though just a few weeks earlier I ate at Ben & Jack's on my own dime and no one had a problem with doling out doggie bags.

Read my straight-shooting Nymag.com review.

AJ Maxwell’s * 57 W. 48th St., New York, NY

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Nov 14

Cafe Noir

1/2 I never eat in Soho, mostly because I’m never in the neighborhood. But there’s always a sense of style over substance, as well. Café Noir strikes me as one of those good enough restaurants, more geared to sustaining drinkers with passable Moroccan/Spanish/Middle Eastern/French bistro nibbles.

I knew I was in trouble when I ordered steak tartare and the waitress felt the need to explain, “you know that’s raw, right?”

And the customers weren’t much better. Bare feet don’t belong in a dining establishment and they most definitely don’t belong atop the long shared booth, inches from my leg. The offending appendages belonged to a sweet young girl who seemed very interested in probing her Swiss “date” about his income and career goals. When he mentioned that he might just go back to school, she then offered up that she had an investment banker boyfriend. Clearly, this dinner mate wasn’t enough of an upgrade to maintain her façade.

The merguez wasn’t half-bad, though I felt like the scoop of couscous should’ve been warm since the carrot salad was also cold.

Seafood croquettes were ok too.

Read my less anecdotal Nymag.com review

Cafe Noir * 32 Grand St., New York, NY

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Nov 9

Great Burrito

I don’t really eat burritos in New York. It’s something I’ve weaned myself from, not because I’m a snob but because I just can’t find any made the way I’m accustomed to (and no, I don’t like Mission-style).

Great Burrito isn’t really about burritos (though you can see one above) and it’s definitely not about the pizza on display. Their main appeal is offering “real” tacos and tortas with fillings like tripe and tongue in a neighborhood that’s hardly a bastion of Mexican authenticity. Or any authenticity—as much as I love them, this strip of Chelsea is rife with the likes of Outback Steakhouse, Dallas BBQ and Olive Garden.

Purists might scoff at this hodgepodge 24-hour take out counter, but where else are you going to go in this part of Manhattan when a 4am urge for al pastor strikes?

Read my Nymag.com review.

Great Burrito * 100 W. 23rd St., New York, NY

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Oct 22

Momofuku Ssam Bar

Momofuku Ssam is like Fatty Crab to me: a restaurant I’ve always been reluctant to visit even though I know I would love the food, so I wait a million years, then end up going for lunch which isn’t even their raison d’etre. This is probably more egregious at Momofuku since the day and night menus are well…like…you know.

It’s kind of annoying that up until 2004, James spent nearly a decade living a block from where Ssam Bar (and that damn mob scene Trader Joe’s) now exist. If I only had to meander from Third Avenue to Second, it wouldn’t have taken me over a year to stop by. But the neighborhood is ick. Why live on a makeshift NYC campus when you can move to Brooklyn and experience all the same obnoxious kids ten years later after they’ve bought condos and procreated?

But yes, the food: my pork belly buns were fairly amazing, and I absolutely dig the pickle mania that has swept foodie-dom even if I hate the word foodie. The buns and ssams were as I’d expected, but I hadn’t anticipated the sides.

I loved my fried cauliflower dressed (heavily) with olive oil, fish sauce, chiles and mint. I might try reproducing this for Thanksgiving. It’s one of those dishes where people who think they hate fish sauce wouldn’t necessarily realize that’s what they were eating unless someone told them. The kimchi’d apples and bacon mix I sampled were also a mishmash that worked.

Sure, I’d like to try the country ham, banh mi or wrangle enough people together for the pork butt, but there’s no telling when that will actually happen. It’s much more likely that I’ll eschew my typical wait and see approach and try upcoming Momofuku Ko first.

Momofuku Ssam Bar * 207 Second Ave., New York, NY

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Posts from the ‘Manhattan’ Category

Grand Sichuan

Skyway Malaysian

Artisanal

Bacaro

Amy Ruth’s

The Smith

AJ Maxwell’s

Cafe Noir

Great Burrito

Momofuku Ssam Bar

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