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Posts from the ‘Manhattan’ Category

BarFry

1/2 *wow, these closings are getting faster and faster (4/23/08)

As someone who has been known to throw B.Y.O.C (candy, duh) deep fry parties, I couldn’t really ignore BarFry, gimmicky concept or not (though I do think it’s odd to have barf in the name of your restaurant). I figured it would be a while before I got around to trying the restaurant, though.

Barfry_interiorOne, I’m never in the neighborhood, and two, I hate crowds. But Saturday night I found myself attending a rooftop party in the West Village and discovered that a Times Under $25 review has less affect on diners than I’d assumed (even if a write up is so-so, I figure that jus the mention of a new venue might pike curiosity). While Bleecker Street was already kind of a mess at 8:30pm, BarFry was nearly empty. Ok, so neither New Yorkers nor tourists are sold on the concept of haute fritters.

TempuraIt’s certainly not the type of meal you’d want on a regular basis, and as I’d anticipated, the prices quickly add up (though four drinks probably made up half the bill). Even if you could justify eating this battered, fried food daily, you might not be able to afford it. We were encouraged to order six-to-ten items for two, which I thought was a little excessive.

For the straight up tempura treatment, we went with pumpkin, shishito peppers, a crab cake and two pork dumplings. You’re given four dipping sauces: sweet miso, jalapeño soy, chile yuzu and wasabi remoulade. Soy, proving you can’t always fight tradition, worked the best. The batter was crispy, barely greasy and seemed like a fitting match for equally light items. The pork dumplings didn’t really need the coating, but I could’ve told you that before ordering them.

Po_boyWe split an oyster po boy, which was a bit heavy on the lettuce. I couldn’t even tell you what the oysters tasted like. As part of a sampling meal, the sandwich wasn’t a disaster but if it was the only thing you picked you might be disappointed.

Our only non-fried dish, a special of “noodles” made from cuttlefish, spiked with wasabi and I think shisho leaf, was a smart departure. If there were to be a next time, I would balance out the meal with more fresh items. But how many tempura-centric restaurants does one encounter in a lifetime? I didn’t go there to eat delicate Japanese-influenced raw dishes.

Cuttlefish_noodles_2I’m not a chefy person but I did notice Zak Pelaccio wandering in and out the front door during our meal. Later, at the party where I didn’t know anyone because the common thread was Johns Hopkins and U. Penn, James made an offhand comment about how we’d just been at BarFry and saw Fatty Crab. I don’t assume that anyone knows anything about restaurants. I barely do, myself. But a younger, brownstone Brooklyn version of Susie Essman standing nearby barked, “I’m friends with his wife.”

Ok, lady, no disparaging was occurring (it’s not like I got into my irrational displeasure with the Times’s obsession with his parents’ Soho loft). I don’t think being called a fatty crab is so horrible. In fact, I’m a fatty crab personified.

Yum…crabs. BarFry should totally tempura soft shell crabs, assuming they’re still in business by the time they’re in season.

BarFry * 50 Carmine St., New York, NY

Pamplona

Sadly, I knew this day would eventually come. (10/23/09)

I don’t take on restaurants as causes and I rarely visit places more than once, even in my own neighborhood (er, maybe especially in my own neighborhood). As it is, there are a gazillion worthy restaurants that I’ll never get around to. But for some inexplicable reason I took a shining to Ureña. I guess it’s the appeal of the underdog; it wanted to be something it couldn’t.

Pamplona_exteriorSo, I was a little bummed to hear of the inevitable closing. But I was also curious how Pamplona might mix things up and finally had the chance to pay a visit after a semi-nearby wine class. You’d think after tasting eighteen wines (in addition to a full glass of pinot noir at lunch) my judgment might be impaired, and maybe it was. However, I’d like to believe that the two albariños with dinner only heightened my senses.

I’d been to Ureña twice, and still, I couldn’t tell you what’s changed with the décor, though a cartoony painting of a pig with acorns definitely is an addition. The palette and furniture seemed muted and neutral before and still seems so. I hesitate to say that they lack patronage because our dining like freaks at 6pm on a Saturday didn’t exactly help us observe the reincarnation under ideal circumstances.

Pamplona_interiorWe were originally told by the hostess that we could only sit at the bar or the new tables set up in the bar area since we didn’t have reservations. I acquiesce, rarely pipe up, but the dining room was completely empty and thankfully another staff member said we were welcome to sit at a table as long as we finished by 8pm. Not a problem, and the gesture was appreciated.

Pamplona_pulpo_braseado_a_la_riojaI decided to try a few things from different sections of the now abbreviated menu. Gone are $30+ entrees, the tasting menu and anything foamy. I was interested in the $10 pulpo braseado a la rioja, essentially wine-braised octopus. I can’t find this dish listed anywhere in the iteration I had. Others mention sausage and smoked lima beans, but this rendition consisted of a purple tangle of octopus legs atop swirls of cream-colored horseradish sauce flanked by disks that resembled carrots but made themselves known as potatoes once bitten into. I don’t know what the wispy sprouts were.

Pamplona_cured_meats_2It was too tough to decide which cured meats to sample, so we went the whole $19 and had a plate of Serrano ham, chorizo and two others that are slipping my mind. I’m not afraid of bread, and I always like to have plenty on hand when eating straight up meats or cheeses. Same with oily, saucy dishes like the octopus. Our original serving was replenished. I only mention this because the couple who later sat next to us rejected a second batch of bread, which made me ponder our gluttony. It’s not 2004, carbs are ok again, right?

Pamplona_paella_mar_y_montanaI would’ve chosen a couple more small dishes instead of the paella if it had been totally up to me. But I’m frequently wrong. The paella, made with bomba rice, was spot on (not that I’ve eaten my way across Valencia, but I have sampled a few versions in Spain). I don’t tend to get excited over non-Asian dishes centering on rice (what’s the big deal with risotto? And chicken soup with rice is foul), paella included. It either tends to be mushy or dull. This saffron-enhanced beauty dotted with mussels, squid and generous hunks of rabbit, was neither. All the grains stayed separate without being chalky or dry.

I make mention of prices (a practice that always feels too servicey for my purposes) only to illustrate part of the Pamplona re-vamp. Emphasis is on smaller dishes, tapas and sharing. The $30 paella was one of the priciest items but wasn’t unreasonable split between two diners.

Pamplona_churrosSheesh, I almost forgot dessert. Churros with Valrhona chocolate were light and only barely sweetened. I can’t say that they were the most exciting thing in the world.

It’s hard to predict if the new formula will catch on with diners who go for the flash of Boqueria, Mercat or Suba. Not that Pamplona necessarily needs to capture that audience to succeed; there’s plenty of room for creative Spanish food in the city.

Pamplona * 37 E. 28th St., New York

Peking Duck House

After researching where to eat in Beijing, the urge for peking duck became hard to ignore. I can’t say for sure that Peking Duck House is a top contender in NYC—I’ve only tried a few places for this delicacy—but it’s where I tend to go and I like to believe that it’s above average.

Two diners are tricky. We wanted a whole duck, but the $25 per person combo dinner with more side dishes and appetizers only offers half a duck for two. It’s not immediately apparent from glancing at the menu that you can just buy a duck flat out for $38, but you can.

The bird comes out whole and is shown to you before being taken to a nearby table to be carved. I always wonder what they do with the carcass. I know that some restaurants will make a soup course from the leftovers. The pancakes at Peking Duck House are large, more burrito sized that normal, so each bundle is substantial. I actually prefer the sweet fluffiness of mantou that some restaurants serve; it feels more decadent.

I never know what to order to compliment the duck. Cold sesame noodles seemed innocuous to start. A vegetable would be smart to counteract the fatty meat and skin, garlic eggplant wasn’t the wisest since Chinese-style eggplant is rarely healthy with all the oil and sauce it comes in. It was good, though incredibly garlicky.

My fortune didn’t sit well with me, true as it may be. “Perhaps you’ve been focusing too much on yourself.” Well, duh. (9/28/07)

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Olive Garden

The Never Ending Pasta Bow(e)l should really have an extra E because there were some never ending bathroom trips the following day (it was probably my jungle curry lunch, but I don’t want to say anything bad about Chao Thai). Who knew? Even more disturbing is that this was my fourth visit to the Chelsea Olive Garden and I don’t even like (Italian-American) pasta. But all you can eat for $8.95 demanded investigation.

They’re very sneaky with this promotion; despite being advertised on TV continuously, there’s no signage, menu inserts or little cardboard foldovers on any of the tables. It’s all very hush hush and I’m not assertive so I started getting a little nervous. Thankfully, a dining companion who tipped me off in the first place had no qualms about piping up for cheap pasta.

Phew, paying Manhattan chain restaurant prices for mushy alfredo would be harsh (I’m still steaming how once I inexplicably spent close to $50 on a cheeseburger and two margaritas at a Times Square T.G.I. Friday’s. It’s the price you pay for suburban simulacra). I had no idea how the whole thing worked, it’s much more customizable than I’d anticipated. I figured you’d get spaghetti and a couple sauce options, but there were approximately six choices for each.

I have to admit that my linguine with smoked mozzarella and breadcrumbs was satisfying in a creamy starchy way. And I would’ve been fine with the one bowl—pasta is one of the few foodstuffs that never spurs a desire for seconds—but it’s never ending so you have to play along.

 

Penne with five cheese marina came next, and amusingly, in a bowl half the size as the first. Would the third come in a teacup, we wondered aloud. “People don’t finish their second,” we were bluntly told. I wasn’t complaining because entrée number two had no flavor, like I imagine hospital food would taste. Under-salting is one of my many cooking crimes, I never touch a shaker in restaurants, but this blob was crying out for sodium. Maybe they do it on purpose to quell appetites. Like many a diner before me, I didn’t finish my second bowl.

The upside of such a bargain (don’t forget the salad and breadsticks) is that you’ll have plenty of money left over to get sloshed on inexpensive Shiraz. (9/20/07)

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Natori

I eat Japanese food with little frequency. That’s why when someone in the know invites me out, I can’t resist. A friend, Nao, had an impromptu birthday dinner at Natori, an unassuming two-sided restaurant on Natori_birthdaySt. Marks that you might walk past without really noticing. There’s nothing flashy about it, very homey yet somehow naturally hip. But one of the chefs was friends with the birthday celebrant so we were treated to an omakase of sorts.

We, the ten eaters, put in a few requests from the menu, but much of it was a surprise. And the parade of dishes seemed never ending. By the time the chocolate cupcakes (inspired by a recipe from a drunken late-night viewing of America’s Test Kitchen after my birthday party) were presented, I was bursting at the seams.

Natori_avocado_tuna
avocado tuna semi-salad

Natori_burdock_seaweed
burdock and hijiki/I was told a story about how American prisoners of war were fed gobo (burdock) and once freed complained about being made to eat bark and a Japanese soldier was executed specifically for this transgression. Burdock is tasty. I'd prefer to the sort of gruel I imagine in a P.O.W. camp.

Natori_mackerel_sushi 
mackerel sushi/There were people not so into mackerel. I guess it's oily and particularly fishy but that's what I like about it. I think of it as being Spanish, not so much Japanese.

Natori_alligator
alligator/It didn't taste like chicken in the least, kind of gamey and naturally spicy. Or maybe the light coating was spiced.

Natori_ginger_squid
ginger squid/this was fairly sweet and I was pleased that the rings weren't breaded and fried. Even though I'm the one who picked this dish I feared it would be more like fried calamari.

Natori_noodles
enoki noodles

Natori_bean_curd 
bean curd filled with rice

Natori_soft_shell_crab_sushi
soft shell crab sushi/It seems like you could eat a whole plate easily, but two pieces were filling. I think it's the tempura effect.

Natori_octopus_pancake
takoyaki okonomiyaki/I'm not sure why I'm often repulsed by mayonnaise but rarely bothered by its presence in Japanese preperations. The cheese was jumping around from the heat and made the whole octopus pancake seem alive.

Natori_sushi 
mixed sushi/there were more rolls than these but I didn't take photos of everything.

Natori_sea_bass
steamed sea bass/I'd just eaten Chinese steamed sea bass a few week prior. I wonder if removing the head is standard? The fish almost seemed naked without it.

Cupcakes
cupcakes! 

I take pictures of food, but rarely my dining companions. Here’s a short video, if you’re into that sort of thing. I’m only peripherally captured on it, but sadly my voice dominates the audio. Sometimes I forget how strongly my voice carries. Seriously, in grade school I was always the one made to go sit in the hall when I was part of a crew of disruptively gabby girls. Despite protesting, the teachers would tell me, “but you’re the one we hear.”

Natori * 58 St. Marks Pl., New York, NY

Paris Sandwich

1/2 I’m frequently torn between trying to learn what patience means (I already have prematurely high blood pressure and am half-convinced that a heart attack will seize me before forty) and being uncontrollably speedy and efficient. Today, I was able to put both lifestyles to the test when I became stricken with a violent craving for a banh mi around 11am.

Normally, I don’t eat until 2pm and have a hard time getting worked up over anything, especially in a five-block radius. But obtaining a banh mi became such an overwhelming mission that by 12:55 I couldn’t sit still any longer. And I didn’t care how far I had to go to find one.

I have a full hour lunch, which I rarely take advantage of, so it wasn’t as if I was in a real hurry. But because I’m always manic and huffy, I had a self-imposed sense of urgency. How fast could I get to Chinatown, order, and get back to the office? It would be a fun, sweaty little contest with myself. Never mind that I did so many leg presses and thigh squeezey things at the gym on Sunday that it still hurts to stroll with a normal gait. (I recently re-joined my gym and clearly didn't realize how out of shape I'd become even though I'd continued to exercise on my own. All I know is that when I last frequented the place I didn't have an iPod yet and there was lots of Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on my mp3 device, so I'm fairly certain it was 2005.)

So, out the door at 12:55. I don’t wear a watch so I could only get so frantic on my sandwich run. Getting to Canal from Broad was a breeze. Navigating the three blocks to Paris Sandwich (there might be a closer shop to Centre St. but I’ve been meaning to try this bakery) was anything but. Between the meandering tourists, three-foot tall Chinese shufflers and thick-headed locals, it’s always perpetual gridlock.

Thankfully, Paris Sandwich’s service was crazy-fast and organized. Simple, you order in the front from a photo menu, and pick up in the back. My number #39 was squawked and I had a grilled pork and standard sandwich in less than two minutes, way before I expected them. That’s an assembly line. There was no time for dilly-dallying, scrutinizing the menu, searching for anomalies and atypical gems. I barely glanced at the refrigerated case and shelves of baked goods. I tried to ignore the sign on the door for a tomato slushy, which would normally weird me out enough for a double take, but not this time.

The north side of Canal St. is minutely more walkable, so I tried maneuvering through jewelry shop gawkers. Despite my initial annoyance at a woman in a wheelchair clogging up the already maxed out sidewalk, I lucked out on the way back. I realized that everyone willingly moved aside for her and her motorized ride, so I got right behind it like a speeding car trailing an ambulance and benefited from the temporary path she created.

Paris_bakery_banh_miI was pleased with myself until I got thwarted by the turnstile pile-up while trying to get into the subway station. I got downstairs just in time to see the J pulling out. Damn. The next M only went one stop to Chambers St. where I got stuck at 1:21pm and lost steam. I didn’t get back on track literally, until 1:31. When my mom was in town a few months ago she thought it was strange that I’d complain about waiting ten minutes for a subway since the light rail runs like every 15 minutes during rush hour, but ten minutes is a freaking long time to stand around in the dank humidity (and no one takes public transportation in Portland anyhow).

When all was said and done, the trek spanned from 12:55 to 1:45. I really thought it’d be quicker. Fifty minutes to go three stops, walk three blocks, get take out, and then do the reverse? If there had been better subway and elevator (I can only take one elevator from bank of four to get to 33, the top floor, mine) alignment, 15 minutes could easily be shaved off.

Paris_bakery_cross_sectionOddly, the special banh mi contained no cucumber and next to no mayonnaise, which didn’t traumatize me because those are my least favorite components even though I hate to admit it (phew, now that’s off my chest). Some vegetables creep me out warm, lettuce and cucumbers are two. While a solid amount of cold cuts are folded inside the roll, there was a surprising lack of flavor and more cartilagey bits than I’m accustomed to. The pickled essence could’ve been stronger. And I like more of that reddish ground up mystery meat. But these are all nitpicks; the sub more than served its purpose.

I ate half of each sandwich and saved the rest for tomorrow’s lunch. The grilled pork was very sweet and saucy, more candied than the grilled pork you’d find atop a bowl of rice vermicelli.

Paris_bakery_summer_rollsAs is often my way, I grabbed some summer rolls at the cash register (they’re always at the counter). I didn’t even have time to see which variety I snagged. They all looked brown through the translucent skins, I’m fairly certain they were all pork, no shrimp anyway. Nice and compact, the fillings stayed put and didn’t make for messy at-desk eating, though the nuoc cham was dangerously drippy.

I never got the point of a camera phone until today when I left the house camera-less.  I’m not even joking when I say that I’m not even up to speed with texting and talking and walking at the same time. Forget about control over focus, lighting, sizing or any of that. What you see is as good as it gets.

Paris Sandwich * 113 Mott St., New York, NY

Ben & Jacks Steakhouse

3/4 I’m fairly certain that I haven’t eaten at a steakhouse in nearly two years, and that on-the-fly indulgence happened to be at a Morton’s in Hong Kong. That’s just not right (that is, not visiting a steakhouse in two years, not that I ate at one in Asia).

Steak had been on my mind lately due to little influencers like the last meat-heavy Saveur issue (I might be thinking of avocados instead if the current issue had made it to my apartment) and Diner’s Journal chatter. For James, all it took was a late-night, low-budget Ben & Jack’s commercial to prompt a reservation a few days later. I had been contemplating less traditional steakhouses like Strip House or Quality Meats but a Manhattan near Peter Luger clone didn’t draw any complaints from me.

Ben_jacks_baconAnd essentially, the two menus are replicas. I never thought the service was as gruff as purported in Williamsburg but customer attention is the most noticeable difference with this midtown offshoot started by former waiters. Glasses are never left unfilled, the second your plate nears empty, two more slices of steak are placed upon it using the two metal spoons tong-like approach. In fact, they continue to gregariously serve you throughout the meal, which was kind of unsettling when a giant mess of potatoes plopped all over the tablecloth, not thanks to me.

I never touch the salads or shrimp cocktail. Whoever dreamed up slabs of singed, fatty bacon as a starter is right up there with the inventor of bacon toffee. One $2.95 strip is plenty but we each got two so we’d have a smoky treat the next day.

Ben_jacks_porterhouseOur steak order was textbook: porterhouse for two, medium-rare. The sputtering grease flecked serving plate isn’t pretty (and my photos are even less so) but it must be so. And this is one of the only places where a warning of, “be careful, the plates are hot” is genuinely warranted. The first slices are presented with flourish and a quick tap and press along the bottom edge of the ceramic, inducing a hiss. I didn’t want to fill up on bread but the pool of juices and butter at the bottom are made for an onion roll.

Medium-rare is served on the pink side, but the soft rawness is tempered by the charred edges and the best hyper-meaty parts near the bone. In fact, I really noticed the aged, minerally quality more the next day while gnawing on a room temperature bone.

Ben_jacks_plate There’s not much to say about the creamed spinach and German potatoes since they’re perfunctory, yet necessary. 

I swear, in the past we’ve eaten the entire steak but that seemed like an impossibility on this occasion. After four pieces, I was heading into uncomfortable territory. And even though this was a carnivorous event, I couldn’t help but thinking of the possibility of a hot fudge sundae. 

Ben_jacks_hot_fudge_sundae I was wondering if they’d replicate the “holy cow” hot fudge sundae from Peter Luger. And yes, they did, merely swapping bovine genders to create the holy bull. An avalanche of serious schlag dominates the first handful of bites, and by the time you reach the intense concentrated fudgey remains, you’re done in. “The drink,” as I’ve always called that painfully sweet, last syrupy bite that’s tough to choke down, is almost my favorite part of a sundae. I half-seriously considered ridding my stomach of its contents before dessert arrived, but I don’t possess that can do spirit.

Ben & Jacks Steakhouse * 219 E. 44th St., New York, NY

Wakiya

Of course I know better than to get sucked into hype, but part of me (a tiny sliver buried deep inside) was curious what the Wakiya fuss was about. I hate scenes so I hemmed and hawed over bowing out of my reservation (I didn’t realize that obtaining one was such a big deal. I called, I got one. And 8:45 seemed like a perfectly sane dining time to me). Do I really want to pay good money to get treated like an untouchable?

Wakiya_interiorBut aging naïf that I am, I was genuinely interested in the cuisine. I realize food is hardly the point of a place like this (I’m currently planning a fall trip to Shanghai and don’t anticipate encountering much Wakiya-style fare) but what little I’ve read so far has focused more on service and style issues. I didn’t encounter much attitude and I actually expected the prices to be crazier (though yes, the portions are petite). We spent about $120 with four dishes and three drinks. No bargain, but hardly outrageous either.

I was a little bummed to see nary a C-lister. Just common folks to my uneducated gaze. Gawker saw Dennis Quaid a few nights ago (I saw him last night in Day After Tomorrow on cable. I didn’t want to—I was waiting for Damages to start). I was hoping for at least Randy Quaid or a lesser Arquette or Baldwin.

Wakiya_soup_dumplings
Soup dumplings. No complaints and the vinegar with ginger shreds was a fitting acidic touch. They instruct you to eat them from a small bowl but you really kind of need a big spoon with these messy blobs of dough.

Wakiya_bang_bang_chicken
Bang bang chicken. This is a cold dish of shredded chicken dressed with a sweet-hot sesame, soy and vinegar mixture. I could imagine some people thinking this was spicy, though it easily could’ve been amped up threefold.

Wakiya_tong_tsu_pork
Tso tsao pork. That’s sweet and sour pork to you. Supposedly the black vinegar makes it more refined. I think it was the tiny serving size that shouted upscale.

Wakiya_soft_shell_crab_with_golden_
Soft shell crab with golden sand. To remain poetic yet maintain accuracy, I would’ve called it scarlet sand, as it the grit was orange-red, and frankly, tasted like crushed Lays BBQ chips. In other words, the sand was quite tasty. But the crumbs were panko, black beans and a few different dried chiles that I can’t recall. I think Aleppo was one variety.

Wakiya_xo_omelet_rice
XO omelet fried rice. We really didn’t really need this, though James thought it was the best dish. The egg-wrapped rice came at the end and was duly filling. I might’ve forgone it for a dessert.

Wakiya_toilet Urine-drenched toilet seats were the least surprising thing of the evening. As I’ve discovered with various NYC jobs, the “classier” the caliber of ladyfolk, the filthier shared bathrooms will be. This was a unisex bathroom, but I only saw groups of girls jamming into the cramped space. I am supposed to be talking about food here, so I’ll spare you further gruesome anecdotes.

Wakiya * 2 Lexington Ave., New York, NY

Aquavit

Aquavit never would’ve occurred to me as a special occasion restaurant to choose but it was a welcome diversion from genres I’ve mildly bemoaned in the past. For a spell, it seemed like all surprises entailed manly/meaty or Latin American, all styles I enjoy, but not for every celebration.

Originally, I was tempted to say that the food wasn’t overwhelmingly Scandinavian. But I take that back. I probably shouldn’t be fit to judge anyway, considering my Swedish repertoire barely extends beyond Ikea meatballs and lingonberry sauce. As I started looking over my (overly dim and yellow) photos and tagging them in Flickr, it became apparent that Northern European components were definitely being employed, though the overall effect on a dish was frequently mitigated by a more familiar (avocado) or foreign (tandoori spicing) flavor.

Aquavit_interior
The room was easily 80% full when we arrived, though you wouldn't guess it from this photo at meal's end. We eat slowly.   

To generalize, the cuisine was very clean, sharp and in more than a few instances, bitter. That’s a profile I’m not naturally drawn to; it’s a cold shoulder. Bitter and sour are slow going while hot and sweet never fail to immediately win me over. It’s good to diversify.

Aquavit_amuse_bouche
Amuse of lettuce soup and something fishy.

Aquavit_aquavits

I’d already downed a couple of gin and tonics at frozen-in-time Bill’s Gay Nineties, one block south, so not everyone would think a flight of three aquavits wise. I did, and chose saffron, cucumber and pear, vanilla and black pepper from a long list. I preferred the spice and fruit of the latter, cucumber was as you’d expect and saffron despite its golden color had little taste. These kept me occupied through the first few courses. At some point I switched over to a 2005 Weingut Meinhard Forstreiter Gruner Veltliner. Just a glass, though.

Aquavit_seafood

Another amuse. Clockwise from top right, pickled herring, tandoori salmon with what I swear was a dab of bbq sauce, oyster and something topped with roe that I can’t recall. This is when we noticed that they really love micro greens. Or green. Single miniscule leaves turned up throughout the meal.

I’ve never encountered a tasting menu presented in this manner. There were 14 dishes listed, which in hindsight sounds voluminous, even if they were only a few bites each. As it turned out, each diner gets seven, one all from the left column, the other from the right with no say in the matter. We were initially baffled when James was presented with a lobster roll (spring, not Maine style) with bacon and trout roe and I received yellowtail tuna, sea urchin, lime sauce and duck tongue.

Aquavit_yellowtail_sea_urchin_duck_

Mine was like pure ocean. I felt a little guilty eating bird tongues like that’s the kind of callous opulence (though it’s not as if people are slaughtering ducks just for their tongues) that would cause PETA to threaten ripping out my own tongue. I have no idea what those black, slightly sweet wafers were made from but they tasted like candied seaweed.

Aquavit_hot_smoked_trout

Hot-smoked trout, salsify, apple-horseradish broth. This wasn’t mine. But all those flavors are way Scandinavian. I’m eating my words now.

Aquavit_octopus_smoked_avocado

Octopus, smoked avocado, lemon vinaigrette. As implied in the name, this was a smoky dish and the charred around the edges cephalopod added to that. The charcoal tastes were smoothed by the creamy avocado and tangy lemon.

Aquavit_foie_gras_ganache

Foie gras ganache, cured quail, raisin vinaigrette. This was the only dish where I was like, “that should’ve been mine.” Sweet, rich and meaty is my M.O. Luckily, it was too much for James and I got a few bites.

Aquavit_beef_tartar

Beef tartar, mushrooms, salmon roe. Mine was the dead opposite. Literally cool, atop ice, raw and punctuated with grated horseradish. I would’ve loved this completely if there wasn’t quail and foie gras a few inches from me.

Aquavit_short_ribs_and_rib_eye

Short ribs and rib eye, asparagus, hop sauce (the unpictured companion was venison, green asparagus, bacon, horseradish dumplings). See what I mean about bitter? The slight bite from the hops did work, especially with the tender but compact brick of shredded short ribs.

Aquavit_sorrel_granite

Sorrel granite, rhubarb, yogurt foam. This was a palate cleanser all right. Triply sour but definitely sugared, as well. The yogurt gelled the ice and crunch. Vegetal granitas are the type of thing I would never make for myself but that I envision concocting for a dinner party.

Aquavit_fourme_dambert
Fourme d'ambert, apple, date bread.

Aquavit_humboldt_fog

Humboldt fog, blackcurrant, olive bread. Behold the microgreen. I was pleased that I got one of my favorite chevres instead of the blue (and I love blue cheese) and that it was ripe and runny. Cheese at my house rarely gets to that stage because I eat it too fast.

Aquavit_floating_island_2 

Floating island. This was complimentary and I’m not sure what all the ingredients were. The ice cream contained either cream cheese or yogurt and the sorbet seemed like raspberry. All three desserts came at once so there was a frenzy trying to sample everything before the chilled bits melted into nothingness.

Aquavit_mint_chocolate_mousse

Mint-chocolate mousse, orange sauce. Junior Mints and Peppermint Patties have always been my enemies. Sweet mint doesn’t do much for me. But the mint in the few bites of mousse I tried was very herbaceous and much better than similar things made with extract.

Aquavit_chocolate_cake

Chocolate cake, licorice, plum, chocolate stout sorbet. After the sweetness of the floating island, this mix came as a bit of a shock. The licorice and stout were anything but fluffy. I’m still not sure that I liked the dark, yes bitter, flavors. I can remember them vividly three days later, though. In fact, I’m getting the same sensation from a cup of strong black coffee as I type.

Fatty Crab

I finally broke down. Twenty-two months seemed like sufficient elapsed time to try Fatty Crab, a restaurant I was certain would make me grumpy. I first read about this soon-to-open meatpacking eatery while in Kuala Lumpur. Making Malaysian food palatable, nay, trendy to a Manhattan audience would seem no small feat so I was intrigued. But I was bothered by the name (why would you name a restaurant after a popular place that already exists in its home country? I would have the same problem if a Malaysian opened an upscale hot dog joint and called it Gray’s Papaya) and pedigree (Zak Pelaccio’s short-lived Chickenbone Café was one of my most loathed dining experiences in world history).

But I’ve been on a mission to try more new restaurants and not-so-new ones that I’ve intentionally overlooked (like Dressler last night—likeable food, mildly creepy crowd, at least in my section) and Fatty Crab definitely fit the latter category. So, I sucked it up and went in with an open mind. And…it was really, really good, ok?

I could get past the prices. It never makes sense when people complain about reinterpreted street food inflation. Of course in KL nasi lemak costs $3 (or less) not $16. And $3,000+ rentals aren’t normal there either. There’s Chinatown dim sum and Chinatown Brasserie’s version. It’s a choice, and I like both low and high (though I’m inclined to eat the cheapie renditions more often).

Fatty_crab_pork_melon_salad I was even able to overcome my severe melon aversion (I will concede that watermelon is the least offensive all melons) in order to try the watermelon pickle and crispy pork salad. Initially, I thought that I could’ve eaten way more of those luscious singed, blubbery cubes but I was quickly proven wrong after two (and about an hour later I developed a serious stomachache—I hope I’m not turning into those killjoy elderly folks who can’t handle anything rich or spicy). The sour rind coupled with the crisp sweetness of fresh fruit was kind of perfect with the meat.

Fatty_crab_skateI was bummed to note that laksa was no longer on the menu. I would’ve been good with a bowl of pungent fish and noodles. Instead, I settled for the skate panggang, which was appropriately hot and shrimp pasty (thanks to the sambal udang kering). Shrimp paste is the one ingredient that I thought would be a tough sell for New Yorkers. The first thing I noticed when entering the cramped nearly empty (it was 3:30pm–there was no way I was subjecting myself to a late night wait) dining room was the light perfume of toasty fermented shrimp. I like the odor but it seriously smells up a house (James can’t stand it and makes me keep my block of belacan wrapped tightly in plastic in the downstairs refrigerator crisper drawer).

Fatty_crab_duckWe really overdid it with the fatty duck, which wasn’t my idea. The soy-based preparation was more Chinese in nature and also came blanketed with strips of pickled vegetable and slivered chiles to offset the poultry’s obvious fattiness. I don’t think I’ve typed the word fatty so many times in short space.

I’ll never be able to understand Zak Pelaccio’s absurd over saturation (Chodorow partnering? London? Ratatouille #1, Ratatouille #2. And I’m still not ok with all those mentions of his parents’ loft in the New York Times last summer) but sambal belecan with a Bloc Party soundtrack? It kind of works.

Fatty Crab * 643 Hudson St., New York, NY