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Nov 19

The Melting Pot

1/2 Maybe moms really do know best. In the '80s, my family would purchase one of those fat square Entertainment Books year after year, though I don't recall ever using more than maybe a handful of coupons. We never went out to eat, only occasionally hitting McDonald's or Taco Time (never Bell), unlike today's kids who are practically brought up on Babbo.

I used to wistfully thumb through the advertising tomb longing for something exciting. Sure pizza and hamburgers were fine, but fondue, now that was exotic. I'm sure I asked or begged to go to The Melting Pot, which seemed like the height of sophistication. But my mom wasn't having any of it, there was no wearing her down. I don't think it was anywhere near our home and I'm certain it was out of the child-friendly price range.

Well, it took about 23 years, but now that I manage my own life I made the magic happen. While hitting the Trader Joe's in Westwood, NJ a few weeks ago, I was shocked and awed to see that The Melting Pot chain was alive and thriving. I vowed to pay a visit on our next TJ's run, which we did. Who knew that their "dip into something different" slogan would prove so accurate.

Things did not start off well when we casually popped in on an early Saturday night. Funny, how in Manhattan all but the most exclusive restaurants are fine with walk-ins, yet a cheesey (ha) chain in New Jersey acts like you're trying to jump a velvet rope. Yes, it takes a lot of nerve. Our flagrant disregard for their rules seemed to miff the blonde Meadow Soprano hostesses. Initial bubbliness turned to haughty dismissal when we said we didn't have reservations.

We were begrudgingly quoted a 25 minute wait, which we naively agreed to not realizing it would be more like an hour nursing a watered down gin & tonic at the bar. And ultimately we were seated mere feet from where we had been sitting in the bar and were told at about the half hour mark whose table we were waiting for. That's probably not the wisest move for quelling antsy diners wanting to eat. We couldn't help but stare at couple occupying our future table, mentally commanding them to move it along faster.

The Big Night Out, a three-fondue-course, $78 per couple barrage that they eagerly push on you, says it all. This is a place catered towards parties and celebrations. So, we ultimately did the Big Night Out, primarily because the menu is bizarrely overwrought and confusing (I refused to believe we were the only ones in the place too dumb to understand the many fondue permutations and combo meals) and about half way through

I was wishing we'd gone a la carte. As the meal dragged on I began feeling punished, and most definitely violated, and no, it wasn't sexy in the least. It was like we'd entered an alternate universe where time didn't play by normal rules. I still can't figure out how we managed to arrive at 5:30pm and barely make it out by 9:00pm.

The swiss cheese artichoke heart fondue was actually pretty tasty, kind of like an Olive Garden appetizer, and came with a pantry's worth of dipping items: French and rye bread, tortilla chips (weird), green apple chunks, baby carrots, celery and cauliflower. Their shtick involves a built-in adjustable heated square in the middle of the table where each fondue course is prepared in front of your eyes. Personally, I'd be just fine with the fully finished version. I was scared the whole time that Oscar, our waiter, was going to drop or break something.

There was fanfare surrounding his additions of garlic, artichoke hearts, spinach and swiss cheese to the broth (no traditional use of gruyere, emmenthaler, wine or kirsch). And then there was the lone bottle of Tabasco sauce that he never added and seemed to have orphaned on our table. About half way through our gooey dish, we asked, "what's the Tabasco for?" to which he dully replied, "I was supposed to put it in the fondue" and then walked away with the condiment in hand. Uh, ok, so why didn't he just put it in? I was so baffled by the customer service at this point that it seemed futile to even ask for a few shakes of sauce. And outrageously, the Westwood specific website is currently featuring that they were awarded top marks by some mystery dining association. Amusing, because the whole time I was thinking about how I would've written this place up if I were a mystery diner (not food critic, mind you–that's a beast unto itself). And the words Top Performer didn't exactly come to mind.

We then got salads (mine California, which meant blue cheese, walnuts and raspberry vinaigrette. James's chef's, which I'm sure you can imagine) that came with a shaker of an oddball garlic and wine powder. Why would you think to make a seasoning from dried up wine and garlic? I figured that my fruity dressing was quite enough and avoided the additional flavoring altogether.

Then came the coq au vin broth, also prepared before our eyes, the final touch a hammy, "here's a little wine" while pouring a dash into the pot, then "here's a little more wine" followed by "and here's a little more" polishing off the half carafe, which was presumably intended to elicit squeals and/or exclamations from the two of us who remained stone faced. All that was missing was a "bam!" We opted for the cheapest (though not cheap) of the three entre fondue mix-ins, which included a hodgepodge of chicken, sirloin, shrimp, kielbasa, potatoes, broccoli, squash, mushrooms, potstickers and pirogies. It's a good thing I like peculiarly colored food because everything came out of the pot crimson-stained.

Meltingpot We weren't asked if we wanted to sit in the bar, and this would've been a huge issue for many since smoking is still allowed in New Jersey. I am a light smoker, but wouldn't feel right puffing away with diners inches from me. Of course, this courtesy doesn't go both ways. Part way through our tortuous meal, numerous loud birthday parties and a DJ took over the bar area. The teddy bear of a guy began playing an amplified acoustic guitar directly behind my chair. Clichd yet authentic accents, evil eyes, menthol smoke, and tan, wrinkled, cosmo-sipping, office managers gone wild (they probably wear those long hideous sweater coats) became the pervasive theme. I was so mad because my camera went dead before I could capture visual evidence that my words can't convey. Usually, I'm not one for photos in a restaurant, but since we were in the party room and all…

There was a group of 40-ish looking ladies who were celebrating a chunky friend in a plastic tiara's birthday. I know I'm warped with ages (I'm always shocked to discover that almost everyone in the universe is younger than me despite looking liney and haggard) so I jokingly suggested the woman was probably only 31. Nope, it was the big three-oh.

By this point, I'd had enough, and absolutely no stomach for a dessert course. But we'd agreed to the whole painful shebang, and I'm too cheap to not get my money's worth, so we trudged through a vessel of chocolate turtle (for the overly cultured, that means caramel swirled not reptilian) fondue with strawberries, pineapple, marshmallows, brownie chunks and cheesecake. I wanted to hurl all over the built in burner, or on Oscar, or maybe on top of one of the many frosted heads of horsey hair. I'm not even sure that my nausea was food induced. It felt more like my soul had been poisoned.

I'm no Brooklyn booster, but no matter how much borough haters claim that if you're going to move to Brooklyn you might as well live in New Jersey, they're way off base. The Melting Pot, at least in this permutation, wouldn't work in Brooklyn. The bulk of busted to middling pockets would consider it too expensive, the gentrified swaths wouldn't stand for the pretension, Emeril theatrics, cigarettes or live Simon & Garfunkel covers. The whole next day James and I were like "what happened?" We felt dirty and victimized. For $125 you can get real food or even good food, that's what I've never understood about these poor value chain restaurants. I'll admit to loving novelty more than any human should, but it certainly can come at a price.

The Melting Pot * 250 Center Avenue, Westwood, NJ

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Nov 15

Festival of Bites

Mithai make my teeth hurt and my tongue happy. I’ve always been a sucker for hyper pigmented foods, sweets in particular. But I’m more familiar with tiny S.E. Asian style snacks than these Indian counterparts. Where Malaysian/Singaporean kueh, Thai kanom and Vietnamese banh tend to be variations on glutinous rice, rice flour, coconut milk, agar-agar and mung beans (it’s amazing the mileage you can get out of small repertoire), mithai revolve around evaporated milk, ghee, chickpea flour, nuts and spices (often cardamom and saffron). Dairy definitely looms larger and creates a richness that coconut milk can’t.

I’ve come to know and love the fudgey-textured burfi (sometimes called barfi, but I prefer the more appetizing spelling) and syrup soaked galub jamun. The high sugar content isn’t what causes the tooth ache—my sweet tooth knows no bounds—it’s the sometimes used edible silver leaf that’s the culprit. I have the feeling that if these goodies were all whites and neutrals I would be less enamored of them than in their magenta and chartreuse glory. That is their beauty. Americans (of a certain type) tend to be down on the unnatural and artificial, but how do you argue with tradition? But then, I also like the fake green pistachio gelato better than the dull toned purist version.

There are quite a few places around the city to pick up some mithai. Sukhadia’s and Rajbhog are both chains, but there are also smaller shops and branches of these two biggies in neighborhoods like Jackson Heights and Richmond Hill, Queens (not to mention my new favorite New Jersey locale, Edison). Buying these gems is almost an old fashioned candy counter experience, they are tucked on trays in glass cases, come by the pound and are placed in a little box tied with string.

Having a limited knowledge of mithai, I only a vague idea what any particular item is since they’re not labeled or described in any fashion. And being NYC, there’s always a crowd around the counter so I feel pressured to move it along and pick and point quickly and without questions. But then, I’m overly sensitive to this sort of thing, holding up lines, looking dumb, when I see inquisitive, indecisive folks all the time.

I recently stopped by a storefront whose name I can’t recall on 74th St. in Jackson Heights. My interest had been rekindled while reading a recent New York Times article on mithai, but I waited until the weekend after Diwali to beat the holiday hordes. I indulged in the sweets pictured below, and I’m not sure how long six pieces are meant to last, but I purchased them Saturday afternoon and had eaten them all by Sunday evening. That’s exactly why I can’t have candy sitting around the house.

Mithai

Pista (pistachio) burfi and something Rajbhog calls sweet cutlet, though I suspect that’s not its proper name.

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Nov 11

Blue Mood

I swear I’m not obsessed with this crunchy new Trader Joe’s offering, but Monteblue & Populet fits one of my fixations. I hadn’t really thought of this blueberry infested caramel corn as blue food when I purchased it. The overall tone is golden, the dried berries a deep indigo that hardly registers as blue. I spent a Sunday intermittently picking at the sweet popped kernels, but forgot about my grazing by the time Monday kicked in. While performing some late night toothbrushing, rinsing and spitting, I became mildly alarmed by the baby blue froth sitting in the sink. Ah, the monteblue had left its fruity mark. It was a pretty shade really, like Roux Fanci-full rinse in Blue Mood (I used to use this on my bleached hair in high school, but it doesn’t seem to exist any more). Maybe the thought of hair products for the silver set isn’t appetizing to all, but I like the connection.

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Nov 11

Pepsi Re-Generation

Bluepepsihk_2  I was wowed enough to find 7-Elevens in S.E. Asia (and boy, are the combo meals a doozy) but I almost lost it when I saw a display of limited edition Pepsi Blue in one of the Hong Kong stores. As I’ve boringly reiterated countless times, I don’t even drink soda (I like chewing sugar, but gulping it in liquid form seems pointless) but I love me some blue food. I’m kind of sad that the early ‘00s crazy color food fad has died down, at least in America. Maybe Hong Kong will pick up the slack.

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Nov 9

Chicken Soup for the Office Worker’s Soul

I’m afraid I won’t be having my favorite lunch, chicken udon from Yagura on 41st St., for much longer. I sense a new job on the horizon (just a feeling—I don’t want to jinx anything) which will put me in a different part of midtown (really, I could do without midtown altogether). I suppose a new job is better than Japanese chicken noodle soup, but I’ll still miss my $4.88 plastic tub full from around the corner.

I don’t fully understand the whole umami concept, but I think this soup is rife with it. There’s an extra taste in there and it’s not simply salt. Supposedly, the konbu and bonito flakes which create dashi, the broth that is the basis for many Japanese soups, are an umami powerhouse when combined.

The noodles are fat and chewy and just filling enough. I’ve tried it with soba before, and while adequate, the overall effect was mealy and nibbly rather than teeth chompingly satisfying.

I would almost say the soup is healthy if it weren’t for the chicken. They include a handful of thick hacked up skin-on slices that I’m sure ooze fat all through the liquid. And the skin is browned and still crisp in parts, which implies that it hasn’t been stewed to death. That might be the clincher, the poultry is a separate entity and not a stock component either. Most chicken soups seem over cooked and dreary by comparison. I’ve never had any last long enough to refrigerate for later, but I’ve been curious if a white lardy layer would form atop the surface. There are some things you just don’t need to know.

Sometimes they forget to sprinkle the scallion slices on top, and you wouldn’t think it’d matter but it does. You need that tiny crisp onion contrast. I also keep a little bottle of Japanese chili powder in my drawer to spruce up the already flavorful soup. Three good shakes usually does the trick.

Udon_1

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Nov 1

Were Salads the Death of Dave Thomas?

Wendyssalad_2 Ok, McDonald’s BLT salad with grilled chicken is no match for the mighty Wendy’s Chicken BLT. It’s like forty cents more ($4.87 with tax) but sometimes you just have to say dammit I’m worth that extra half dollar. For one thing, it’s bigger. Where the McDonald’s version doesn’t always prevent 4pm hunger pangs from appearing, this version will hold you through early evening. There are probably equal amounts of “stuff” included (yeah, there's a lot of unnecessary cheese), the greens are just padded with extra lettuce, but that’s fine because who couldn’t use more roughage? And while some might prefer the diy ethic of McDonald’s whole breast, I like the mommy-fied chicken cubes because I’m working (or rather, internetting) while eating and knife work is too much to coordinate.

The only weirdo aspect is that the default dressing is honey mustard, one I’d never seek out on my own, but I just go with it. More disturbing is that sometimes they’ll give me regular and other times reduced fat. I’m sure it’s just carelessness, though I can’t help but imagine that the cashier’s decision to reduce my calories for me is intentional. Though I doubt they’d waste the time correcting the public’s eating habits, considering 95% of the line is ordering extra and super everything.

I’m fully aware that fast food salads are fat filled faux nutrition, but they’re nowhere near combo meal danger. If you eschew the croutons and use half the dressing, this salad is 450 calories and 30 grams of fat (21 grams for low fat dressing) which is high, I’ll admit (McDonald's version is 90 calories less with the same amount of fat). But a meal combo that no one ever would order because it’s the smallest of all choices, a Classic Single burger, medium fries and medium Coke is 1000 calories and 41 grams of fat. Of course you could just bypass Wendy’s altogether and simply eat a big plastic bowl filled with lettuce and nonfat vinaigrette, but that would be foul.

This brings me to an issue I’ve never understood. Maybe if I did I wouldn’t have a weight problem. I don’t frequent fast food joints that often, at least not until recently when I started my salad experiment. What has surprised me is that the customers are going whole hog, big burgers, large fries, giant sodas, but most are not obese. I see these same metabolic anomalies at the deli in the morning ordering egg, bacon and cheese on rolls like it’s nothing. Calories are no source of concern for them, yet if you watch depressing shows like The Biggest Loser or ever troll a Weight Watchers message board (which I wouldn’t recommend) you see folks agonizing over every minute fat and carbohydrate molecule.

Maybe the people in line at McDonald’s only eat there like once a month, or they eat super light, lean and balanced the rest of the day. I don’t know, but it’s baffling why and how some people can perpetually eat crap with no ill external effects while others eat broiled skinless chicken breasts and steamed vegetables and remain chunks (or lose weight, but can never ever touch fatty foods for eternity or they’ll blow right back up again). I don’t think it’s all a matter of good genes. A study should be done on average weight regular consumers of high fat processed food because I totally want to know what they’re doing that I’m not.

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Oct 31

Chipotle

1/2

I really dont get the appeal of overstuffed burritos, particularly ones rife with rice. But I was looking for something quick, cheap and near Sixth Ave. and 12th St. where I would be attending a Halloween party an hour later. So, I went the taco route instead. But I wasnt aware of all the options, I dont like fast food places like Subway or those salad counters where youre on the spot and have to pick and choose. Choice is nice, but I'd rather just have some solid standards. I ended up with three sad soft tacos with some shredded pork, hot sauce, white cheese and sour cream. Each bite was dominated by the chewy creamy combo of flour tortilla and dairy, like an unbaked quesadilla. It certainly didnt kill me, and provided padding for a not-smart-for-a-Monday-night drinking binge.

Chipotle * 510 Sixth Ave., New York, NY

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Oct 29

Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday, Ikea. I realize 15% isn't much, but it's not often there's a storewide sale, so I took advantage. Oddly, only the Paramus location was participating, which was fine by me since Elizabeth is busted and rife with NYCers and Hicksville feels far on the LIE. At Paramus the workers are grown up white people, that's how you know you're in a real suburb (as opposed to ratty Elizabeth). Jobs that only minority teens will do in the city are performed by joe schmos in most parts of the country. I know I've lived here too long when smiling, helpful workers make me suspicious.

Everything is efficient, clean and well stocked, the dead opposite of picked over sour puss Elizabeth. There was a cart guy who actually offered to take ours as we were pushing them back to the store after loading our car. A woman comes around and takes plates and washes the tables while you're dining in the caf. The coke-bottle-spectacled cashier who seemed like a library shelver reject made small talk about the Hella Jongerius vase I'd purchased. "Do you read the Bergen Record"? Uh, no. Apparently, there had been an article on these vessels, which is why the stock had been nearly depleted–the white one I'd wanted was gone and we got the last pink one.

They had free sheet cake and there was more than enough to go around and there wasn't even a line (I could only imagine how this would play out in the Red Hook location, if it ever opens. It would be a messy mob scene, for sure) Um, I could do without their house reggae band, Verdict, who has been playing bad covers on more than one occasion. But that's a small price to pay for an otherwise sane shopping experience.

Ikea * 100 Ikea Dr., Paramus, NJ

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Oct 29

The Bard of Snacking

We took a break from Westfield and went back to our original New Jersey locale in Westwood (apparently, having west in your township's name guarantees a Trader Joe's will set up shop). It's less mobbed than Westfield, but lacks a liquor license, which might have something to do with the huge A&P Liquors immediately next door. Westwood is cute and Martha Stewart-ish, they a small town shopping strip with two candy stores and a grassy gazebo. Oh, and a Melting Pot restaurant. I thought that chain had totally died out in the '80s.

I was pretty restrained in my buying. I used to go nuts buying unnecessary frozen items and sauces. I mean, I live in NYC, I don't need prepackaged pizza and Chinese food. I now stick to things that are more expensive and specialty here like maple syrup, vanilla beans, certain cheeses, spiced nuts, etc. And I always go overboard on sweets and snacks.

This time I was suckered in by a tin of the new stupidly named Monteblue & Populet (the original is Rosencrunch & Guildenstern) a walnut and blueberry caramel corn. Caramel corn is my nemesis, I absolutely can?t stop eating it once I start. (At Target I go crazy for their version with cranberries, and it's dangerous because it's packaged in this huge clear plastic container and priced cheaper than the smaller Poppycock.) I ate all eleven Monteblue & Populet servings in twenty four hours. Damn those Shakespearean puns and their tasty popcorn.

Bluepopcorn
Trader Joe's * 20 Irvington St., Westwood, NJ

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Oct 28

Everyone Needs a Pound of Poppers

Every Costco has a vibe. For instance, my old walking distance Sunset Park location was pure ghetto. Eh, not completely, but it's busted and crammed, there's that annoying cart conveyer belt to get to the second floor, and you can't browse or look at any single item for more than about two seconds because you?ll be forced out of the way by the endless crush of aggro shoppers. And I thought Costco was supposed to be all about food samples, which never seem have caught on in Brooklyn, or else the free tidbits were decimated by the time I showed up.

Despite moving up figuratively and geographically, this is still the closest Costco. We'll try others at all costs. As usual, any chain location not accessible by public transportation and even better, not in NYC, is a good bet. Staten Island, which I've tried once, wasn't horrible. But if you're going to pay the nine freaking dollars to cross the Verrazano you may as well go the extra mile into New Jersey (hmm, more than a few extra–I didn't realize Edison was 22 miles away, the same as the Yonkers Costco across from Stew Leonard?s, which takes twice as long to get to). Paramus used to be our NJ hot zone, but recently Edison has won us over with its unassuming charm, plus it feels more convenient (yet also not closer in distance).

Apparently, this is the Asian Costco (yes, Brooklyn's is the black and Hispanic one while Staten Island's is teaming with working class white folks) which was different, though not unexpected. This area is also home to the best Hong Kong Supermarket ever, and countless Indian restaurants and shops. Unfortunately, it?s not like Western Beef where they carry items to reflect the neighborhood. And no, T.G.I. Friday?s frozen Southwestern Egg Rolls don't count. I made due (or is that do–I'm always confounded by this phrase, though I certainly get the difference between bare and bear feet) with the woman independently selling eight varieties of caramel apples in the middle of the store. I don't know the logistics of that, but it reminded me of how you see in Malaysian malls. It felt foreign and old-timey at the same time.

We hit the bonanza. This is the only Costco I've been to with a comprehensive wine and alcohol section inside (as opposed to the Sunset Park one with an adjoining run of the mill liquor store). And the only one to stock the elusive-since-leaving-Portland, giant box of frozen jalepeno poppers. Ole!

My only complaint with Costco (because there must be at least one), once the crowd issue is eliminated, is the carts. They're impossible to push and/or steer when filled even modestly with the economy sized products on display.

Njcostco
Costco * 2210 Route 27 N., Edison, NJ

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