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Cedar Tavern


I never know what to call this sliver between the east and west villages, below Union Square. I think some call it Greenwich Village, but Ive always thought that was a bit more west. I do know its kind of unexciting for dinner options, maybe its the NYU proximity. I worked on Fifth Ave. and 13th St. for a few years, and it was fine for lunch, but evening meals in a three-block radius were baffling. Fourteenth Street is lined with fast food, including Manhattans only Little Caesars. There are also plenty of mediocre Asian chains: Café Spice, Lemongrass Grill, LAnnan (Indian, Thai and Vietnamese).

I wanted to eat something inexpensive and non-bad before seeing Thumbsucker at the nearby Quad Cinema. (In the ‘90s, the façade was completely mustard yellow ‘70s and then once 2000 hit they finally gave it a remodel, which amusingly bumped it up a decade. Now its shiny, glass and metal ‘80s.) Cedar Tavern was it. Burgers, fries and beer. The cheeseburger was a prime specimen, though the limp greasy fries werent up to the same level. Of course, that didnt stop me from eating all my soggy starch strips anyway. I have the worst time turning down food.

I just remembered that I had been to Cedar Tavern once before, but I didn't eat. I went for drinks with a writing class after our last session. I was put off by how our instructor (who is clearly good at self-promotion–I see her face and byline all over the place) spent the evening sucking up to one of the young students whose father was a high powered editor. Unsurprisingly, this girl had just gotten a book deal. I've kind of soured on writing classes, if that isn't obvious enough from my stunted writing style.

Cedar Tavern * University Pl., New York, NY

Grilled Cheese Salad Can’t be Far Behind

This was the best McDonald’s salad I’ve had so far, and that’s not just because my head cold has rendered my taste buds numb. None of the lettuce was browning or wilted and I actually received croutons and ranch dressing with my BLT Ranch salad, which has never happened before. I didn’t even know McDonald’s had croutons (though when I get them with my Wendy’s salad–every time, thank you–I stash them in my drawer because I can’t bear to throw food away even when I don’t need or want it. The mini packs came in handy one night when I stayed late at work and was starving). Weird. Aren’t there rules and guidelines for franchise consistency? I mean, this isn’t a case of every order being different because it’s handmade and artisanal. This is characterless, prepackaged fare and I'm not going to stand for deviation.

Mcdblt_2

Tom Yuck?

Ok, it might seem hypocritical to talk about something like tom yam pizza after just dissing Rachael Ray’s boo-sotto, but I never said I was classy. I’m harder on Americans than foreigners. I love the home cook, I hesitate to say house wife, geared sections of SE Asian publications like The Star. The food is almost all novel and atypical to me, so I don’t have issues if they’re oversimplifying or bastardizing recipes. 

That’s why I have no problems with Sylvia Tan’s books like Mad About Food. She doesn’t get too nuts, but does have a recipe for tom yam seafood pizza. So does Anya Von Bremzen in Terrific Pacific, the 1995 cookbook that totally got me started on my SE Asian kick. I’ve adapted the two into my own version.

Malaysians are crazy for anything tom yum, kind of how Americans equate pad Thai with Thai cuisine. By the way, Thai food sucks in Malaysia, it’s either bland and tame or Chinese food in disguise (same with Singapore and Hong Kong). I refused to believe this and couldn’t understand it since they share a border. Penang is less than one hundred miles from Thailand, like from NYC to Philadelphia (though some would argue that we can’t get cheesesteaks right). But Malaysians make anything tom yum: noodles, potato chips, buns, and yes, pizza (at Pizza Hut, no less). Who am I to buck a trend?

I was home alone tonight and trying to come up with Tomyumrawsomething that used up odds and ends cluttering up the fridge and freezer, and this was it. I used enough frozen products to make Clarence Birdseye proud: lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, pizza dough and shrimp. The limes weren’t frozen, but ancient. Unfortunately, the half bell pepper and red onion I also intended to salvage had to be nixed since both were on the cusp of decomposing. I really cleaned house. I’d used up every last wisp of flour while making lamb pies on Sunday, so I had to improvise with cake flour, which was no biggie since it was simply for dusting

Cheese isn’t a must for this dish, but mozzarella is mild enough to not offend. But this evening I only had generic cheddar, American cheese, Chavrie goat, Pecorino Romano, light Laughing Cow cheese and a gruyere on hand (huh, that’s a lot more cheese than I realized, plus there was a moldy fontina butt end in the crisper), none of which seemed wise melted with seafood. But I went wild and grated the narrow remainder of gruyere since this was a pantry streamlining exercise.

Tom Yum Pizza

1 lime
1 teaspoon olive oil

½ tablespoon minced lemongrass

½ tablespoon minced ginger

8 ounces peeled, halved shrimp (squid works too)

2 tablespoons tom yum paste

1 squirt fish sauce

1 teaspoon sambal oelek

1 pound ball pizza dough

5 ounces sliced mushrooms, oyster preferred

Small handful coarsely chopped cilantro

2 kaffir lime leaves, shredded

Mozzarella cheese (optional)

Combine ginger, lemongrass, olive oil and juice from half the lime. Toss in shrimp and let marinade for up to one hour.

Tomyumbowls_1Mix tom yum paste, the rest of lime juice, fish sauce and sambal. Set aside.

Roll out dough and place on lightly oiled cookie sheet (preferably pizza pan).

Spread tom yum sauce over dough and top with shrimp, cut side down, and mushrooms. Sprinkle with cilantro and lime leaves. Mozzarella is optional at this point. Gross as it sounds, I’ve made it that way and it was tasty.

Bake at 500˚F for 10 to 12 minutes.

Tomyumpizza

It turned out satisfactorily, the cheese was just accent enough, but over all the pie was too salty. I’d use less tom yum paste and fish sauce next time, and probably increase the amount of shrimp. Those adjustments are reflected in the recipe above.

I’m a Hater, Not a Lover

I was re-reminded by the recent New York Times article “Being Rachael Ray: How Cool is That?” (which will likely be gone in a few days) that there are two kinds of people in this world: the Rachael Ray lovers (actually, I’m having a tough time finding any proper fan sites whatsoever) and the haters. No in-betweens. I wouldn’t go as far as saying that I hate the woman because I’m more mature than that (hate the game, not the playa? What sick game is this anyway?) but yeah, she’s painful to watch.

The last Portland visit where I had conversations with both of my parents, Christmas ’03, Rachael Ray’s name came up totally unprompted. Out of the blue my mom started in on how she couldn’t stand the giggly TV personality. Agreed. She loathes the general population, perhaps even more than I do.

Later that afternoon, I stopped by my dad’s house to be a good daughter, and in an equally unsolicited manner he brought up how great Rachel Ray was. I held my tongue since his middling taste wasn’t exactly news to me, and we had the kind of relationship where it was easier to simply go along rather than create conflict and have to explain why something is so bad. However, if my mom brings up her fondness for things like The View (to be fair, she’s finally given up on The View and now tapes Ellen—at least it’s not Oprah) or The Kite Runner, I will not hold back.

During this holiday vacation, I also discovered that both parents seemed to have a propensity for watching westerns, which I’d never been aware of previously. My dad even went as far as claiming that his new bratty Maltese puppy (purchased to keep him company during an unwelcome early retirement) Bianca (odd name choice, considering that years ago I’d been told that was the original name picked for me. How I ultimately ended up with the considerably more mundane Krista, is beyond me), enjoyed westerns. Let me guess, Bianca’s a Rachael Ray fanatic too?

It’s baffling to me how a Rachael Ray lover and a Rachael Ray hater could be married for twenty years. Could “staying together for the children” really trump such fundamental differences? I don’t think I would ever be able to weather a long or short term relationship, knowing that my significant other had no issues with the relentlessly upbeat or asininely cheery.

My oversimplified criteria for deciding if a guy is worth your time or not has always been: 1. Do they make you laugh? 2. Do you want to touch them? Now, I’ll have to add 3. Do they see anything wrong with a dish called boo-sotto? (it’s not for Halloween) to the list.

Sheepish Endeavor

I like cooking, though I probably enjoy planning and eating more, but I don’t revel in the act of preparing food like it’s some sensual ritual or zen process. My favorite thing is fussing around with menu ideas (I’m already fixating on what I can make—duck, not turkey—for a post-Thanksgiving dinner party that I fear won’t be well attended despite not falling on the holiday proper when everyone else seems to have places to be except for me). Perhaps that’s why the idea of being a chef has never appealed to me. Not that I’d want to be a party planner or caterer either. My cooking ambivalence is why I rarely record what I make, plus I use recipes, not things out of my head. But I’m trying to document a random dish here and there, just for the sake of practice.

* * *

LambingredientsWith the temperature finally starting to dip, Individual Lamb Pies from the latest Martha Stewart Living (I read it at work, if you must know) seemed seasonally appropriate. Besides, hers looked so cute with the little holes punched from the crust, and it gave me an excuse to purchase some relatively unnecessary kiwi green Le Creuset petite casseroles (two, rather than four because I’m cheap—I had to scrounge around the apartment in search of two other appropriate vessels, and settled on little Pyrex bowls ).

Everyone knows you’re supposed to read recipes thoroughly before attempting them, but I flaunted convention and there was trouble. I didn’t realize the lamb had to cook for two hours, that the pies had to refrigerate 30 minutes before baking, and I didn’t think to check the rarely used tub of shortening (it had gone rancid). So, I used all butter and barely squeaked by with the stick and a half on hand. I used every last poof of flour, exactly 2 1/2 cups worth. The rolling pin and board had to be dusted with old cake flour.

But it wasn’t a disaster by any means. The crust just didn’t seem as flaky as it could’ve been, and the pies weren’t ready until after 11pm, which isn’t all that unusual for Sunday evening when I always stay up too far past midnight in denial of rapidly approaching Monday.

CookedpiesI made an equally autumnal arugula, goat chese, fig and toasted walnut salad to tide me over. But it was one of those Cooking Light recipes, which are generally better than you’d expect (often the light aspect comes more from portion sizes than ingredients and I end up eating two servings, totally defeating the original purpose), though their salad dressings skew the vinegar to oil proportion in favor of the acid, which can come on too strong.

The benefit of cooking four pies for two people is that you can eat another the following night. The leftover pie was way more flavorful than the original, but didn’t look as charming minus the mini crock.

Mercadito Grove

I'm scared of small plates, big prices kinds of places. Neither hole-in-the-wall authentic nor burritos-and-hard-shell-tacos wrong, Mercadito is akin to La Palapa. The food is pricier, creative and surprisingly good. I was with two friends researching micheladas, and our waiter kept disparaging them and trying to get us to try margaritas. Ive heard theyre good (and more expensive, certainly) but that wasnt the point. I had to have beer cocktails. We shared a guacamole sampler with three styles: traditional, mango…hmm, and a third one I cant recall. I guess I wasnt impressed. This was supplemented by tacos with carnitas, tilapia and huitalacoche (not all together). Tiny and four to a plate, they were more satisfying than you would be led to believe. By the time we left, I'd been dubbed “Chelada” by our schmoozy waiter. I suppose there are worse thing than being called a spicy beer.

Mercadito Grove * 100 Seventh Ave. S., New York, NY

Feud for Thought

I know chefs are hot these days (why else would Darren Star go from Sex and the City to Kitchen Confidential?) but it’s still odd to see a food-ish feud on Page Six, particularly since neither parties involved have much to do with NYC. I first read of this spat last week in the Chicago Sun-Times, where its appearance made more sense.

What doesn’t make sense is why the imaginative object of my fleeting fascination would blatantly sully a big name. Of course, I love to bad mouth, but then, I’m nobody.

If it’s true that poor Homaro fibbed or at least exaggerated the truth because Mariani panned his restaurant, that’s not very smart because it’s not like the facts couldn’t be verified.

That’s the problem with guys in their twenties—big ideas often trumps wise restraint (having passed my third decade a few years back, I now feel oh-so-much brighter). Or maybe Homaro speaks the truth and will be vindicated…and then make my food levitate or turn inside out or something.

A Cashew Apple a Day

I like the idea of fruit discards, despite not being a big fan of fruit. I was really bowled over when I learned not that many years ago that cashews are really kind of a byproduct of an apple-like fruit. Why wouldn’t Americans eat the fruit? I thought perhaps it would be hard to transport, too perishable, etc., but I’m now suspecting it’s because the fruit tastes like crap. (Or not, apparently an Indian company is making Kazkar Feni, a cashew apple liqueur.)

At least that’s the case with nutmeg fruit. I knew that nutmeg, the spice, is a grated giant seed, and that mace is the webby outer coating. But I’d never seen the fruit, which resembles apricot halves and was sold from liquid filled glass containers all over Penang. It took me a while to figure out these yellowish, floating, indented disks were nutmeg fruit. And while killing time at the airport, waiting for our flight to Kuala Lumpur, I noticed some vacuum sealed nutmegs in a bin with papaya and mango. The other two fruits are sweet and perfectly edible, so I figured nutmeg couldn’t be far off.

Nutmeg_1

I didn’t open them until I got back home, and decided to bring them (along with green bean cookies, which were an unexpected hit) to work as a surprise scary gift to share with coworkers. And scare, they did. They emitted a strong medicinal smell. I’m not sure if they were pickled, fermented or what, but they were beyond pungent. I don’t know if you’re supposed to eat them plain, but it was akin to eating a ginger root like an apple. A little goes a long way. I had to toss the whole bag. Despite its detractors, I’d take durian over nutmeg, any day.

Plaza Garibaldi

This was my first stop while doing <A href=>michelada research</a>, so I came across a little hesitant in ordering the spicy drink. My michelada naiveté totally got me pegged as a culinarily ignorant gringa. After we decided to stay and order food, we kept getting steered away from the things we actually wanted and pushed towards items like quesadillas. When James ordered something with chorizo and I asked for the pernil torta we were informed, “thats pork, you know.” This would be the first of two exact same warnings at Mexican restaurants that week. Where did the idea that Americans dont like pork come from? Do they think all New Yorkers are Jewish? It always weirds me out when wait staff tries talking me out of items I'm interested in, especially when the dish in question isnt particularly odd. But even if I wanted to try lambs eyeballs or guinea pigs, that would be my bad choice if I didnt end up liking it.

Plaza Garibaldi * 89-12 Roosevelt. Ave., Corona, NY

Sorta Big in Japan

Japanese style doesn?t necessarily conjure up utilitarian fleece, corduroy and cashmere. Maybe I've seen too much street fashion a la Fruits. Obviously, the entire island nation doesn't sport pink hair, furry legwarmers and inflatable props. Uniqlo has been described as the Japanese Gap, which I wouldn?t wholly agree with. James heard about it somewhere (lord knows where, it's not like he's plugged into fashion media) and was gunning to go because he was under the impression that it was like the Gap of our youth, meaning basics in lots of colors, more specifically cords in shades other than the dulled-down fall tones dominating places like J. Crew.

Eschewing the straight from Sweden to midtown H&M approach, Uniqlo decided somewhat strangely to open their U.S. flagship in a small scale, run-down (though currently under renovation) Middlesex county mall. Perhaps they're testing the waters in a less trend-driven suburban locale. This is my new favorite part of New Jersey. It's relatively quick from Brooklyn, through Staten Island, and not as overrun as seemingly more affluent Bergen County. For example, Garden State Plaza has Hugo Boss and Louis Vuitton where Menlo Park Mall still has an early '80s sign out front, Benihana across the street, Spencer Gifts (actually, Garden State Plaza does too) and a dollar store (where I bought a bunch of totally unnecessary candy). Edison and surrounding townships contain all my favorites like the best Hong Kong Supermarket ever, Trader Joes with wine, an un-ghetto Costco, good dim sum, tons of Indian restaurants and a Dairy Queen. Now that's living.

Uniqlo_5

Admittedly, I happen to be a fan of the cheap, sparkly, $25 and under, six-month shelf life aesthetic. So, $79 cashmere cardigans and simple, solid color tees and turtlenecks didn't do much for me. I did, however, purchase a lightweight black, slightly fitted (perhaps a little too fitted–I was afraid an Asian XL might not be so extra or large. The predicament certainly wasn't helped by our later lunch at the on site Cheesecake Factory) windbreaker, which is sure to guarantee the torrential rain that plagued all of last week will let up. James fared better, buying up a couple pairs of pants, a butter yellow corduroy oxford, and three-for-$10 cute colored argyle socks.

I think two more New Jersey locations are in the works. I assume Uniqlo will eventually jump the Hudson. I can see it doing well with the Real Simple audience and organic baby food, no-to-little make up, SUV-owning set who inhabit my neighborhood (Carroll Gardens) and environs (minus Red Hook).

Uniqlo * Menlo Park Mall, Rt. 1 & Parsonage Rd, Edison, NJ