Goodies First

Oct 15

Cheesecake Factory Edison

Sure, the light bulb was one of the worlds great inventions, but can glass encased filaments hold a candle to the Cheesecake Factory? These sprawling suburban chains are few and far between in the NYC area, so its only fitting that such a culinary innovator (fried macaroni and cheese, anyone?) would be in Edison, NJ. While seeking out the first American Uniqlo, we were ecstatic to discover Menlo Park Mall also housed a bustling Cheesecake Factory.

I’m still not quite clear what its raison d’etre is, other than cheesecake, of course. Red Lobster is seafood, Olive Garden is Italian, Outback Steakhouse is about as Australian as P.F. Changs is Chinese, but they have focus. Only one page of the menu and a glass case near the front of the restaurant are devoted to their namesake dessert. The rest of the ten-plus-page menu is a hodgepodge. And the Atlantic City casino meets ’90s Adam Tihany décor only complicates matters further.

It’s best to put such matters out of your head, suspend belief and live in the CF moment. Order a passion fruit ice tea, share a crispy crab wonton appetizer and then order monstrous barbecue ranch chicken salad (that looked like ais kacang if you squinted your eyes), and pretend it resembles something healthy. But save room for white chocolate chunk macadamia cheesecake. This was my lovely meal. Next time Ill try a glass of “The Cheesecake Factory,” a merlot specially bottled by Robert Mondavi. Pure class.

An aside: It’s odd how quickly we become sensitized to new rules. Smoking in bars feels like a tiny luxury, but seeing smoking in restaurants seems almost archaic. It wasnt that long ago that the smoking/non smoking section was perfectly acceptable. And I don’t have a problem with cigarettes (though it was strange to be blowing hundreds of dollars in Hong Kong, seated in the nonsmoking section millimeters from Germans exhaling smoke all over our overpriced beef) but it always seems weird that New Jersey chain diners dont care. Maybe Ive been living in over privileged, raising-a-stink over everything Carroll Gardens for too long. I mean, what about the children?

I should’ve thought twice about ordering a salad since I knew I’d only eat half in order to justify ordering cheesecake too. Salads dont exactly travel well. And I’m not one of those picky put sauces on the side folks, but CF goes overboard with their dressing. It was like I’d ordered soup and salad. But being the cheapskate that I am, I attempted to rescue and revive my leftover “salad” which was really more like coleslaw with corn, beans, avocado and chicken, by straining it in a colander for a second lunch. Yes, I am gross and desperate.

Before: s.w. coleslaw slush

After: slightly less slushy

Cheesecake Factory * 455 Menlo Park Dr., Edison, NJ

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Oct 15

Taco Chulo

Ok I didn't actually eat there, just drank a beer cocktail for research purposes. But I was with two members of their target audience: Williamsburg vegetarians, and they loved it. I guess that makes me a Carroll Gardens carnivore, though that sounds hideous.

We arrived around 10:30pm, a half hour before they stop serving food and it becomes alcohol-only. Our waiter's admonishment was highly amusing, "I want to warn you, after 11pm there's a dj. It gets very different in here." Uh, ok. So, they were playing hip hop when we were seated–what would happen 30 minutes later? Wham and Kajagoogoo is what happened. Thanks for the head's up, guy. There's nothing like music from middle school to make you feel thoroughly decrepit.

Taco Chulo * 318 Grand St., Brooklyn, NY

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Oct 14

RUB

I dont really understand the catalyst for the bbq craze that seems to have swept the city in the past year. Not that I'm complaining, but I'm certainly neither bbq addict nor aficionado (duh, Ive eaten a Dallas BBQ by choice). I cant discern which wood is being used, or tell how the meat has been smoked by the color of the flesh, or speak at length on regional styles. But I do like barbecued meat, particularly anything porcine.

I had a Friday night urge and wanted to try someplace I'd never been. Smoked, in the East Village, seemed small-portion, big-prices off putting. RUB rankled me slightly with the Righteous Urban Barbecue acronym, but it has the Paul Kirk pedigree, which is more than many of the newcomers have to offer.

The Chelsea space is pretty bare bones, though hardly as no-frills as what youd find down south. I should've been trying the pork ribs, but they come solo, just ribs, and I like variety. While I do like barbecue, its not the sort of food that Ill eat till I'm breathless (like Thai food). I'd prefer lots of smaller tastes over one big entrée, so I tried a barbecue sampler where you can choose different meats and sides. I went for two and two and picked pulled pork, beef brisket, mixed greens (collards, mustard and kale) and baked beans, which were full of salty pork chunks. I liked the pulled pork best, beef brisket second and house made pastrami (that James ordered) third, but thats primarily because pastrami isnt one of my favorites in the first place. I prefer corned beef, even though I'm not sure what the difference is. It's definitely fattier.

In addition to the pastrami, other atypical offerings included szechuan smoked duck, which Ive heard is quite good, and deep fried ribs. Both are items I'd consider upon a second visit. You dont want to go wild on a maiden restaurant voyage, its best to assess standards first.

RUB * 208 23rd St., New York, NY

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Oct 13

Dressed for Success

Up until this soppy cool week, I was on a perverse fast food salad kick. I got it into my head that I’d somehow save money and calories by eating the pre-prepped greens. At least as opposed to those midtown delis with salad bars that I end up going overboard on with mismatched crap (sesame oily green beans, basil flecked tomatoes and pickled jalepeno grilled chicken strips all cavorting in the same plastic take out container is kind of wrong). And I also steer clear of the pick-a-mix tossed salad stations because it’s always a mob scene, I hem and haw over what toppings to choose and then the whole thing ends up costing over $7.

The fast food salad route keeps it under $5 (my ideal lunch limit), comes portion controlled and isn’t crazy unhealthy if you eat half the dressing packet or less (I’d rather eat less regular dressing than more low fat gunk) and skip the croutons. But I do feel weird inexplicable shame when I step through these chain restaurant doors. It’s not like I was raised in a natural foods, anti-establishment family.

So far, I’ve tried McDonald’s, Wendy’s and Au Bon Pain, but this isn’t where I rate and assess—I’ll save that for a different rainy day (besides, Slate already taste tested a few years back. Not that that would stop me from compiling my own results). No, what I’m here for now is to alert the world to a disturbing trend, something wholly un-American.

I’ve decided that the Bacon Ranch Salad is the best of their so-so offerings. I’ve had it maybe four times in the past month, and not once did it come with ranch dressing. Usually, the cashier will just toss something random in the bag, sometimes full fat Caesar, other times low fat balsamic vinaigrette. Today, I took charge of my destiny and asked if I could get the ranch dressing. I’m not even ranch crazy, it just seemed appropriate since the name of the salad implied that particular condiment as a component.

Well, they were out of it. Has it ever even existed or is it so darn popular that by 1:30 pm it had all disappeared? Maybe there’s a ranch shortage in the U.S. (We barely averted a Katrina-induced tabasco catastrophe.) It’s a McDonald’s mystery—and no, I’m not loving it.

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Oct 13

Ridgewood, New and Used

It was strange to see Kredens in today’s New York Times Under $25 review since I only became vaguely aware of its existence three days ago. For three years I lived at the intersection of Fresh Pond Rd. and Woodbine St. where Kredens now stands. Despite my fondness for food, I very rarely ate in the neighborhood. The pickings were pretty slim, mostly pizza and fast food chains. I only regret never trying Bosna-Express, which now has an Astoria location, if I’m correct. For being a predominately Polish and heavily Eastern European area, that culture never surfaced in dining establishments as it has in Greenpoint.

This past Sunday I made my bimonthly or so trek to the Williamsburg-Ridgewood border for a Western Beef excursion. We rarely drive any farther up Metropolitan Ave., at least not since moving to Brooklyn a few years back. But we wanted to hit that big mess of a thrift store on Wyckoff Ave., off the Bushwick-Ridgewood border and decided to detour along Fresh Pond Rd.

I wasn’t even sure that the resale shop still existed because I hadn’t been in years. They used to have a greeting card section full of ‘70s get well cards and that Flavia crap that my grandma gets off on. The cards, which I still have about eight of because they’re so awesomely bizarre, aren’t quite like the touching ones on her website. Mine are for troubled children, as evidenced below. The adorable/disturbing owl was drawn by Rena Hunnicut of Borger, Texas who won a National Association for Retarded Citizens art contest. A treat from the same thrift shop.

Inside: If this happens to you, just remember that it's okay to smile and look away. It shows you have courage inside and that you believe in yourself.

Inside: thinking of you

By NYC standards, the space is sprawling, and hardly picked over, though with the eastern Williamsburg line of demarcation constantly expanding I’m sure it’s being encroached. I’ll admit there is a fetid quality to the store, it’s not suburban Goodwill shiny and organized or even at a Salvation Army level of acceptableness. The eerie back room stacked with plywood armoires and particle board TV hutches smells like something died or possibly relieved itself inside. But at least the junkiness keeps the scavenger spirit alive.

Fresh Pond hadn’t changed much, they did knock down a diner for a drive-thru Commerce Bank (apparently, Ridgewood hasn’t made the same upper middle class stink as Park Slope), Maasbach’s had been turned into another branch of the mediocre Corato’s Pizza. I’d always considered this corner of Queens the land that time forgot, and was pleased to see my notions weren’t being challenged.

What was new were a small handful of what seemed to be Polish restaurants, like all of a sudden residents had the same bright idea. I didn’t feel inspired enough to stop (admittedly, borscht, pierogies and the like aren’t in my top ten cuisine repertoire) but I couldn’t help but think how welcome these diversions would’ve been six years ago. I guess somehow the New York Times has also picked up on this new Polish food growth spurt.

Thankfully, the thrift store whose name I can’t recall, mostly because I’m not sure it has one, was still there. I was horrified by their “moving to a new location” signs in the front window, but James thought it was a ploy. Not me, what kind of ploy would that be? A barber shop had taken over the formerly adjoined space where all the paper ephemera existed like my much loved greeting cards. But the bulk of the space was intact.

Books and magazines have always been a favored section for me, but theirs is a messy set of poorly lit shelves hidden in the back. I could barely make out the titles on book spines, but I hit a mini jackpot with the periodicals. There was a pile of early ‘90s Gourmets, (some with mouse droppings stuck to the spines) that grabbed my attention. I like seeing who was writing at the time, and weirdly, almost none of the names rang a bell (Nina Simonds, Laurie Colwin and Gerald Asher, excepted). The oddest aspect was how damn dated everything looked, both the content and ads. Weird Victoriana clip art, shoulder pads, big eyebrows, big jewels, big hair—only twelve years ago?

Granted, it doesn’t take much to make me feel old, but the ‘90s are still pretty fresh in my mind. I was in college in the early part of that decade, art school nonetheless, and I don’t recall style, fashion and design being so…so, ‘80s. But I’ve always felt like the first three years of a decade still mimic their predecessors. We’re just now establishing the ‘00s. 2000 to 2003 totally belong to the last century.

Does this scream ‘90s to you?

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Oct 12

Relationship Butcher

I swear, Western Beef just might end up being a relationship disintegrator. Despite the inexplicable joy James and I glean from this borderland, no frills grocery mecca, we always end up in a screaming spat by the time we get out to the car. And it's because of the check out line.

Not the length of it, which is always long, or the teeming carts (sometimes two) that take eons to unload (ours never makes it up to the half way mark) or the repeatedly rejected food stamp cards or even the nasty confrontational woman who got caught hiding a ham in her baby stroller. It's the physical space and willy-nilly procedure that raises my blood pressure and tries my patience. I like order and rule following, which is contrary to WB's philosophy.

The check-out aisles are super narrow and there isn't space for more than one cart at the end of the register before you hit the front wall. So, it's tight. No one can ever figure out whether it's optimal to be in front of or behind your cart. I usually stand in front and load the groceries on the belt. Ideally, James is behind, eventually the cart and my body move up to the end where the bag person sometimes stands, James pays (I pay him back later, don't worry) and we leave unfettered.

But it never goes like this. Some freak will have two carts and leave one behind so there's an empty ownerless one in front of me and our empty behind me. So, I'm sandwiched, the bagger starts putting food in the front one, James can't pay because he?s stuck behind our original cart, and there's no room to push or put it anywhere to get it out of the way. Meanwhile, a family will be breathing down our necks, so it's not like you can back up an inch either.

As silly as it seems, this situation will always cause a fight, which is ridiculous because it's not like I have much control over the check-out experience. Western Beef is becoming anxiety attack central, and that's just a shame.

Western Beef * 47-05 Metropolitan Ave., Ridgewood, NY

More: western beef

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Oct 6

Special Delivery

I’m aware of the smattering of avant-garde chefs practicing their craft in America, though I’ve only dined at WD-50. The other restaurants like Minibar in D.C., and Alinea and Moto, both in Chicago, just aren’t in cities I ever visit. I enjoyed playful tweaks at WD-50 like deep frying cubes of mayonnaise, but it’s certainly not over the top like this bit I just read in Rolling Stone (lord, I can’t stand Rolling Stone and just seeing it in my building’s lobby makes me think even less of the twentysomething subscriber upstairs with a baby and SUV. But I get it at work) about Homaro Cantu, the chef at Moto.

“We did this one dish we called ‘The World on Time’ – that’s the FedEx tag line,” Cantu recalls. “We dressed a guy up in a FedEx uniform. He’d go up to a table and be like, “’Excuse me, Ms. So and So, could you please sign for this package?’ She opens up the box, and it’s packaging material, but actually flavored like popcorn. Popcorn packaging!"

Is that gay? Like I would love to date someone who’d come up with scenarios like that (forget role playing games in the bedroom—I’d much prefer these antics in the dining room), but it’s fantastical and funny that I don’t imagine it springing from the mind of a straight guy. Yes, I love stereotyping…and food that doesn’t look like food.

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Oct 6

Queen’s Hideaway

I'm wary of quirky restaurants like this–the seats are going to be all smooshed together, theyre not likely to have air conditioning, and you might be at the mercy of whatever is on that nights menu and subject to the whims of a chef in a small hot kitchen. But thats bad quirky and Queens Hideaway was anything but.

I rarely dine in Williamsburg/Greenpoint (I know theyre not the same, as any Greenpoint dweller trying to prove how un-scenester they are would stress, but to me it might as well be one big neighborhood) despite practically everyone I know living there. But I'm trying to branch out and be more social on weeknights, and its easy to convince a friend to join you for dinner when its walking distance to their apartment (me, I'm relegated to G train torment). So, after a few $2 Yuenglings at Zablozki's, Jessica and I headed up Manhattan Ave. in the weird steamy October mist.

I was afraid the small space would be crowded since it was 8pm and they'd had recent write-ups in the New York Times and New York, but thankfully, eaters love sitting outside (I do not) so the back garden was full while the teal-ceilinged interior wasnt near capacity. I knew they had a $5 corkage, which seems silly for a few Woodchuck Ciders, but whatever, because the food is a bargain. There were about four mains that averaged $12 and an equal amount of appetizers hovering around $5. A small bowl of boiled peanuts sits on the table, and at first we dug into them because as Jessica noted, “anything tastes good when youre hungry” (to which I'd add, and tipsy) and we were starving. But the mushy saline legumes grew on us after the first few.

It's strange, because I hate salads when I make them (same with sandwiches) but theyre always so much more impressive at restaurants. Thats likely due to all the little flourishes that dont seem worth the effort for one dish, but doable on a larger scale. My salad had half of a warm apple that had been stewed with chile peppers, which was much more subtle than it sounds, candied walnuts, an amazing cheese from Bobolink Dairy (I cant recall the exact name, its not on their site, but it had a rind washed with pear brandy, I think) that I wish I could go get for lunch right now but Murrays at Grand Central doesnt carry it, all atop a layer of wild looking long-stemmed arugula (stems normally freak me out, very autistic of me, I know and one of my very, very few food phobias). Sweet and peppery.

One of the reasons I dont frequently dine with friends is because they dont/wont eat what I want to, and thats no fun. Jessica is a vegetarian who has loosened up over the years and was hemming and hawing over whether she could eat the gumbo because it had something called sand shark in it, which creeped her out. And I was just like fucking order it, its fish not a mammal. So, I bossed her into eating a shark, then ordered the chicken fried steak, which I'm not normally crazy about (I mean, its just tough breaded beef), but I was swayed by the sides as I often am. The smoky, ham-hocky collard greens and fat butter beans definitely added oomph to the nothing special meat.

We had cheddar cheese crust apple pie and bread pudding supposedly in the style of Paul Prudhomme for dessert (they'd run out of a chocolate cake), which was a bit much, but hey, I needed some fortification for the unnecessarily long ride home (why does it take ten minutes to drive from my apartment to Greenpoint, yet take an hour by subway?). You could starve to death, or at least become bored to death, waiting for an off-hours G train.

Queens Hideaway * Franklin St., Brooklyn, NY

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Oct 1

Bar Minnow

This corner casual place is less an offshoot of its neighbor The Minnow, and more of a bar (hence the name). Their menu was less seafood-centric than I'd expected. While waiting for A History of Violence to start, I suggested Bar Minnow, and then promised James they'd have clam strips. Oops. I did get a decent oyster po boy, though. He ended up with an odd cheesesteak rendition that came au jus. Both sandwiches arrived with little metal buckets of fries, mine was also accompanied by an unexpected mini corn cob. It's bar food, and a good rendition, which what I'd wanted anyway (it had been a toss up between Bar Minnow and Bonnies). I'd heard horror stories about poor service, but didnt find this to be the case at all.

Bar Minnow * 444 Ninth St., Brooklyn, NY

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Sep 25

Sarawakian Experiment

Sarawak Laksa

300g Sarawak laksa paste (I'm keeping this metric because that's how the paste comes packaged)

8 cups chicken stock

1 cup thick coconut milk

16 oz thick rice vermicelli (I couldn't’t figure out how thick they meant, so I opted for the thicker of the two types I had in the pantry. I'm pretty sure Sarawak laksa doesn't use the round rice noodles, which are next to impossible to find in NYC anyway)

Toppings

¼ cup beansprouts (you’re supposed to blanch, but I didn’t bother)

3 1/2 oz. chicken (half a medium breast) poached and shredded
5 large prawns cooked and shelled (I used half a pound of smaller prawns because I needed to use them up. Consider this an American adaptation, heavier on the protein)

Garnish

2 eggs, cooked into an omelet and cut into strips
¼ cup cilantro leaves, chopped

3 calimansi, halved (I lucked out in finding these at the Elmhurst Hong Kong Supermarket, as opposed to my usual Sunset Park location. Lime wedges would also be fine)

Boil laksa paste and chicken stock together for 15 minutes. Strain into a pot. Add coconut milk and mix well. Season to taste with sugar and salt.

Briefly boil dried noodles to soften. Drain, and divide into serving bowls. Add toppings in order listed. Ladle laksa gravy on top.

Garnish with omelet strips and cilantro.

Serve with sambal and lime halves.

Sambal
5 cloves garlic

2 shallots

Half a medium onion
¼ cup dried chiles, soaked in hot water
2 tablespoons dried shrimp, soaked and drained

5 tablespoons oil (the original calls for 6-8 tablespoons, but that felt excessive—hopefully, I didn’t ruin the flavor)
3 ½ tablespoons chile paste (I used sambal oelek)
1 tablespoon tamarind paste mixed with 3 tablespoons water

1 tablespoon sugar

½ teaspoon salt

Pound garlic, shallots, onion, dried chiles and dried shrimp into a paste using a mortar and pestle. Or alternatively, use a food processor. I usually go for the mortar and pestle (it's easier to clean, and of course more traditional) but I don't have the patience to break down the dried chiles properly.

Heat oil and fry the sambal ingredients until brown and aromatic. Add chile paste and tamarind liquid and season to taste with sugar and salt. Continue cooking over low heat for 25 minutes.

Serves four.

Adapted from Savouring Sarawak, Flavours, July-August 2005.

I'm definitely neither food stylist nor photographer, but you get the gist.

I was lucky enough to be given a package of Double Red Swallow Sarawak laksa paste as a gift when in Kuala Lumpur. This is the good stuff, straight from Kuching. It's hard to find even in Malaysia, never mind the U.S. I hope I did it proud. As I've never had Sarawak style laksa before, it's hard to gauge how close my version comes to the original.

I do think I my sambal turned out hotter than what I'd tasted in Malaysia. I have a high heat tolerance and it still burnt the taste out of my tongue (I just ate some with chicken and rice for lunch and my mouth is now numb). I was trying to measure the dried chiles with a food scale, using the metrics from the original recipe, but I don't think the calibration is sensitive enough–no matter how many chiles I piled on, the needle barely budged. My 1/4 cup suggestion is less than what I used, and probably wiser.

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Cheesecake Factory Edison

Taco Chulo

RUB

Dressed for Success

Ridgewood, New and Used

Relationship Butcher

Special Delivery

Queen’s Hideaway

Bar Minnow

Sarawakian Experiment

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