Posts from the ‘Manhattan’ Category

Feb 28

Margon

1/2 I spent the past five months working one block from Margon and yet I never made it over until my final day. It’s wasn’t a laziness issue (though I did find myself in the ground floor Au Bon Pain more than I’d like to admit—hey, I had a discount). I just try to go easy calorically during the day (after 6pm I go nuts). If I had a guy metabolism I swear I’d eat a cubano at least weekly. It’s not like roast pork, ham, swiss cheese, mustard and pickles should kill you. Oh yeah, and the salami, Margon’s wild card touch. I would’ve liked to have tried the tripe steam table special but it wasn’t on Wednesday’s list (that’s Monday or Thursday), plus the office was populated by culinary joykills (I suspect my new office contains more of the same—where are the coworkers who appreciate a fine spleen or somesuch?). It’s for the best that I’m no longer employed near midtown because now that I’ve given in I doubt I could resist the little lunch counter’s pull.

Funny, I just looked at Midtown Lunch and their person on the street interview jumped out because there aren’t many news librarians in the world. Then I realized the woman being questioned had listed my old intersection, the Newscorp building, but didn’t work at the New York Post. Ah yes, Fox News. Those freaks put me through three interviews, three months apart for a weekend freelance job. I lost interest about half way through the process because I like my Sundays more than I like extra spending money. I’m so done with news librarianship. For real. But now I’m in the Financial District—and I thought midtown was bleak food-wise…

Margon * 176 W. 46th St., New York, NY

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Feb 15

Ureña

*Ureña is now Pamplona

I don’t tend to revisit higher end restaurants, even when I’ve had a remarkable meal. There are such an overwhelming number of options in NYC (sometimes I wonder if living in a second-tier city would be more manageable food-wise and otherwise). I could eat at a new-to-me establishment weekly and barely make a dent in my to-try list by year’s end. But I thought Ureña warranted a second look, especially since it’d been almost a year since my first visit. And lord knows the creative yet un-flashy (some might say frumpy by New York standards, on the other hand, it looks like an respectable, non-casino restaurant in Las Vegas) restaurant might not last until next winter.

They have dimmed the lights, which was a criticism when they first opened (moody is nice but it makes crisp flash-less photo taking problematic) Service is gracious and never stuffy. With recent attention drawn to discrimination lawsuits, I couldn’t help but note that the wait staff was entirely Hispanic. I have no issues with accents, but when we were presented with an amuse both James and I thought our server said martian rather than mushroom. We kind of hoped we’d heard correctly since a shot of Martian soup would’ve been brilliantly bonkers. I would expect such a thing more from Moto, but that’s tomorrow evening’s dinner (assuming that this blizzard lets up soon).

We started with cocktails at the bar. I had a Martine with lemongrass, bitter orange and possibly rum (I’m blanking on the spirit). With dinner we chose a sparkling, scarlet Mont-Ferrant Rosé Cava. I love the promotional copy I found this morning, “a spring like cava, perfect for young people.” See, I’m a young person. Actually, we were easily the least decrepit diners in the room for about half or our meal. The narrow space was around 75% full when we arrived and only 25% occupied when we left around 10pm. That might not be good business for them but it’s rare to be granted a spacious four-seater for two with an empty table separating you from the nearest party.

Unfortunately, a bland (the guy was prep school attractive, the female was dull, ponytailed and turtlenecked), likely younger twosome with MBAs (which I obviously wouldn’t have known if they hadn’t been squawking about their degrees) were eventually seated next to us. The male sent a bottle of wine back, which I almost could’ve predicted. (I’ve never understood the etiquette. I always thought that it was the customer’s responsibility to choose wisely with or without advice from a sommelier, but sending a wine back would only be warranted if there was something wrong with the wine, not that the flavor wasn’t to your liking. Anyone who sends wine back becomes an automatic asshole in my eyes. It’s not impressive.)

Tarta de Ropa Vieja: foie gras, duck confit, short ribs, suckling pig and micro greens.

There wasn’t any mention of cheese so the dairy was a surprise. I’m assuming that the different meats had been shredded and combined into one carnivorous powerhouse. Everything was placed on crouton toasts.

Empanada de Cordero: lamb and goat cheese, Bunuelo de Queso: manchego, chorizo and stout beer fritter, Piquillo Relleno.

I couldn’t really taste the sausage in the fitters but these liquid-centered cheese balls were insanely good. I could eat a bowl-full. These were James’s tapas and I didn’t try the other two dishes.

Pato en Dos Texturas: poached duck breast, confit thigh, braised red cabbage, carmelized quince, parsnip puree, star anise sauce.

Perfect for the weather. I was mildly wary of duck minus its crispy skin but there were no disappointments. The breast strips were soft and tender but obviously not as meltingly so as the confit. The quince nearly mimicked chunky applesauce, star anise was a vivid aromatic touch and along with the tangy, sweet cabbage the dish was lifted out of the Spanish realm.

Cochinillo Confitado: confit suckling pig, granny smith apple puree, shitake mushrooms, wilted green leaf lettuce, truffle sauce.

I’d wanted to try this but I realized that it was essentially the same dish I had last March but with squares of suckling pig instead of pork belly. It went to James.

Bunuelo De Chocolate Y Crema Catalina: chocolate and creme filled fritter, orange and dried apricot puree, yogurt sorbet.

Our second fritters of the night. The little puffs were gone in an instant. I don’t think the original pastry chef, Caryn Stabinsky, is still around. According to their barebones website, Alex Ureña is listed as pastry chef. (2/13/07)

Feb 13

Flor’s Kitchen

Every so often I wonder whether it’s worth writing about restaurants that aren’t terribly exciting, new or novel. I mean, why bother. It’s not like I have endless amounts of free time to fill (though it frequently seems that way). But my original Shovel Time mission was mission-less. I was and am keeping an online dining journal not performing a public service or breaking restaurant news or god forbid going behind the scenes of anything or unearthing gossip (which is all the rage in the mid-’00s).

Which brings me to Flor’s Kitchen (which just closed its East Village location—oh look, I’m being newsy). There’s nothing remarkable about it, despite being one of the few Venezuelan restaurants in the city. It’s neither offensive nor amazing in looks or taste. It’s certainly cozy enough to serve as a satisfactory date place. It was teeming with couples of all ages, races and persuasions on my Friday night visit. The prices won’t kill you either, though you could easily spend $100 for two without realizing how you racked up three digits.

The only dish that I loved was the sweet and salty cachapa, a paisa cheese covered corn pancake that takes fifteen minutes to prepare. Our mixed filling empanaditas were fine enough (the garnish looked a little sad), the dipping sauce, which tasted like a thicker homemade Sriracha, was a stand out.

Part of the problem is my ambivalence towards rice and beans with stewed meats. I can’t generally get worked up over the Latin American mainstay, which isn’t to say I haven’t had good renditions. Is that blasphemy? You could enjoy Japanese food without adoring rice, fish and soy sauce, but it might be counter productive. I ate most of my pabellón criollo and it wasn't disappointing. I probably should’ve tried an arepa but thought that might be overkill with the cachapa.

I’d be curious to hear what a Venezuelan food lover thinks of Flor’s. Trendier Caracas Arepa Bar gets more press but that only means so much.

Flor’s Kitchen * 170 Waverly Pl., New York, NY

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Feb 12

Itzocan Bistro

Occasionally, I wonder why I rarely go uptown, and after four subways and over an hour standing, I remembered why. Bone-chilling weather and the F, J, 4 and 6 trains do somehow bolster the appetite.

And you could do worse than Mexican ingredients, French technique and Bryan Adams’s greatest hits (segueing into the best of Paula Abdul) serenading you while you eat. I started with a goat cheese flan with epazote and jalapeño. I had expected a more literal silky flan texture, but the queso de cabra disk was more crumbly like a cheesecake quiche hybrid. The crumbles were more suited to eating with toast and lettuce, anyway.

I really wanted the ancho crusted duck breast but I had convinced myself that seafood would be marginally healthier and suitable for the weather, so I chose the jalapeño and oregano dotted pozole with mussels, snapper and giant head on shrimp instead. It was certainly in a different class than a weekends-only, hominy-heavy soup you might find at a tacqueria.

Lately I’ve been austerely attempting wine or dessert not and but Itzocan’s sweets didn’t sound run of the mill and I was happy to see that they hadn’t gone molten on me. Thankfully, no soft-centered, Mexican chocolate, cinnamon spiced cakes were to be found. We did go the chocolate cake route, though, sampling a rich tequila flavored version with brown sugar ice cream.

On the F ride back home I spied that recent Look Book guy with walrusy facial hair (I’m still not clear why he merited a meta second look elsewhere) doing a crossword from one of those paperback puzzle books. At least it wasn’t Sudoku, I guess. I hovered near his prime seat because I’d pegged him for someone who’d get off at Delancey and I was right. It’s one of the few skills I have, deducing who’ll get off sooner on the subway and positioning myself accordingly. I just hope I didn't pick up any bedbugs.

Itzocan Bistro * 1575 Lexington Ave., New York, NY

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Feb 6

Buenos Aires

1/2 Apparently, Buenos Aires is a hot travel destination. Strangely, there were two separate articles (a 36 Hours and a Cultured Traveler) on the city in Sunday’s New York Times. They caught my attention since I’d recently eaten at an East Village restaurant named for the Argentinean capital. I’m definitely not an expert on the cuisine but the first thing that comes to mind is grass-fed beef. I’ll eventually branch out the more I sample this South American style but I’ve tended to stick with the parrillada in my few forays. I'm curious about matambre, which seems to be a jelly roll of flank steak encircling a bunch of vegetables, hard boiled eggs and olives.

The mixed grill always ends up being more than you bargained for and a serving for one invariably feeds two. Even in Manhattan where portions tend to be smaller and prices higher, you still get quite a lot of meat for your money. I wonder if there’s a nouveau, or nuevo rather, rendition in the area with tiny cuts, unusual sides or stylish presentation. I kind of like the individual flame-licked table top grills you often receive; at Buenos Aires everything comes plated.

The bounty that appeared with their version of parrillada included skirt steak, ribs, pork sausage, blood sausage, sweetbreads and kidneys. I’m pretty sure that kidneys were not listed on the menu but they were most definitely on my plate. As expected, vivid green chimichurri is brought to the table, but a side of salsa also comes with the parrillada. I enjoy organ meats, especially morcilla. James does not so we rarely share one of these feasts (though he partook in leftover steak the next morning cooked with eggs and roasted potatoes. I let him have the pork sausage because despite liking hard cured charcuterie and blood sausage, I’m no fan of most squishy Italian-style links). He went for a simple filet mignon. You can choose from eight cuts of meat if you’re feeling single minded. Whether the beef is grass or corn fed, I’m not sure, though judging from the reasonable prices I’m guessing the latter. We got wonderfully crispy fries on the side and also split an order of baked spinach and cheese empanadas.

It’s easy to fall victim to meat overload but I was thankful for the padding after downing a few too many happy hour Makers Mark and sodas (and shots) at the new moderately cleaned up incarnation of The Continental. When was the last time you had $3 cocktail? Whisky and steak are perfect for fighting the temperature-in-the-teens chill.

Buenos Aires * 513 E. Sixth St., New York, NY

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Feb 2

Pasita

I’ve never liked the sound of wine bars, even though I enjoy wine accompanied by snacks. There’s something about the concept that makes me think modern fern bar. I wonder why has no one revived that style (I suppose some TGI Friday’s are still rocking it) We skipped right over the ‘70s, are still hesitant about the ‘90s and can’t seem to progress beyond the decade in the middle.

Anyway, I wouldn’t necessarily call Pasita a wine bar though they do refer to themselves as such. They have a concise list of Spanish, Portuguese and South American wines but the food is equally interesting. It’s hard to ignore the wood-fired pizza oven in the room and almost everyone was partaking in the 12” pies.

I couldn’t help but notice that the three women sitting next to us were sharing one. Bah, my friend Sherri and I each got our own and finished them no problem. One champiñon: roasted mushroom, artichoke hearts, caramelized onions, ricotta salata and mozzarella, and one queso y queso: mozzarella, queso de nata (a creamy Cantabrian cheese), parmesan, goat cheese and rosemary. We also split a salad with mango slices and roasted grapefruit, which was mildly girlie. I know that if I had been out with James we would’ve ended up with something fried and starchy in addition to the pizzas. It’s best that I dine with others now and then.

With a bottle of Zolo Malbec from Mendoza, we had plenty so I didn’t delve into the Venezuelan tapas. And because I have a suspicious nature I wondered if pasapalos were really just an invention to cash in on diners’ seemingly endless desire for small plates, but they do seem to be a real thing, though possibly less sophisticated than those on offer at Pasita.

We finished with glasses of a sweet dessert merlot and shared some Il Laboratorio gelato. I thought we were going to get a single scoop of honey lavender, but we were brought all three options, including icy orbs of chocolate and cinnamon too. Viva excess.

Pasita * 47 Eighth Ave., New York, NY

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Jan 30

Pardo’s

1/2 *I didn’t realize that chains could just go changing their raison d’etre willy-nilly but it appears that Pardo’s has switched from pollo a la brasa to ceviche and changed its name to Panca. (6/08)

I'm crazy for foreign chains but Pardo’s didn’t arrive with the fanfare of Beard Papa, Uniqlo or even Kyotofu. Perhaps the Japanese are just masters of drumming up enthusiasm (though I’m not sure that Gyu-Kaku has been a sweeping success). It’s a likable enough place so I’m hoping it doesn’t go the way of Brooklyn’s Pollo Campero.

Pardo’s is a Peruvian chain specializing in rotisserie-grilled chicken. This is their first U.S. location and I’d be curious how closely the two menus resemble each other. They didn’t eliminate the anticuchos, beef heart skewers, which I imagine skeeve out more than few West Villagers. I don’t imagine there’s a Piscopolitan cocktail on the Lima menu, though. It’s pretty safe to guess that more than half of the clientele on a very busy Friday night were South American.

The small, brightly lit room can barely contain the amount of diners and potential diners. I couldn’t relax the entire meal, even after a well-made pisco sour (that's a pisco libre to the left of the martini glass). The tables are so tight and precariously placed that I was constantly waiting for someone to knock something over on me. I will say that the waitresses (they’re all young females) are some of the most friendly, upbeat service workers I’ve encountered in a restaurant that’s one step up from fast food. Maybe they imported them because the leisurely pace that tables got turned over and bills were brought out was very un-NYC in lack of urgency.

We tried half a chicken brasa and half parrillero, the brasa being rotisserie style and parrillero a grilled boneless fillet. Who knows what the advertised 14 secret ingredients were, but salt is definitely one of them (to be fair, I’m a notorious under-salter. I have to consciously add what seems like extra when cooking for others. It’s strange that I have high blood pressure since I’m practically on an unintentional low-sodium diet). I preferred the classic spit-roasted version, both styles were juicy throughout, no cottony white meat.

There are quite a few sides to choose from, we got yuquitas, commonly called yucca fries, which are rapidly becoming one of my favorite fried starches, and tacu tacu, which are croquettes of beans and rice mashed together into fat little logs. Mayonnaise and a creamy aji sauce using yellow South American chiles come on the side. Despite the cute name, tacu tacu was kind of dull, I would’ve expected more pizzazz from a fritter. I might try canario beans instead if I went again.

Even though our spot was being eyed by anxious couples, we decided to have a slice of tres leches cake anyway. We couldn’t disappoint our waitress who highly recommended it and checked back to make sure we were enjoying it. Only a monster would hate tres leches cake.

Pardo's * 92 Seventh Ave. S., New York, NY

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Jan 26

Salud! Restaurant & Bar

I never intended to eat plantains for three courses at lunch. The plantain chips and bean dip was a freebie. You can partake or not but I’ve never been one to ignore a bread basket or facsimile. That was my first mistake.

It made sense to do the three-course $20 prix fixe since my original plan to order two tapas/appetizers would’ve cost even more. I don’t normally delve into the double digits for a weekday lunch, though I’m unusually frugal by even cheapskate standards. Trying to keep my daily total under $4 usually translates into a tiny midtown soup or bagel. But Salud is at the Seaport, which is an extension of the Financial District. James, who works nearby, didn’t think the prices were out of line.

I shouldn’t gone with my initial instinct and started with ceviche but instead I was swayed by sweet plantains stuffed with spicy beef and monterey jack. It sounded gooey and decadent, but in reality it was starch with barely perceptible dashes of ground meat and cheese. The maduros completely overwhelmed the other flavors.

Garlic shrimp seemed safe, but they didn’t come solo. Oh no, the little crustaceans aligned next to a tidy row of tostones. It’s a good thing I’m not low-carbing it. However, I am trying to eat less and shun sugar, but dessert was part of the meal so I was semi-forced to eat a perfectly acceptable flan (which apparently I enjoyed enough to eat before remembering to take a photo).

There appears to be a Cuban theme in music and style, but the menu is more of a Caribbean mish mash. I can see Salud being good for happy hour drinks if you worked nearby but it’s not distinctive enough to attract diners from beyond the neighborhood. Now that I think about it, it’s the kind of place that would pop up in my neighborhood (Carroll Gardens) and fail to excite me. Un-hideous but far from amazing.

Salud! Restaurant & Bar * 142 Beekman St., New York, NY

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Jan 23

809 Sangria Bar & Grill

1/2 Certain segments of the population like to brag about never setting foot above 14th Street (or somesuch nebulous boundary). Whatever (that’s actually less offputting than those who silently yet resolutely refuse to venture beyond the 11211 zip code). But if I didn’t work in midtown, it’s not that likely I’d frequent the 40s or higher on a regular basis. Upper Manhattan and the Bronx? Ok, now I’m totally clueless and a little hesitant.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I made the A train journey up to Inwood for a meal. I wasn’t scared like I thought I was going to be knifed or something, the unknown just makes me nervous. I feel the same way about Staten Island (I like to believe I have a better than average grasp on Brooklyn and Queens). NYC is an insular place. I currently work in a deparment of ALL native New Yorkers, which is pretty rare in my experience (no, I don’t work for the NYPD or FDNY or the city) and I wouldn’t be surprised if many (not all, mind you) of the five were unfamiliar with the neighborhoods outside of where they grew up and/or presently reside. I only know places where friends congregate or where good food lurks.

My initial impression of Inwood wasn't bad. Of course my only exposure was walking three blocks to and from the Dykeman Avenue station but it seemed akin to Sunset Park or South Slope: a Payless Shoes, H&R Block, Subway, Dunkin Donuts, Chinese take out…I’m not sure if there was a Jimmy Jazz or not but there should’ve been. Lots of chains, a little grit, and no signs of gentrification beyond 809 Sangria Bar and Grill, my destination.

You might not even notice it from the street, it’s not flashy. The brightly lit, neon heavy place with sandwiches in the window, next store, made more of an impression. And I’m not sure how well they’re attracting diners (I think they’re doing a good job bringing crowds to the upstairs lounge, which is only open the last few days of the week). Our table was the only one occupied for a spell. Eventually two couples came in and as we were wrapping up a few other groups stopped by, one with like three children under three. Dates, partiers, newborns all welcome.

I’ll admit that the prices are high for the area (my entrée was $24) but it’s not a case of unwarranted gouging. The cooking is creative and the dishes are well thought out. The style borrows from The Domincan Republic (as everyone points out, 809 is the area code in the D.R.) and beyond and manages to avoid boring mango and avocado laced pan-Latino cliches.

I might’ve gone for a ceviche if I were solo, but the arepa trio topped with tufts of ropa vieja, pork picadillo and shredded chicken were moist and each distinctly flavored.There are two ways to go with entrees: the pick your meat, side and sauce churrasco or opting for seafood. My dining companion (logically chosen as my only friend who lives in the hundreds) has a reputation for being fussy, things that lived in the water or items with bones don’t please her. I was a little nervous but she eventually settled on a medium well skirt steak with yucca fries and three colorful sauces (I couldn’t tell you what they were). She didn’t complain so I’m assuming her meal didn’t completely suck.

I was pleased with the pargo relleno, a whole crispy-skin red snapper stuffed with a seafood risotto. The lightly spiced echilado-coconut sauce tasted slightly Thai, which I loved. Sometimes, I forget the lime, coconut and chiles similarities between Southeast Asia and the Carribean.

I totally didn’t need an 809 Mojito (rum, apple pucker, peach schnapps, fresh plums and peaches) and tres leches cake. My teeth almost rotted out. I’m trying to learn moderation in 2007, though it’s slow going. I pretended that I was being healthy by only eating half my fish, never mind that it was fried and doused in creamy saturated fat.

On my (long) way home, I decided that they’re nice in Inwood. As we were heading into the subway station, a guy on his way out gave me his soon-to-expire Metrocard (this may not seem like a big deal if you’re an unlimited buyer but I’ll gladly accept the $2 gift since I’m a pay per ride gal). The train was already at the platform as we were approaching the bottom of the stairs and a guy held the doors for us. Annoying when you’re in the car, yes, but it wasn’t rush hour and the train was practically empty since it was the second stop from the end of the line. Syrupy cocktails and a few glasses of Shiraz tend to cloud my thinking in more ways than one, they also have a way of inducing rare warm, fuzzy, mankind is ok feelings. I like people so much more when I have a few drinks in my system.

So, if you ever find yourself around W. 200th Street and are craving lamb chops, onion confit, balsamic panela reduction and ajillo mashed potatoes rather than cuchifritos, 809 is probably a good choice.

809 Sangria Bar & Grill * 112 Dyckman St., New York, NY

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Dec 31

Pho Grand

I’m just getting the point where I can re-hash Christmas dinner and it’s already the day before New Year’s Eve. Sadly, I don’t even have an inkling of a plan yet. But that’s how Christmas was too. I didn’t do a single notable thing all day and didn’t leave the house until 8pm.

I met random mix of people at Pho Grand (Chinatown without the Chinese food) that included my friend Jane, her father who’d literally just gotten into town, her sister and boyfriend, and a mutual friend Heather. I was hesitant to tell Heather that we were doing Vietnamese but it turned out she’d been to Pho Grand before, coincidentally with the guy I’d ran into at Snacky a few nights before.

I forgot to take photos, that often happens when I’m with people I don’t know that well. We shared a few grilled pork chops, a large order of spring rolls, and everyone got some pho permutation except Heather, a.k.a baby palate (I’d nearly forgotten that I’d dubbed her that until she mentioned it) who ordered grilled beef over rice vermicelli and wouldn’t add the accompanying sauce. It pained me to watch her using soy sauce instead of hoisin or chile paste but the holiday spirit doesn’t allow for food nazism.

I couldn’t bear Williamburg drinks afterward, so Heather and I set off in the rainstorm looking for any place open and serving dessert. That limited our options to Little Italy where we found one restaurant that met our criteria. I couldn’t even tell you the name. Our shared black forest cake, cannoli and strawberry tart were anything but remarkable but sometimes you have to take what you can get.

This is not pho

Pho Grand * 277 Grand St., New York, NY

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Posts from the ‘Manhattan’ Category

Margon

Ureña

Flor’s Kitchen

Itzocan Bistro

Buenos Aires

Pasita

Pardo’s

Salud! Restaurant & Bar

809 Sangria Bar & Grill

Pho Grand

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Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

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The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101