Goodies First

Sep 4

Chez Claudette

Poutine. I always imagined it pronounced like Poo Teen, but after hearing it
uttered aloud by a proper French-Canadian, it sounds more like Putin, as in
the surname of Russias President.

Poutine, which is really no more than French fries covered in gravy and
cheese curds, strikes me as way more British than French. Peas are also an
optional accompaniment, and I could see the mushy concoction right at home
on some demented chip shop menu in England.

Origins aside, this was a dish that needed to be tried. And no, I didnt
want fancy foie gras poutine or mass produced chain restaurant poutine. I
wanted Montreal greasy spoon, 24-hour diner style spuds, and Chez Claudette
came through for me.

East of the boutique-y part of Laurier St., sits this no nonsense corner
caf with little tables and counter stools. The menu is filled with basics
like eggs, bacon, burgers and oddballs like fish and chips and spaghetti.
Most baffling was the use of Michigan as descriptor; there was a Michigan
burger listed as well as a Michigan hot dog. I've never associated Michigan
with any particular food style.

I ordered the poutine as a side with eggs and bacon (most meals have
poutine as an add-on for a few dollars more). It wasn't bad at all, sort of
gloopy, and more peppery than I'd imagined. The cheese curds are in large
chunks, not like baby-sized cottage cheese ones. And the base wasn't really
French fries, but cubed potatoes. I'm not sure if thats standard or not. I
think the crispiness of fried potatoes might work better, even though the
gravy would inevitably make them soggy anyway. I need to do more poutine
research before coming to any conclusions.

Chez Claudette * 351 Laurier E., Montreal, Canada

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Sep 4

Au Pied de Cochon

It's extremely rare that I have a dining experience so enervating that the quality of the food becomes almost irrelevant. In fact, I can only think of two other examples of restaurants not worth re-visiting because my first impression was too tarnished: Lupa and Chickenbone Café (which is gone anyway).

I love the idea of meat in monstrous portions, using unusual parts, and high-low ingredient combinations (foie gras poutine?). Au Pied de Cochon struck me as potentially being Montreals St. John restaurant (which it isn't exactly—St. John is austere where APDC is convivial). And I wasn't disappointed by the food. James had the French onion soup, which he declared the best hed had, and the massive “Happy Pig Chop.” I went pork crazy and started with a plate of pates and sausages that wouldve been better suited for sharing with a table of diners. For a main, I had to try the namesake pied de cochon. I didn't realize a pigs foot was so large. It filled the plate, and contained all the best aspects of pork: crispy skin, gooey gelatinous fat and tender inner flesh. The foot sprawled on a puddle of mashed potatoes and creamy mustard sauce. A tart onion, tomato and parsley relish was scattered liberally over the top and helped balance the porcine richness.

But–yes, theres a big but—the dining experience as a whole felt abusive. Initially, it was just off, the vibe was wrong, nothing specific. You'd think as New Yorkers wed be used to cramped spaces and long waits, so that wasn't quite it. But it did seem that no matter where we stood we were in the way. Before even being seated we felt a touch beat-up and jostled, like how a bad subway ride can ruin a day before you even get to work. After eventually getting our table, we were promptly ignored. After nearly 15 minutes it started feeling intentional. Customers seated after us already had food and drinks, and we couldn't even get eye contact with a server. It seemed like everyone knew each other. Maybe that was it, we weren't regulars? Was it because we were speaking English? I don't think so, there were plenty of non-French conversations in the air. We finally ordered drinks, then lost our waiter for about another 10-15 minutes. Things started getting odd when we noted our waiter and a cohort motioning to our table, speaking in hushed tones, then laughing. I was like what the fuck? Paranoia set in, we didn't say anything weird, I don't think we ordered poorly, I like to believe were at least moderately attractive—what was the deal?

By the time our food arrived, I was totally turned off to eating. No matter how much I scooted my chair and our entire table forward, the guy behind me would inch closer. After the millionth time he leaned back enough that the backs of our heads were touching, I started to lose my shit. Did I mention this was our fifth (dating) anniversary? If this meal was any indication of the future of our relationship, we were in serious trouble. It was just plain non-good and creepily ominous. I'd had high expectations for our dinner, and all I could think about was dining and dashing (I never even did that as a teen, but its never too late to start).

The clincher came when James chomped down on something hard in his onions, and pulled out a big fat metal screw. Yeah, a screw. Was this some sort of messed up message? A not so subtle screw you. Honestly, I didn't think so, but we weren't even able to point out the little screw up (ha) because not once did anyone stop to ask us how we were doing. At this point we were invisible, we couldn't have flagged down a waiter if wed tried. So, we just sat and waited, both our entrees barely touched. To be fair, the staff seemed genuinely concerned after politely being shown the screw. We didn't make a fuss at all, I'm never one to cause problems at restaurants, in fact, I'm probably overly passive when it comes to bizarre customer service. Thankfully, the Happy Pig Chop wasn't included on our bill (they offered to make another one, like we wanted to sit in this hell hole any longer).

The whole evening was so horrendously bad that all I could do was laugh. I mean, it was kind of comical. We imagined an Au Pied de Cochon review being written in a New York Post-ian style. The headline would invariably say something about the staff having a screw loose. It would be a hoot to read. But then, maybe I'm the only one gets a kick out of the Post.

Au Pied de Cochon * 536 Rue Duluth E., Montreal , Canada

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Sep 3

Lemeac

Wed narrowed down our Friday night choices to two contenders: Lemeac and L'Express. Primarily because we wanted bistro food at a late hour. L'Express had been compared to Balthazaar; crowds and less than desirable staff had been described (we decided to save that kind of traumatic atmosphere for Saturday night at Au Pied de Cochon). Leanings went towards Lemeac, plus it appeared they had an appetizer and entre set for $20 (Canadian) after 10pm, which was an added plus though I hadnt intended a penny-pinching vacation.

As it turned out, after settling into the hotel, getting ready, checking the internet and all that, by the time we finally traipsed into the city, we arrived at Lemeac at 10pm on the nose. And that just seemed tacky, like you were there only out of miserliness. I'm overly weird about perceptions of others and appearances so we killed a little time walking around the neighborhood in surprisingly chilly weather. Despite the brisk autumn breezes and threat of rain, we still opted to sit on the outdoor terrace.

My time paranoia didnt even end up mattering because the $20 special didnt appear in the menu anyway. Humiliation averted. It wasn't until tried to order that we were told they had a prix fixe deal thats only in the French language menu, which the waitress kindly brought over. At least she was courteous enough to notice our English menus missing piece (though it does make one wonder why they don't just put the same things in both menus–I had a mild phobia of anti-American bias. It does exist and is considerably more retarded than if you were in Europe since practically every Montrealer speaks perfect English. French-Canadians have issues).

So, my bargain meal consisted of a raw milk cheddar and vegetable tart to start and duck leg confit with fingerling potatoes and salad for a main. I love a nice frisee salad doused by duck fat and escaped juices. The potatoes were perfectly crisp and salty. It's the kind of food that comes across as simple and straightforward, but that I would never make at home. Doing basics just right is harder than it seems.

Lemeac* 1045 Laurier W, Montreal, Canada

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Aug 22

Pollo Campero

Closed: hmm, that was short lived. (7/05)

I think Pollo Campero is meant to mean more to homesick Central Americans than run of the mill North Americans. Though, an appreciation of fried chicken is practically universal. I'd heard about travelers smuggling Pollo Campero chicken on planes from Guatemala to loved ones in the States, so I figured it must be something worth checking out. And I was especially convinced since I always have a soft spot in my heart for businesses in my old neighborhood, Sunset Park. (Their first NYC location was in Corona, but I don't get out that way very frequently.)

The sunny orange-and-yellow color scheme and pot-bellied bird logo were more than enough to entice me. But I was also fascinated by a fast food menu that listed horchata and flan. The chicken is pretty much fried chicken. The coating is light and not heavily seasoned, and I sort of prefer a thicker, crispy crust. Sides include rice, tostones and chili-spiked, meaty, soupy beans (my choice) and of course starchy classics french fries and mashed potatoes. The salsa bar with red, green and a deeper red smoky mystery condiment (my personal favorite—chipotle? tomato?) was a nice touch.

I hate to say it because the concept and even the execution of Pollo Campero is alluring, but its probably not worth going out of your way for their fried chicken. But definitely do stop in if you happen to be near a location—I hear Spanish Harlem is next on their list (do they still say Spanish Harlem or has that gone the way of Alphabet City).

Pollo Campero * 4506 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Aug 21

Shun Lee Palace

Shun Lee Palace is a total time warp, though not quite nostalgic. It
probably wouldn't be unless you were an Upper East Side Jew with a taste for
expensive, not very authentic Chinese food circa 1976. This was one of those
out of the blue dining ideas James gets every now and then. I'd never had
any inclination to visit the place, but he had gotten it in his head that we
needed to try upscale Chinese food.

But I think he was thinking banquet food that Chinese people themselves
would actually eat, not overpriced renditions of Chinese-American fare. Not
that we didn't have a good time. In fact, it was a gas. Shun Lee is a weird
scene that I could appreciate, even if it scared me a bit. While the dcor
is opulent early '90s, the vibe is totally '70s. At our 9pm seating, the
room wasn't terribly full, but the clientele we did eyeball had
personalities big enough to fill the room. There was a nice combo of
caricatures, tourists, wealthy foreigners, and the inexplicably curious like
us.

I was a little unnerved by how they make couples sit side-by-side at
tables facing out towards the room. We've always made fun of twosomes who
choose to next to each other while eating instead of just facing each other.
But we had no choice in this situation. In a way, we were lucky because we
had equally good views of the goings on. I'mmediately to our right, were two
cranky, over-the-top, 60-ish women who were apparently regulars, highly
demanding and totally of a New York I do not know (nor want to). Like they
get together every Saturday night and kvetch (did I just say kvetch?)
about their kids, exes and dead parents, then harass the waiter because they
were told there'd be an eel special and there wasn't.

To our right and down the row was a creepy, troll-like older Indian
gentleman and his much younger, serene Eurasian lady friend. They didn't
really talk, and they also were grumpy, she let the waiters know that he
didn't like fish. A few young-ish white bread couples seemed dazzled by the
ambience. One took photos of her food (I know "photoblogging" is all the
rage, but I just can't abide snapping pictures in restaurants. Maybe that's
an issue of my own) while the other duo ate quickly then paid with
traveler's checks (I didn't know that people even used those anymore).

My favorite table included a dapper Telly Savalas look-alike in a
yachting type sport jacket with a middle-aged woman wearing a bold-patterned
turban scarf and big, tinted frameless glasses. Very Cosmopolitan,
thirty years ago. She could play a rich eccentric on an episode of
Rhoda.

I was impressed by the carved daikon swans that certain tables received
as garnishes (we didn't get any fancy frills). The food, not so much. We had
slippery chicken, which is chopped chicken with spinach in a garlicky sauce,
and curry prawns, which were swimming in a curry powder, peanutty gloop. I
actually liked the gloop, it was studded with things like peas, water
chestnuts and red pepper. James insisted it also contained creamed corn,
which is ridiculous. I also had a hot and sour fish soup, which was what it
sounds like.

We barely made it out under $100, which is why this isn't the sort of
novelty meal you can do on a regular basis. And that's why the idea of
regulars and eating Shun Lee takeout is so bizarre to me. Do people just not
get out? Once you enter the uptown vacuum, do you lose all sense of right
and wrong? People love Seinfeld reruns and Woody Allen flicks, so
maybe I'm the one whos warped.

ShunLee Palace * 155 E.
55 St., New York, NY

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Aug 14

Harbor Crab

I've really only eaten whole crab, cracked from the shell, once. And the
memory is hazy, and the circumstances a little odd now that I think about
it. I tagged along with my best grade school friend and her parents to
Astoria, Oregon where a crab festival in session. Long tables, plastic bibs,
wooden mallets, the works. But I don't actually remember eating crab, just
the surroundings, and how eating crustaceans in this manner must either be a
black or an affluent thing (Ha, not that there were any other black families
there. Really, I figured eating fresh crab must be for rich people. We never
ever ate seafood at home, except maybe fish sticks and canned clam chowder.
This friend's family had a big house, Corvette, and leather couches. They
were classy, though I did find their drinking Pepsi [and eating grits] for
breakfast peculiar—to my knowledge they weren't Southern.)

My crab exposure tends to come via others. James grew up in the D.C.
area and lived in Maryland, so he's a blue crab person. It was his idea to
find a crab shack one Saturday, and I was up for it since I don't have much
experience in the area. It seemed like no biggie, but apparently crab isn't
a hot commodity in the NYC region. We thought Long Island would be the way
to go, but no one specializes in crabs, though there are a few lobster
places. As it turned out, only one place fit the bill, the appropriately
named Maryland Crab House. The clincher was that it's in Sheepshead Bay,
Brooklyn. We didn't want to go to Brooklyn, we're already in Brooklyn.

So, Harbor Crab was a random choice and predictably so-so. Their crabs
were tiny and consequently listed on the appetizer menu. They were also
cheap, but the amount of meat picked out for the energy and time expended to
extract the goodness was no bargain. At least it was fun to sit outdoors on
a floating wooden deck over some body of water, and watch wild ducks and
swans swimming nearby, and drunk locals (or least folks with seemingly local
accents) harass the waitresses and light up cigarettes after being told
there's no smoking on Saturdays (wouldn't it seem like Saturdays would be
prime smoking day?)

The only memorable crab meals I've had have been in Singapore and
Thailand. Maybe I should just steer clear of the American renditions,
altogether.

Harbor Crab * 116 Division St., Patchogue, NY

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Aug 7

Laksa Pizza

Jeez, do they have it good in S.E. Asia or what? It’s not on the Pizza Hut Malaysia site yet, but I’ve read that they are adding an assam laksa pizza. The ingredients will include spicy tuna, crabstick, pineapple, cucumber, onions and red chilli. That’s just so not American. I’m jealous.

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Aug 7

Laksa Pizza

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Aug 6

Galanga

I reviewed Galanga for the Time Out NY Eating & Drinking Guide earlier this
spring, but I don't have the edited version yet and don't feel the need to
rehash. (Here
it is.) So, the consensus was that it's stylish, full of potential and
better than your average Ameri-Thai. But you really have to ask for spice
and not let the presence of chopsticks put you off (that has always been a
serious red flag for me). I wouldn't go out of my way for it, like
Sripraphai, but I'd take it over the gazillion mediocre Thai places plaguing
my neighborhood (which isn't the W. Village, so I've only been three times).

Galanga * W. Fourth St., New York, NY

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Aug 1

Star-Spangled Doodles

I’m not generally a chip eater, though I do have a fondness for Cheetos-esqe snacks (though if you asked my mom she wouldn’t agree that Cheetos even are chips. I practically got beaten as a child when she gave me money to run into Albertson’s and buy chips for dinner and I came out with Cheetos) if they’re presented to me. But I couldn’t resist the zaniness of Wise’s Star-Spangled Doodles. I’d never seen red, white and blue cheese puffs before. It wasn’t until I got them home that I realized that it had almost been a month since 4th of July, and that the expiration date on the bag read 7/13/04. This didn’t stop me from enjoying my festive booty, but it did make me even more suspicious of the horrible neighborhood Key Foods than I already was.