Posts from the ‘What to Eat’ Category

Mar 26

Huckleberry Bar

After years on hiatus, the joint birthday celebration was re-established. James the boyfriend and Jane the friend are both March 22ers (so was my sister’s ex-husband, which has nothing to do with anything). Since the date fell on a Saturday this year, there was no shoving it under the rug. Newish Huckleberry Bar seemed appropriately classy and we early-birded it at 5pm, mostly to take over the seating in the back before prime time but also out of senior citizen spirit.

For obvious reasons, birthdays have a way of bringing out aging insecurities and fixations. I always thought things like lying about your age and plastic surgery were bougie crutches. But I’m seeing the folly of youth, you can’t say what will happen until it does (I’m seriously down on medical procedures, though).

Jessica mentioned setting her age to 31 on Nerve, hardly young enough to raise suspicion. I totally understand how there’s a psychological dating threshold with men; once you hit 34 you become repellent no matter how great you look. Then James, who’s never shown any concern about these girly matters, agreed that shaving off five years sounded wise. From now on he’s claming to be 33. I haven’t decided if I’ll feign 31 come July.

Guests of honor

Specialty cocktails were the first order of business (the second and third was two-for-one happy hour red wine. I may be old but I’m still not at a point in life where I’m willy-nilly with the $10+ beverages). I was sold on the Montresor containing Maker’s Mark, Lustau Amontillado Sherry and a splash of orange juice. Does that make it kind of Spanish? The emphasis was on the sherry, very forward and kind of nutty.

Not my drinks. Article 57 (citrus infused vodka, ginger juice and Q Tonic—I had to look that one up, it’s one of those fancy tonic waters that seemed to storm the scene last year) and the Tina Modotti (Herradura silver tequila, Del Maguey mezcal, spiced pear syrup and chili salt).

Then came the food. We ordered a little bit of everything to share but about fifteen guests had amassed by this point so I snapped quickly and sampled sparingly. I think I had a taste of everything except the sandwiches because individuals ordered those and I’m off bread at the moment.

Boiled peanuts were a gratis snack. I guess the mushiness in an acquired taste. I’m not opposed to them because I generally hate the dull dryness of peanuts.

Gin-pickled beet salad with Stilton and pecans

I could’ve eaten the whole cheese plate myself but that wouldn’t be polite. I’m positive that Humboldt Fog is in the center and that the upper left is Shropshire Blue. I’m not entirely sure which ones are Petit Frere, La Serena and Beemster Classic, but I should find out because I loved the semi-soft one in the bottom left corner. I want to say that it was nutty but I already used that word once in this post. It really was nutty, though, like a creamier gruyere.

I didn’t try all of these so I can’t say much about the charcuterie except for what’s on display: Baby Jesus (I did not previously know that was a Lyonnais sausage but I’d just seen it a few hours earlier at Stinky Brklyn so it stuck in my head), Bresaola, prosciutto Biellese, pancetta and cacciatorini.

I would never order hardboiled eggs but I must admit they were incredibly tasty drinking food. I preferred the mayonnaise spiked with grainy mustard. We also had two with hot sauce and another duo with a mystery pickle that was kind of like sauerkraut.

Candied pecans, simple and sweet

I consciously avoid people photos (posting, not so much taking them) because it’s too MySpacey self-indulgent (as if blogging about yourself isn’t) for my taste. I don’t have anything to prove and fun still happens even if it isn’t documented in pictures. But I must include this shot because I accidentally captured the interloper in the corner.

Ok, and I’ll include a picture of myself because I rarely do.

This bald, turtlenecked gentleman set up shop at the couches across from us, pulled out a notebook and periodically stared without expression for what felt like hours. I was convinced he was bitter, seething and plotting our demises (or maybe I was projecting because I hate being out and about when an obnoxious party takes over, but he chose to sit nearby in a half-empty room). Eventually, he got squeezed out and no one got hurt.

We eventually dispersed, ourselves. The problem with early-birding is that if you don’t turn in early enough, it translates into a surprisingly long night of drinking. I certainly felt elderly on Easter Sunday. Even though I called it quits by 2am (and ended up at a Kennedy Fried Chicken) it was still nine hours of non-stop imbibing. The Montresor, a couple glasses of red wine, a few Manhattans, then onto gin and tonics at Bushwick Country Club a few doors down. Never mind the irony of the bar’s name, it’s not even in Bushwick.

But they do have cheap drinks and a photo booth. Despite what I just said about hating people photos, I do have a soft spot for these self-serve machines. In my intoxication, I became hell bent on celebrating rat-ness with my fellow born-in-1972s. But no matter how hard we tried, it was impossible to squeeze three heads prettily into the frame.

Huckleberry Bar * 588 Grand St., Brooklyn, NY

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Mar 19

Hibino

1/2 Hibino and Bocca Lupo always get lumped together in my mind. They both kind of popped up out of nowhere, glowing behind lots of windows on quiet Henry Street corners. Now, I’ve forgotten what previously filled those spaces.

I live on Henry Street so you might think I’d be excited by these options, but I never give them a second thought because I reside along that last little bit of Carroll Gardens that’s still on the east side of the BQE entrance.

I have been to Bocca Lupo twice now (once last month, but in a fit of reserve I didn’t write it up). Hibino, and Japanese food in general, is almost always charming yet it’s never what I’m craving. Subtle is a difficult concept for me.

It wasn’t until this weekend after watching The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (I was most struck by how attractive [in a natural way—not my usual taste—again with the subtle] all of the actresses were and yet not one was under 35. There’s no way they’d make the movie here without throwing in at least one young starlet to play baby mama, mistress, nurse, speech therapist or eye-blink transcriber) at Brooklyn Heights Cinema, my favorite never-full movie venue, that I gave in to Hibino.

There was no way I was eating in the immediate neighborhood. I don’t think I’ve ever dined in Brooklyn Heights, unless you count the north side of Atlantic Avenue and include Chip Shop or Waterfront Ale House, which technically fall into that zone. One block south of Atlantic is safe, though, and there’s friendly Hibino.

I felt I’d be remiss if I didn’t try any tofu since it’s made in house. I can’t speak to the wonderfulness or miserableness of their bean curd because I just can’t tell. Well, obviously it didn’t suck. I was impressed with the barely (in the past year I’ve noticed so many abuses of the bear/bare homonym—one during a subtitled trailer for The Band’s Visit before the Diving Bell and the Butterfly—that I’ve started questioning my sanity. But I do know there’s no way that a crust can be bearly there) there lightness of the coating. You could hardly even call it tempura.

But the squares were surrounded by dashi, once again presenting me with the tempura in soup conundrum: why it’s agreeable to put crispy into wet. If you don’t immediately dig in, there’s trouble; the coating flakes off, sinks into the liquid and turns to fluffy mush. I don’t see how it couldn’t. And this seemed like a high quality preparation. Three shishito peppers and a few shiitake mushroom caps also sat in the bowl lending spice and texture.

Mayonnaise, even sweetened Japanese style, has always been a creepy condiment but I can deal with drizzles on onomiyaki. It’s not the flavor that’s offensive because if you close your eyes and nibbled everything would blend, crispy with creamy, hot and cold. This pancake with octopus, cabbage and other bits, was a little thicker than I’m accustomed to. And I’m not convinced that the center was fully set. This was a dangerous move for someone who’s supposed to be avoiding starch, but I couldn’t help myself.

I did eschew all the meaty entrees over rice and sushi for unadulterated fish slices. Octopus never tastes like much even though it looks interesting (I first discovered this at an early-‘80s luau thrown by Hawaiian church friends of my parents. Church friends were always meh, but I did relish trying the “gross” stuff like octopus legs covered in tentacles and poi. I also used to be known for eating pet food for shock value. In fact, I lived up to this when my sister was recently in town and she scrounged up a dog pepperoni stick from her coat pocket and dared me to eat it. Of course I took a bite. It was foul, bitter and waxy, nothing like the surprisingly benign Milk Bones I used to chomp for shits and giggles).

I like fat and oil so the mackerel (Spanish and non) and tuna were my favorites. And the dramatic yet practical on-ice presentation somehow made everything taste better.

Here’s the sushi plate, traditional, not “new style.”

Hibino * 333 Henry St., Brooklyn, NY

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Mar 12

La Esquina Criolla

I would never claim to be an Argentine/Argentinean (either are acceptable—I can never decide which sounds better) food connoisseur but I do indulge in a mixed grill every now and then. And always in Queens.

However, La Esquina Criolla was new to me. I knew the name but I rarely get out to Corona. Neighboring Elmhurst and Jackson Heights, all the time, but I never go that extra bit east unless I’m going to Flushing.

I was joining an internet stranger and his friend for what I think is a semi-regular Friday night event. If I was old(er) I would say that I met them on the computer, nay, machine. That’s the thing about NYC, people who you correspond with every so often might actually live in your city, and quite possibly your neighborhood.

When I used to have print pen pals in Portland, which was considered a zine hotbed (along with Berkeley and Olympia) I rarely met up with anyone in person, and the few times I did it didn’t end too well. Freaks I didn’t know would find my phone number and call me from time to time, though. (Some of them were blind, manic, small town homosexuals into verbal slash fiction involving childstars…but that’s for another time.)

Nothing bad happened beyond a few tough pieces of beef. Food-related internet strangers are never killers; at most they might be weird or dorky (often the case with any obsession, culinary or not) and often they're completely normal. Actually, the worst food crazed stranger might be the hipster. I know they exist, I see their posts and comments. Not that these gents (and I’m thinking of men for some reason) and I cross paths. But I have some ideas about this hard to pin down and under exposed group. I suspect that they are involved with or attend “secret” supper clubs. They possibly cultivate their own honey, make pickles or other artisanal products in a practice space or on a Bushwick rooftop. Hmm…I’d like to say something about Asian girlfriends but I don’t want to get a hater reputation. Can I say that they probably subscribe to Diner Journal and not offend anyone?

A meaty brown still life. Sure, you can stick with skirt steak or short ribs, but I like all the odd bits. Kidneys, sweetbreads, blood sausage and intestines (which always seem to be included despite not being listed on the menu) I can deal with. What I can’t handle are the regular pork sausages. Just like Jimmy Dean patties, they always give me a stomachache.

No olives, peanuts, and the like. When your freebie (at least I think this was on the house) is meat you know what you’re in for. I didn’t concern myself with distractions like empanadas. It's not always a good idea to delve into vegetables, pastas and salads at Argentine places anyway.

I did break my low-starch fast and shared a plate of yuca. I was pleased
that they were cut small for maximum surface crispiness. I do love this
root vegetable but only in this form–it's not as fun when it comes in a solid boiled
chunk like a wet potato.

Everything can be improved with chimichurri. I realize it’s not difficult to make (garlic, parsley, vinegar and olive oil) but I picked up a bottled version last year and it just wasn’t the same.

Combo #4 is solid: skirt steak, short rib and sausage.

The lord was my shepherd even in the bathroom. I don't know that framed bible photos in the lavatory are exactly an Argentinean trademark.

Later that night, I discovered that intestines are a great low carb snack. I mean, once you get over the trauma of nibbling on a digestive tract. More so than kidneys which are super concentrated and organy, sweetbreads, which are kind of fluffy and sometimes bitter. Intestines are satisfyingly chewy, crispy if charred right, and just a little fatty. I’ve never gotten into popcorn (though I do like caramel corn), it’s just salty and boring, but a little carton of innards would be the perfect accompaniment to a movie.

La Esquina Criolla * 94-67 Corona Ave., Corona, NY

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Mar 9

Blue Hill at Stone Barns

1/2 I’m about to embark on a woeful tale, so anyone with an aversion to unpleasantness (you know that I have a fascination with barfing, but I fully realize that not everyone shares my interest) should skip ahead to my original stellar Blue Hill experience from 2006.

I thought it was strange last week when James mentioned on a Thursday night that he’d made reservations at Blue Hill at Stone Barns. There wasn’t any occasion for it. That’s the kind of place you’d go to for, say, Valentine’s Day not a weirdo spot like Crave on 42nd. Not that I’m knocking the spontaneity. As it turned out, he had been influenced by a promotional email from the restaurant. I always delete stuff like that, but obviously it works on people, which is great when I benefit.

The problem was that I was still very sick with the virulent cold that I’d had since President’s Day. I didn’t start feeling normal until three days ago, over two weeks after I first became ill. (One thing I learned is that it only takes fourteen days of not plucking for my eyebrows to turn completely Frida Kahlo. Oh, and after being given an EKG and then nearly admitted to the hospital because my heart rate was so out of control, that I’m not allowed to take cold medicine ever again).

But I was determined to go anyway and have one nice meal because I’d been stressing so much over this whole messed up blood sugar business. That was my first mistake. If you have even the inkling that you’re not feeling up to par, just reschedule your reservation.

My second mistake was taking half a dose of cold medicine even though I was warned against it. Actually, I’m not sure if that was the mistake or not. I think it might’ve been self-prescribing antibiotics I picked up in Mexico last year. All I know is that everything stewing around in my stomach started inducing serious sweats and nausea by the time we popped out of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel into Manhattan. And we still had an hour to go.

Always the planner, I’d targeted a Trader Joe’s a few miles from Blue Hill to pick up some items like Greek yogurt and overly fibrous bread. I’ll do anything to avoid shopping in NYC. First, I ran into a neighboring CVS to grab some Tums in hopes of heading off intestinal distress, but it was too late for that. Next thing I knew I was puking up my guts (and animal ones too) in the Trader Joe’s bathroom.

Ok, the mistake might’ve been leftover Sichuan tongue and tripe in chile oil for breakfast (it seemed like a good low carb solution at the time). I will say that the numbing burn of these cold Chinese appetizers is more pleasant going down than coming up.

At this point we should’ve evaluated the situation and headed home but we were only a few miles from the restaurant. Instead, I nibbled on a piece of brown hyper grainy bread and hoped that the worst was over now that I’d gotten all the crap out of my system.

It is strange that both of our visits to the Westchester Blue Hill have been during the dead of bone-chilling, snowy winter. I really need to pay a visit when it’s all corn and tomatoes instead of root vegetables and cabbage. Honestly, I don’t have strong feelings one way or the other towards seasonal food, but I am a bit curious to try Park Avenue Winter after it morphs into Park Avenue Spring at the end of this month.

I had the good sense to not indulge in the tasting menu, a.k.a. the farmer’s feast, as we did last time. The other way to dine is a la carte, two dishes plus dessert for $65 or three for $78. Portions are modest and nothing is grouped by appetizer or mains so anything goes. I wondered if it would raise eyebrows if you were piggish and ordered three meats: venison, pork and veal. Not that I would. I was completely sensible and asked for soup, vegetables and pork. We both ordered the Berskhire pork, breaking the unwritten rule of never getting the same thing.

Deciding on a blood orange margarita while perusing the menu was insanity and just goes to show how unwilling I am to let go of habits. It was the ginger part of the cocktail that caught my attention. Soothing, refreshing and good for nausea. But I blocked out the tequila part. Two sips of this and I knew I was in trouble. I quickly moved on to water and ginger ale but the damage had already been done. My stomach started going wild again.

Fried food certainly didn’t help. Amuses seemed to come out willy nilly. Tables received varying items. The couple next to us had mini beet burgers, which we had last time so I would’ve been ok without them. Not long after our neighbors polished off their snack, a second set of beet burgers clearly meant for our table went to them again. Didn’t they think it was strange to be served the same starter twice?

After a bit of time passed we were brought battered proscuitto-wrapped salsify. Normally, I would’ve loved this but the saltiness and frittery nature overwhelmed me into queasiness.

Then, I became appalled by the couple who’d already eaten two amuses, including ours, pointing at our table and asking their waiter for what we had. And this is the type of place that’s wildly accommodating (the older couple that eventually replaced these two bland thirtysomethings were extremely demanding and fussy—no fruit in anything, which caused a problem when a beet salad with goat cheese had dried fruit mixed into the cheese--but appeared to be regulars and knew all the waiters by name) so it wasn’t a huge issue. But I mean, seriously. Their bad manners and the fact that the female half was a total skelator despite her apparent love of amuse bouches made me even more nauseous.

Cauliflower soup seemed bland and inoffensive and it was…until I got to the oyster and I knew I’d be leaving the table soon. No matter how many spoonfuls of the liquid I sipped, it didn’t seem to budge. Kind of a loaves and fishes experience. It’s not like the serving sizes were enormous but I couldn’t plow through the creamy broth.

The “roots and fruits” are the type of thing I normally wouldn’t order because they appeared abnormally healthy. The gluttonous part of me was like, “I don’t want to eat a plate of pretty produce” but the part of me with an upset stomach and newly determined to eat less crap thought it was brilliant.

But I couldn’t take a bite before I had to make a production getting up from the table (we had a freestanding corner booth, luxurious by NYC standards but it was so squishy and tucked in it was hard to get out without moving the table) to run to the downstairs bathroom. Blood orange margarita, cauliflower soup and gallons of indeterminate liquid came up in three separate wall-splattering sessions.

I kind of wanted to go home but didn’t know how to handle such a maneuver at a high end restaurant when you’ve already ordered multiple courses. To the shock of people I’ve verbally recounted this sad tale to, I went back to the table and proceeded to eat my mélange of spinach, cabbage, grapes, pears, walnuts, chestnuts and fennel. It was good, ok? And I was starving. Ah, but I returned to a silver dome warming my food. I’d never encountered the elegant device until Gramercy Tavern, and here it was twice in two weeks. I told you 2008 was going to be good.

The main event wasn’t to be. When the sight and smell of farm raised pork served three ways makes me gag, you know something’s seriously wrong. I took one bite of the perfectly pink-centered loin and a nibble of the crispy skin and I’d reached my limit. I sat and watched James eat his while trying not to breathe too deeply or the porcine scent would induce a repeat performance in the bathroom.

When our concerned waiter came to clear plates including my barely touched one he asked “Can we make something else for you?” Now, that’s service. I thought of the recent Diner's Journal discussion about taking home leftovers from upscale restaurants. I never do it, primarily because the portions don’t usually require a doggy bag. I do it all the time and midrange and lower establishments, though. But this was an unusual circumstance and there was no way I was tossing a full plate of food. They whisked it away and said it would be waiting at the front desk when I left. Ah, also very classy. Not foil swan classy, but you know.

You’d think that if I couldn’t handle my entrée that would be it, but I did order a dessert. Despite the rumblings in my gut, I was feeling sentimental about treats since I had just a few days prior I had been informed that I need to severely limit if not eliminate sugar from my diet. There was no way I was going to pass on this course. Even the freaky African-American nurse with an unfortunate birthmark over her forehead and right eye (it’s hard to act serious and like you’re listening while trying not to stare) who kept hammering how white foods were bad like it was a twisted racial lesson rather than a dietary one said, “If you’re going to eat a sweet, you’d better make sure it’s amazing.” I hear ya.

Well, the desserts really were worth it. Often pastry gets short changed when the savory ingredients are the focus, but these were really nice. James ordered the rich one I would’ve picked if I had more digestive stability. His banana fritters made me want to hurl but I was so enamored by the concept of peanut butter ice cream topped with cracklings that I had to sample a small bite. There was also a little dish of honey for dipping.

I ordered Bosc pears poached in something brown sugary and sitting atop a flaky sable cookie with a side of five spice ice cream. I still can’t figure out why I loathe fruit but prefer fruity desserts over chocolate.

I didn’t touch the chocolate truffles.

My leftover pork made a dainty lunch the following day. The fromage blanc spaetzle remained springy, but there was no way to preserve the original correctly cooked rendition. I tried crisping up the skin it the oven and microwaved the rest as briefly as possible but it still dried out a little. Even so, it was certainly better than what I’d normally eat mid-day. (3/1/08)

Mar 5

Athens Tavern

I hate to admit that there’s a food I don’t like because I prefer to believe I’m open minded. But I have to say that I’m not crazy about rabbit. There, I said it.

It’s definitely not something I grew up with, but then neither are most meats beyond chicken, ham and ground beef. When I ordered rabbit two birthdays ago at Cookshop the taste weirded me out. I thought it was a fluke, though. Yet the same thing happened again with this creative Greek preparation employing cinnamon and bergamot. The sea of orange is mashed sweet potatoes.

I don’t have issues with offal or venison or heck, even horse. Game is fine but there’s something about rabbit that’s tangy and sharp, hitting my palate high and towards my throat almost like vomit. Literally like I threw up in my mouth a little. It’s definitely doesn’t taste like chicken.

Athens Tavern is interesting in that it doesn’t fall into either predominate NYC Greek category: Manhattan haute Hellenic and dully traditional fare in Astoria. Athens Tavern sits in said Queens neighborhood but it’s far more ambitious than grilled octopus and spanakopita.

We were given three dips from the appetizer menu gratis. No complaints there. From left to right: mavromatika, a black-eyed pea salad, melitzanosalata, garlicky eggplant mash served with barley rusks, taramosalata, a carp roe puree that I seriously couldn’t stop eating. I don’t understand how fish eggs, lemon juice and olive oil can be so good.

Kypriakes pittes gemistes me pikantiko kotopoulo is a mouthful. All you need to know that all those words equal curried chicken salad in crispy pitas. Kind of strange, actually. The English description made mention of pie, so I was hoping for something more flaky and pastry-like.

James ordered a whole grilled fish, possibly a porgy, but the photo was even blurrier than the ones I’ve included here.

We didn’t order dessert but were brought two anyway and glasses of Muscat. I wasn’t sure if this was hospitality or special treatment. Not that I do anything to warrant freebies. You might think that furtively scribbling notes or taking photos in a restaurant would draw attention, but it rarely does. I think New Yorkers are blasé.

Pineapple phyllo and rose flavored chocolate mousse were both very alluring but unnecessary since we’d already eaten our fill. Ok, since I let my rabbit hesitancy out of the bag, allow me another admission that will make me seem like a pickier eater than I am. I absolutely gag at the thought of eating flowers, and even flavors like violet, rose and orange blossom give me trouble.

In high school I occasionally smoked Jezebel cigarettes perfumed with rose and gardenia. I thought they were the coolest because they were pink and magenta with gold tips and matched my hair color. But they were so sweetly foul they’d induce instant nausea. This is how I feel about flowery desserts.

That is not how I feel about Athens Tavern, however, just rose water. Read my positive review on nymag.com.

Very strange…the day I finally got around to posting this (I wait until my listings get published, which can lag anywhere from a few weeks to many months from when I actually ate the meal) a bit shows up on Grub Street that the restaurant might be history. Well, I just typed all this nonsense so there’s no deleting it now.

Athens Tavern * 23-01 31st St., Astoria, NY

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Mar 4

Gramercy Tavern

1/2 One of the things I was most struck by while my sister, Melissa, and her husband were visiting from England recently was how impressed they were with the quality of restaurant food. They kept marveling at how good everything was everywhere, and I mean everywhere.

I would never see the goodness in a breakfast at B Bar like they did, but then I probably wouldn’t eat breakfast (or any other meal) at B Bar. Is that because I’m jaded or because British food is truly that bad?

They seemed to think that our standards are higher, that here even mediocre restaurants serve decent food (I’m sure we could’ve proven them wrong) and recounted rampant U.K. kitchen nightmares involving frozen food, microwaves and general staleness.

I thought England was on an upswing, but it’s true that a lot of the trends seem focused on meat: nose to tail eating, raising your own livestock, butchering practically as hobby (they really seem to love killing animals on TV—I’m sure it’ll be all the rage here in 2009). Perhaps reviving old traditions is having less impact on vegetarian fare.

So, I hadn’t realized my houseguests would be so easily impressed, but I still sought out an appropriately high-end vegetarian-friendly restaurant for my sister’s birthday. Per Se wasn’t going to happen, and even with the favorable exchange rate I still think it would be a little rich for their blood (mine too, really, but I was keeping in mind that my sister is a recently unemployed social worker and her husband is a tree surgeon). I considered Daniel and Bouley but I just didn’t think they would be enjoyable.

Stuffiness wouldn’t fly. My family is super casual–I’m fairly certain that my dad never owned a tie–but I wouldn’t say they’re yokels either. Beforehand, I described Gramercy Tavern to Melissa as, “the type of place you’re supposed to take your parents…but not our parents.”

Don't get me wrong. The Christmas before last I gave my mom and the stepdude a gift certificate to Park Kitchen, which didn't strike me as Olive Garden-y. though I couldn’t say if that was their speed or not. Despite spending nearly the first quarter of my life in Portland, I’m no longer familiar with the dining scene, which has changed dramatically since I left in the late ‘90s.

My favorite way to experience a nice meal is to warm up with a few drinks first. Maybe I’ll move on to an artisanal cocktail at the restaurant, then wine with dinner, in this case a bottle of 2005 Lucien Crochet Sancerre Le Chene, but I actually enjoy downing a few beers at a non-fancy venue earlier. I’m not talking about getting trashed, say, three pints over a two-hour period like we downed at No Idea. Maybe I’m a drunk because I rarely suffer ill effects, though the rest of the household seemed a bit rough around the edges the next day.

Gramercy Tavern was a complete success. Everyone was happy and that's rare. James and I were allowed our meat and seafood and the visitors had the vegetable tasting menu (it’s notable that this version was already vegetarian, the one I saw in the fall contained bacon and lobster).

The service was genuinely impressive, never stuffy but eerily attentive. It’s silly but I was most wowed when a new course came while Melissa was in the bathroom and a metal dome was employed. We were asked if wanted ours kept warm until she returned. Uh no, as if any of us are that considerate.

For the sake of space, I’m linking to photos of the vegetable courses. This is what was served:

Root Vegetable Terrine and Mustard Crème & Herb Salad
Carrot Soup with Spiced Cashews
Butternut Squash Risotto
Warm Salad of Winter Vegetables and Farro
Mushroom Ravioli with Wild Mushrooms and Aged Balsamic

Though I rarely drink them anymore, whiskey sours used to be my cocktail. This is a pear sour using Belle de Brillet, a pear cognac and Clear Creek Williams Pear Brandy. Oh, and lemon juice, of course.

An amuse of beet and what I believe was duck lardo. Lardo sounds classier than fat when describing food, but no much when talking about a person. Hey lardo.

Snow Crab, Radish and Lemon Vinaigrette

The vivid colors are mesmerizing. The sweetness of the crab meat contrasted nicely with the tart lemony smudges of dressing. I don’t recall ever eating sea beans before but through some sort of culinary osmosis I immediately recognized them.

Nantucket Bay Scallops, Lentils, Pickled Mushrooms and Salsify

I’m still don’t have a handle on salsify even though I’ve been served it more than a few times in recent history. The somewhat mushy texture was stiffened up by the pickling. I have no idea what stained it brown but I liked that it transformed into something Asian seeming that might be sold by the pound in a tub at the back of a store.

Smoked Trout, Sunchoke Purée and Pickled Cippolini Onions

Pickling again. The sweet and sour quality and crimson color made me think there were cranberries involved. Not so. In my mind I’m imagining a mustard flavor too—perhaps that was a component of the sunchoke puree.

Quail, Cinderella Squash and House-Cured Bacon

It was hard not to admire the world’s tiniest wing (and poached egg). Mini poultry is tough to manage with fork and knife, though. I ended up using my hands.

Rack of Veal, Wild Mushrooms, Asian Pears and Celery Root Purée

The portions were hardly enormous but I did start feeling full by this course (those three pints will catch up with you) and the richness of the meat kind of finished me. Any additional savories and I might’ve felt ill.

I almost forgot about this in-between course of mango sorbet, tapioca pearls and cilantro sauce. I guess you could say it was refreshing.

Dessert was a choice of cheese plate (James’s option), a chocolate mishmash (both UK visitors’ pick) and an apple clafoutis, which I was swayed by. I love cheese but like I said, I couldn’t take any more savory. Chocolate kills me after a serious meal. An avowed fruit-hater, it’s usually the route I go for a sweet finish. It’s naked fruit that makes me listless and this tart with cinnamon ice cream was embellished just enough to be exciting.

A cranberry-orange muffin for the next morning.

Gramercy Tavern * 42 E. 20th St., New York, NY

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Mar 3

Lucali

In a city that outsiders equate with amazing pizza, it’s a pain in the ass to actually acquire a worthy pie. I haven’t been to Di Fara in years because I’m impatient, Totonno’s is a trek, Lucali is three blocks from my apartment but it’s so impenetrable you’d think it was Waverly Inn.

I’m happy to have a neighborhood gem, something to keep my blahness of South Brooklyn food resentment in check. But they don’t make it easy to partake in the goodness.

Maybe this is what it’s like to live around the corner from Little Owl or Momofuku. At least with Momofuku you could pop out of your home late and hope for the best. The Lucali window--6pm-10pm--is distressingly short. Crowds raise my blood pressure. Just passing by Lucali and seeing groups outside the door make me jittery.

To be honest, I don’t completely understand the seating procedure. There aren’t reservations but it seems like people call ahead and I swear they play favorites. We showed up at 6pm on the dot and the room was already filled and people were being quoted 45 minute waits. I kindly let James deal and stepped outside with my sister and her husband for the long haul.

I’m still not clear what transpired but minutes later we had the biggest table in the place, a rectangular six-seater. I had to have been total happenstance and lucky timing because there were groups ahead of us. In fact, a couple who were waiting outside when we arrived were still waiting outside when we left. I’ve had so many table waiting disasters that I’m not even going to question the how or why of we scored so effortlessly.

Ok…the pizza. It’s simple and it works. I don’t always appreciate minimal done well, but I get it with pizza. There’s nothing further from a deep dish, it’s not even the same species. I’ll never understand crackly, thin crust haters.

James and I ordered pepperoni and accidentally got the basil from my sister’s olive and basil. That was easily rectified.

The dim light (Lucali always looks closed from the outside because it’s so dark) is an anathema to good photos. But you get the gist. (3/2/08)

Feb 28

Vegetarian Dim Sum House

I don’t understand people who hate tofu and mock meat. Sure, fake buffalo wings and tofurky are kind of wrongheaded, but bean curd and gluten can be completely tasty, especially when transformed into dim sum. It doesn't seem unnatural.

I only ever seem to patronize Vegetarian Dim Sum House when my sister is in town. It was a hit on her last visit so a repeat performance was in order. This time we totally went overboard. What’s shown below is only about half of the food that was on the table, and even with five diners we all were able to take home leftovers. It’s easy to order wildly because you just check off boxes with the quantities you want and just about everything is $2.95.

Turnip cakes are the most like "real" dim sum. The only thing missing are the pork bits. These are served with oyster sauce, though, instead of sweet soy.

Lotus root slices were sandwiched between what I swear was mashed potato. The crunch and mush was a nice combo.

Ok, more potato. These were essentially fritters.

We had three varieties of rice flour rolls. White fungus and golden mushrooms are above. There were also mock ham and coriander and mock shrimp.

Fried dough blobs.

Buddha's bean curd rolls were a hit.

You never know if you're getting a sweet or savory. I thought these would contain lotus seed paste, but they were filled with crushed peanuts.

Obviously, these shark's fin dumplings didn't contain any endangered species. They did mimic the texture, though.

Pork buns are one of my favorite Chinese snacks. You might think faux ones would be a bust but they are fairly convincing. You can't completely match the sweet meaty, roasty flavor of char siu, yet these are respectable in their own right.

Tapioca dumplings filled with sesame paste were a little heavy. Half of one is plenty.

Classic shrimp dumplings minus the shrimp. I've always liked fake crab so mock shrimp isn't much different.

Honestly, I'm not sure what this was and if anyone actually ordered it. It seemed like one of those bland almond jelly desserts. Very blanc mange. The nuggets might have been mung beans even though they look like corn.

Vegetarian Dim Sum House * 24 Pell St., New York, NY

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Feb 27

San Antonio Bakery #2

Yesterday was the only day I’ve gone to work in a week and that was a mistake I did not repeat today. Unfortunately, Monday I still felt like death and ended up having to leave early. I wasn’t even sure if I’d make it home.

I’ve always speculated about if you’re going to faint/barf/have heart failure in public is it better to be on the subway or the sidewalk. The conscientious person in me says the sidewalk and not just because of those if you’re sick, stay off the trains public service posters. I would much appreciate it if someone who was about to keel over (especially lady dieters) had enough wits to step off the train and spare me a tangled commute.

Last night my heart was beating so hard I thought I was going into cardiac arrest, I was gushing sweat so profusely that my jeans were wet and then my strenuous coughing fits caused me to start to peeing my already disgusting pants. Twenty-four hours later and I’m still dizzy, shaky and burning up. The remarkable thing is that still have a perfectly normal appetite. Frighteningly, I can always eat. If I were terminally ill I’d probably die obese.

And this weekend I plumped up with Chilean snacks. I’m not in Astoria that often so while reviewing perfectly nice Café Soleil, I kept thinking about San Antonio Bakery #2 on the next block. I could’ve left well enough alone. I was fortified enough by a black coffee and croissant for an afternoon showing of There Will be Blood, but I would be negligent if I didn’t stock up on dulce de leche treats for later.

Witness the alfajor. Alfajores mean many things to many people. Argentine versions are more like sandwich cookies. In Peru and Bolivia they use manjar blanco (a lighter caramel) as a filling. These Chilean goodies are substantial and consist of three thin cracker-like cookies slathered with dulce de leche and rolled in shredded coconut.

Similar flavors are brought together in wedges of panqueque, thin layers of sponge cake frosted with rich caramel. (This is an old photo that I swear I'd used in my previous San Antonio Bakery missive but it doesn't appear so.)

Empanadas are another one of those million of renditions foods. These Chilean pastries are big, doughy and baked. The crusts are stuffed with chopped beef, onions, hard boiled egg, raisins and one black olive. They’re heartier and more pie-like than the Caribbean-style turnovers more commonly found around NYC. (2/26/08)

Feb 24

T.G.I. Friday’s

You can’t properly entertain a sister who has lived outside the U.S. for over a decade without at least one pit stop at a chain restaurant. Never mind that they have a T.G. I. Friday’s in Bristol, things are best experienced in their natural habitats.

We’d spent a killer day trolling around Bear Mountain (I had to squeeze in a bit of nature to appease the outdoorsiness in my sister and her husband. Some would argue that paved trails aren’t exactly super natural but that’s as rough as I get) and Woodbury Common (where I’d already been to the on-site Applebee’s enough times). All that cold weather open air outlet shopping really works up an appetite.

The best part of Bear Mountain were the zillions of ’60s-seeming educational signs dotting the park.

Of course, not enough of an appetite to finish an appetizer and entrée (let alone dessert too, though I was pleased to see they were offering the three courses for $12.99 promotion which probably doesn’t exist in NYC). But that’s not the point. James and I know the excess game–that’s what take out containers are for. Despite not being truly European, British are freaked out by leftovers.

While dwelling on our monstrous portions and Japanese hara hachi bu (wise, certainly. But if I stopped at 80% full, I would never get past the appetizer course) we ordered pink fruity cocktails like the Cosmo ‘Rita. Minor trouble erupted when our waitress asked for ID, “My manager makes me card everyone under 40.” and neither out-of-towner had any on them.

I started having flashbacks to my 22nd birthday with my dad and stepmom at a place called BJ’s Roadhouse. It wasn’t my choice (while chain loving now as an adult, I couldn’t see the humor in the early ‘90s). I hadn’t brought my driver’s license and they wouldn’t serve me beer, not even an O’Doul’s, which I didn’t want anyway. These annual occasions were tough enough to slog through with a few drinks in your system.

I’m fairly certain this was the same birthday where we stopped at a grocery store afterwards and picked up a watermelon (I’ve hated melon since birth) and a sugar free cherry pie. I mean, it was my birthday and I could produce insulin normally so would it kill them to buy a real dessert? (technically yes, but diabetes wouldn’t my render my father a fatal blow for another ten years)

Thankfully, we looked old and haggard enough to have the ridiculous rule waived at T.G.I. Friday’s.

Nachos on the half shell. They evoke traditional topping on individual chip rather than pile of toppings on slew of chips, yet these aren’t chips.

Yeah, I noticed that cheesy bacon cheeseburger was separate from the regular cheeseburger but I didn’t read the fine print. The cheesy was cheesy alright. A whole half-inch round of breaded and fried provolone was sitting atop the patty. Whoa. I should’ve taken a cross section photo but I was in a state of shock. It almost looks like a chicken sandwich from this angle.

We passed on the Cinnabon cheesecake and picked up a dozen doughnuts at Dunkin’ across the parking lot (I’m not a doughnut-crazed person, but British folks seem to like them because they don’t really exist in the U.K.), then called it a night.

The next morning I arose to find a note from my sister left on the dining room table. “Dave is afraid of the leftovers; you can have them.” Oh, foreigners…there’s nothing to fear. Even our cheerful waitress told us that the gooey spinach artichoke dip could be brought back to life in the microwave.

I did wait until later that evening, after I had a few drinks in my system (and the brother-in-law had gone to bed) but you know that I devoured that second-hand hot Tuscan dip and red corn tortilla chips along with the help of my sister. We re-warmed the deep-fried breadsticks we’d brought home too. Anything else would be un-American.

T.G.I.Friday’s * 5 Centre Dr., Central Valley, NY

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Posts from the ‘What to Eat’ Category

Huckleberry Bar

Hibino

La Esquina Criolla

Blue Hill at Stone Barns

Athens Tavern

Gramercy Tavern

Lucali

Vegetarian Dim Sum House

San Antonio Bakery #2

T.G.I. Friday’s

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