Jan 10
The first Maggiano’s outside the US opened in Saudi Arabia and parent company, Brinker, foresees 500 international restaurants by 2014.
Middle East, sure, it’s the African continent you don’t hear much about. Don’t worry; KFC is heading into Nigeria’s Onikan Mall in Lagos (they already have a presence in Uganda, Malawi and Zambia). The fried chicken will be in good company—the mall also has Caffé Vergnano 1882, an Italian chain.
Yes, women have been getting irrationally violent over food this week. First it was the McNugget puncher who was shortly upstaged by the burger rampager.
You might not understand that primal rage. I didn’t at first, but now I do. I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t eaten at Chicago’s Spoon Thai on Saturday. Of course there were no fisticuffs or verbal abuse; I was merely howling inside, trying to suppress the Hulk-like anger traveling up from my stomach into my neck when my ground pork and skin turned out to be cubes of chicken breast.
I should’ve known better than to try Thai food in Chicago when they do a million things better (if you want to go “ethnic,” Mexican and Eastern European will soothe not incense) but I was swayed by reviews and photos that seemed so convincing. The northern-style food did indeed look unique and shared many dishes in common with Lotus of Siam, the lauded Vegas strip mall restaurant I dined at twice in one weekend.
And it immediately hit me that Lincoln Park is the German-not-Italian Carroll Gardens of ten years ago; boutiques and cuteness amidst the working class stalwarts, both young couples and pompadour’d men with Cubs jackets covering paunches at nearby Hüettenbar where I had to down a drink (ok, three) to make things right again. But most Carroll Gardens-like were the Thai restaurants clustered on every single block. I spied at least five on the cab ride there. We’d subway’d it everywhere else up until this point but thought we’d save a little time and avoid the predicted six-degree temps, but it just wasn’t worth the $20. I’d rather just play Little Match Girl on the el platform and complain about it.
From what I understand there is a regular Thai menu and a special Thai menu, both are now laminated and official-looking. At some point in 2003 the Thai-only menu was translated by an ambitious Chowhoundy type. I’m not sure how it came to its current form dated 2005. I appreciate such efforts, though I’m starting to wonder if the translations, getting lost in them, was part of the disconnect I experienced (I should’ve taken a photo because I can’t seem to find the Thai menu online anywhere and I’m going to look like a liar with no evidence). You would think that if people were getting different things from what they had ordered it would’ve been detected in the past five years. Maybe I shouldn’t have free-styled it and stuck strictly to what I had seen written about online. I just had faith that everything on the authentic menu would be good.
And the mussel omelet was. Greasy and puffy, lacy and eggy with bean sprouts for crunch, I was confident we were in for more greatness. Hawy thawt is made for drinking, and I had my big BYOP bottle of Stella.
While nibbling on the pancake, our salad was brought out. I was pretty sure the beige blobs were chicken, and even if it was pork, it certainly wasn’t minced as described in the menu and there was definitely no pork skin to be seen. This worried me. We both took a bite; the flavor was right on: sour and hot with a fish sauce undertone. No complaints there. But I didn’t order chicken and started getting anxious when I remembered our curry also would contain chicken. I’m not opposed to chicken if it’s what I ordered but I can’t stand two bland white meat dishes in one sitting.
We stopped after a bite each so that we could correct the mistake and get the salad we’d ordered. I eventually flagged down our waitress and asked about the pork. She brought out the menu and pointed to what I had ordered, no confusion, and insisted it was what we had on the table. Um, no. This wasn’t going anywhere. I am guessing that she could read the Thai but not the English description and the mix-up lied in the translation. To her eyes, we got what we asked for. Attempting to right the wrong felt futile. But like I said above, wouldn’t someone have noticed before that when they ordered ground pork they got chicken breast?
I was disappointed that this would be my final meal in Chicago. It wasn’t what I had imagined at all and a waste of my limited time. I had used up a valuable slot for this and considered just paying up and leaving to try Big Star, The Bristol or Kuma’s Corner, all who didn’t make it into my schedule. But that frangry feeling really enveloped me when our curry showed up.
I was picturing something brothy and spicy akin to a jungle curry, it wasn’t like I was imagining anything creamy and coconut milky since this was northern Thai food. But the menu promised Thai eggplant and bamboo shoots. This bowl was swimming with straw mushrooms, snow peas and carrots. Ugh. Totally Chinesey and not at all what I wanted to eat. The photo doesn’t convey much of anything, I’m afraid, I forgot to take it until the very end of the meal.
I tried a few spoonfuls and gave up. Just not destination Thai food. I’ve never left behind Thai food before (well, maybe at Joya) and our waitress seemed mildly surprised that we hadn’t eaten it all. But I’m such a pussy that I said I was full. I’ve never really had to deal with a situation like this before and was completely baffled how to deal since it started feeling like a joke was being played on me. James at least asked, “Was this supposed to have Thai eggplant?”
“It could,” our waitresses responded.
Er, or it could not. WTF? I’ve always taken menu listings to be more than just guidelines. If you ordered something that was supposed to come with bamboo shoots and Thai eggplant or ground pork and pork skin, isn’t that what should appear on your table?
Like I said, I can’t find the Thai menu online anywhere, but this is our bill. I wonder how two of these three dishes translate because they’re not at all what we thought we were ordering.
Nearly a week has passed and I’m still confused and unhappy about this place. Of course it’s not like I went hungry; a piece of chocolate cake was consumed at a diner near the Belmont stop (unintentionally, something about the shocking cold weather made me unable to hold my pee and while waiting for the red train back to the loop I had to run downstairs and find a bathroom at the nearest place, which happened to be this diner) followed by a double cheeseburger at Billy Goat Tavern.
Touristy, sure, and we’d been there before but Spoon Thai had been my bright idea so I had to go along with James’ Billy Goat choice to be fair. I’d rather eat a cheeseburger than blech chicken breast, any day.
Spoon Thai * 4608 N. Western Ave., Chicago, IL
Gourmet’s Diary of a Foodie keeps showing up recorded with no description in my DVR. Every time I click, the episode turns out to be “Montreal: Cooking on the Wild Side” and now I feel like hate fucking Adam Gollner. That is all.
Foodie cries of copying, imitation and more strongly, plagiarism, have been popping up faster than banh mi joints (or is it fried chicken? I can't keep up). I would understand if two people in a short time frame had written about a Ukranian vegan holiday meal at Veselka (surprisingly, the most e-mailed article in the New York Times last night, currently it is at number six). It's hyper-specific and not widely known.
But Seattle being a teriyaki town is not that much different than the ten million articles devoted to Philly cheesesteaks or on a smaller scale green chile burgers in New Mexico or lobster rolls in Maine. Not exactly secrets.
Is John T. Edge really copying a 2007 story by Jonathan Kauffman? You just don't hear about Seattle teriyaki much because no one gives a rat's ass about the Emerald City, a nickname not quite up there with the Windy City or The Big Apple. (As a native Portlander, the truth is even harsher; the average non-hip New Yorker has no idea where Oregon even is). Though, I imagine that when your under-the-radar regional specialty is acknowledged you feel possessive of it.
Same too, with General Tso’s chicken, it seems. I knew Francis Lam's warm, even-handed style would get him into trouble eventually (I was always surprised by the civility of Gourmet.com commenters). Yes, Fuchsia Dunlop is a recognized Western expert on Chinese food (and of course I made her General Tso’s recipe from Revolutionary Chinese Cookbook ) but it's not as if she owns all historical inquiry into Americanized Chinese food, which I guess is also Jennifer 8. Lee territory. Digging into a topic that's been previously written about does not make one a plagiarizer.
No one rips on Saveur's monthly "Classic," which briefly explains the origin of a dish then gives a recipe. But then, their website is so discombobulated that these columns are floating freely as recipes and not findable enough to comment. Maybe I should go stir up some shit over pavlova or chouchroute garnie. I’m quite certain someone somewhere has written about them before.
Christmas is done, over dead. So, twelve days ago. But now that chicken skin has been declared the new bacon so soon into the new decade, I must mention that duck skin is even better, a fact I discovered while piecing together a casual Christmas Day meal based on items I already had in the apartment.
I made classic Swiss fondue for the second time that week (and now I'm wondering why my pants are snug) as well as a salad using more gruyere, bitter radicchio and toasted walnuts. I also wanted a more substantial dish to go along with melted cheese. German? Austrian? Not themes I've ever dabbled in. Ok, then, Alsatian?
I had the necessary eggs, cream, milk, nutmeg and duck confit (courtesy of Costco—these legs had been in our freezer for an emergency quick meal. What I didn’t realize was that they came coated in a ginger-orange sauce) for an unusual gratin. Only the sauerkraut and juniper berries were lacking. Yes, a casserole using two pounds of pickled cabbage.
Carroll Gardens can be a frustrating neighborhood for like ten million reasons and my complaints shift daily, but on Christmas Eve my beef was with the absence of a normal pesticidey fruit and processed cheese selling store. You cannot buy sauerkraut at Korean delis or Caputo's or Gourmet Fresh or the brand new useless Union Market or the Trader Joe's that had two lines wrapped around the entire circumference of the store and only one wedge of Emmental left on the shelf.
Ultimately, I ended up at the Met (which I don't consider a quick one-ingredient neighborhood grocer because it's eight blocks away) where a nice refrigerated bag of White Rose, (Krasdale's kissing cousin) sauerkraut was on sale for $2.09. Thank you, regular grocery store.
I won't even get into juniper berries. I'm certain if I'd walked the extra few blocks to Sahadi's I could've found them but one patience-trying wait was all I could take on one almost-holiday afternoon. Note to self: next time you see juniper berries, buy them to stash for later. This will practically guarantee never needing them for a recipe again. I ended up splashing a bit of Bombay Sapphire into the pan hoping to capture a little juniper essence.
But back to the skin. You remove the fatty layer from the duck legs, shred the meat into the sauerkraut and custard, which gets baked, and then slice and slowly pan-fry the strips until brown and crunchy. They become the salty, crisp-chewy garnish.
I even managed to an alleged duck-hater to sample a bit of this dish. I actually thought the sauerkraut would be the hard sell, not the water fowl. But there you go. Rich poultry and fermented cabbage are not so bad together.
Duck skin wrapped dates stuffed with blue cheese? Peking duck poppers? Canard croutons? So many pork-free possibilities.
No more Convivio or Alto. (3/4/2011)
One-day's notice won't have you dining at Marea or Scarpetta earlier than 10pm while Convivio will grant you 1,000 Open Table points during all hours not just at geriatric 6:45pm, the exact time I willingly paid a visit to the Tudor City restaurant, glowing warmly from afar on a snowy, otherwise lifeless block. The only other time I've been that far east on 42nd Street was to meet with a library recruiter (they exist) in the lobby of her coop. It’s that kind of neighborhood.
Beyond salumi, sharp cheese, crostini maybe with chicken liver or fava puree and little dishes of marinated vegetables eaten with inexpensive red wine, I never initiate an Italian meal. Something about the holidays and drop in temperature, though, demanded not just pasta but hearty Southern Italian, the same cuisine I avoid like landmines near my apartment.
The $62 prix fixe (two sfizi or one antipasti, pasta, meat or fish and dessert) is really a good deal and a substantial amount of food (which didn't hit me until I stood up and had to think twice about eggnog at The Campbell Apartment. It turned out that don’t serve it anyway so my system was spared the creamy beverage…temporarily. A glass of eggnog did end up in my hand at Waterfront Ale House later) and the wine list was also friendly to those with little interest in pricy mature reds. I chose a bottle of Occhipinti SP68, a Sicilian Nero D’Avola/Frappato blend ($55).
polipo/grilled octopus, chickpea panissa, olives, red peppers
Both the chickpea cake and octopus legs were light; the cephalopod with just enough chew and the panissa especially flaky. I could see this being done with polenta, but that would bog the whole thing down.
rigatoni/marsala braised tripe, cannellini beans, spinach, pecorino grand cru
Rarely a pasta-craver, rigatoni would never be an obvious choice to me because the fat tubes are a lot of noodle. It’s always about the accompaniments, though, and I’m glad that I didn’t shy away from what appeared to be the humblest of the ten available pastas offered. Gelatinous rectangles of honeycomb tripe—a cut I associate strictly with menudo or dim sum—definitely held up to the rigatoni. There was a lot of crunch from miniature cubes of celery and carrot, which worked against the softness of the cannellini beans.
scottadito di agnello/grilled lamb chops, salsa verde, escarole, beans
It’s hard not to love a medium-rare lamb chop ringed with a few bites of charred fat. The vinegary salsa verde cut a bit of the richness. Ack, but those cannellinis again. (Nothing against the beans—I just used them tonight along with canned tomatoes and frozen fish in a lowerbrow version of Eric Ripert's roasted cod with white beans, tomato and truffle oil. It was the best I could come up with since I haven't gone grocery shopping since before Christmas.) I mean, it did say beans in the description, I was just imagining a different legume from the rigatoni. And while I am loathe to admit food aversions (it makes you look narrow minded) cooked tomatoes, the main reason why I'm prejudiced against Italian-American food, ever excite me. I feel the same about Provençal dishes like ratatouille. I wouldn’t even see the movie with the same name. Ok, I’m a fussbudget.
So, the lamb was near perfect and the side and sauce were dull according to my biases. If you love tomato sauce and don’t order a starter with cannellinis, you’ll probably enjoy this greatly.
tartaletta di caramelle/valhrona chocolate ganache, salted caramel, vanilla gelato
I was swayed by the salt and caramel, but this firm little tart was also very much about the thick chocolate layer. The gelato added an overall creaminess but the vanilla flavor was a little quiet. Would caramel gelato be overkill?
Chef Julian Medina was seated with a group in a nearby curved banquette and was the only person who seemed to notice when my camera came out (never with flash and always lightning fast—no attempts at professional quality are made). A mildly consternated expression crossed his face insinuating, "Eh, bloggers." I am the enemy.
Convivio * 45 Tudor City Pl., New York, NY
Did I love it? Not as much as The Rheinlander next door.
There are two reasons to go to The Rheinlander: fondue and Victor Meindl. Gustav’s, the adjoining cuckoo clock-free bar-centric offshoot (now a chain), only has the melted cheese in its favor.
Victor Meindl was the gangly Christopher Kimball-looking gentleman in lederhosen and a jaunty Tyrolean cap that roved around the restaurant playing accordion on our almost annual Christmas visits in the ‘80s. He was still there when I celebrated high school graduation at The Rheinlander. And he was still there when I was in my mid-20s and I thought I was too cool for him when he asked if had any requests. I brushed him off with a “No, thank you” then irrationally changed my answer to “Do you still play that Consider Yourself at Home song?” (Oliver—and Victorian England in general—always gave me the creeps) While being serenaded the confusion between kitsch and genuine love overwhelmed me and my nervous laughing turned to tears. That was over a decade ago, and the last time I saw him.
The Rheinlander wasn’t always the source of joy. In college my sister and I came along with my dad and his new family for dinner. The rotund druggie (I’m not svelte but I’ve also never been a meth addict and assumed the two went together) step-sister who wore Tasmanian Devil t-shirts down to her knees, demanded extra mushrooms in brown sauce and they actually brought her more in a little dish and her uncle got rowdy and angry when the waitress wasn’t familiar with a whiskey/beer drink he’d had in Germany while in the service. I wasn’t 21 yet and couldn’t drown my sorrows publicly but you’d better believe that when we had to spend Christmas with these folks my sister and I pillaged their well-stocked liquor cabinet (at the prompting of our step-sister who showed us where her wealthy grandparents—millionaires from the garbage business, trash genuinely—kept the booze).
Why didn’t I check in on Victor on my no-longer-recent Labor Day weekend visit? I think I was scared that he wouldn’t be there. But I also didn’t have the time to commit to a full-blown German meal. I was meeting one of my oldest friends before flying back to NYC in a few hours and The Rheinlander is only five miles from the airport. I thought I’d give Gustav’s a go once I saw online that you can simply order the fondue and that it would be happy hour.
Ah, the fondue, simple, sharp, creamy and served with a mix of pumpernickel and paler bread, none of that healthy vegetables and apples nonsense. If I’m correct this was the $4.99 version from the happy hour menu. There is a mini pot for $2.99 and you can also order add ons like sausage an pesto. As an old-timer pesto is just wrong. I’m torn on the new-to-me Dungeness crab and roasted red pepper version because that could be good if done right.
Imade fondue twice in the past two weeks and went totally classic: Emmental, gruyere, kirsch (ok, no Chasselas—I can’t even pretend to be highbrow now that you know I used Charles Shaw Sauvignon Blanc) and obviously good enough to prepare for two different sets of people. The Rheinlander’s version contains only Swiss cheese and no cherry brandy, and it doesn’t even matter. You’ll eat it and you’ll like it. This is Portland not Geneva. Wow, it’s all coming back to me; chef Horst Mager, used to (and still does for all I know) regularly appear in cooking segments on local morning news shows. It looks like he even has a self-published (Portland, always with the diy spirit) cookbook on Amazon.
The fondue is all you need to know about the food at The Rheinlander. The rest is just not that remarkable. However, I still went wild with a pre-flight repast ordering up a slew of bar snacks that I don’t recall from the original stodgier menu. Things like schnitzel fingers with honey-mustard, ketchup and thousand island. Both the fries and cutlet could’ve been crisper.
The potato pancakes with smoked salmon, chopped hard-boiled eggs and capers and sour cream were pretty good. I got these to share but no one seemed interested in them.
James picked a sausage trio (brautrust, weisswurst and smoked bier sausage) with potatoes and two types of cabbage.
What I learned from Lema, the only person I’ve known for over 25 years that isn’t family: the last time she was in the Philippines she and her mom visited a mystic four hours from Manila whom they call Angie. She made them turnaround and drive back to the city for a belt to use in a spell. Details are blurred but I think it was her dad’s belt and he stopped cheating after the ritual was performed so it was well worth it. Also, her 80-something grandfather has a 30-year-old girlfriend, which no one questions. Supposedly, she wooed him with her cooking, though I imagine his US citizenship has something to do with it. Her aunt, who had been trying to come to America since the ‘80s, was finally granted permission, got here, hated it and promptly returned to the Philippines.
Meanwhile, I’m toying with idea of going to Manila in February. Years ago Lema told me that she knew someone who had his hand outside the window of a car and a passerby chopped it off to get his expensive watch (she also has an unbelievable tale about a prostitute and a randy tapeworm). I don’t wear a watch.
The tenuous Filipino/German connection: When I ate German food in Hong Kong I ordered the monstrous pork shank like the Filipinos at the table next to me (not like the Filipinas on stage singing “We Are Family”). They stared at me in a possessive way that questioned, “That American likes lechon?” But see, it wasn’t lechon because it was German food in Hong Kong. Neither of us owned it.
Gustav’s Pub & Grill * 5035 NE Sandy Blvd., Portland, OR
Dec 29
When I spoke to the unstoppable Michael Huynh for this Metromix year-end trend piece, he was envisioning Baoguette as the new Subway. And sure enough the still-rough-around-the-edges storefront in the Financial District is just a few spaces over from a Subway. Five-dollar foot-longs had better watch out.
In the nearly three years I've worked way downtown pho has been high on my list of edibles missing in the neighborhood. I think I would be more jazzed if we hadn't been barraged with so much Vietnamese food this year. It is still a novelty in the Financial District, though. My only other venture to a Baoguette, the one on St. Mark’s, involved the beef soup not banh mi and it wasn’t half bad. Now that it’s brutally cold, soup seems smarter than sandwiches. But it wasn’t to be. Even though pho is on the menu, it isn’t being served yet. They did have some prepared summer rolls in the refrigerated case, but it’s hard to get excited over the chilled cylinders as long as it's wintry.
The brown awning with an air conditioner punched through bore the Baoguette name held in place by blue tape. The long-necked lighting wasn’t having a good time either. Inside, the dry erase board on the wall was still shiny and unsullied. Same with the chalkboards above the counter. Rows of goldenrod Café du Monde coffee cans and full bottles of green-tipped Sriracha were the only design elements.
My old hard rule about $5 lunches shifted to $6 somewhere in the recent past and even that gets broken at least weekly for a Pret a Manger salad. Even those pick-a-mix salads where short little guys toss it in a plastic container for you come in around $7. It doesn’t mean I make a habit out of it, though. But hey, I had a little Christmas gift cash burning a hole in my pocket. I could spring for the $7 for a catfish sandwich…just this once.
The flavors were an untraditional mishmash (honey mustard and sweet pickles?) not dissimilar to certain swampy Thai curries. I only saw a few jalapeño slices and no obvious red pools of Sriracha, but mouthfuls were hot, a dirty spicy that was compounded by the catfish’s natural earthy taste and tempered slightly by the strands of pickled red onions and sweet cucumber relish. I liked it more than I thought I would.
The catfish sandwich is akin to Num Pang's (which I never blogged about, oddly) and in some ways is preferable to me because I like a drier sandwich and this one uses honey mustard while the Cambodian one bulges with mayonnaise. It’s hard to disassociate honey mustard from chicken fingers, but the condiment wasn’t that jarring, just tangy. I only recommend not trying on candy apple red lip glosses at Sephora on the corner right before biting into one of these sandwiches.
Baoguette does serve better food than the than closer-to-my-office banh mi cart and both charge $6 for the traditional Saigon sub (though I notice it’s only $5 at the Christopher St. Baoguette/Pho Sure while the catfish is $7 at both). I’ll likely return to check in on the pho at some point but as long as it’s in the 20s outside I’ll probably just walk the one block to the cart instead of the seemingly long (lots of tourist-dodging–I’ve given up on politeness and now barge through everyone’s posing in front of the Stock Exchange photos) five blocks to Maiden Lane.
Baoguette * Maiden Lane, New York, NY
Yes, yes, Christine is the new Jared, losing a significant amount of weight eating fast food. Specifically, items from Taco Bell’s Fresco menu (essentially regular items minus cheese, sour cream or guacamole) helpfully labeled in small print, “not a low calorie food.”
Not a particularly fresh angle either, anti-Morgan Spurlocks abound. Deshan Woods, who lost weight by eating exclusively at McDonald’s, is just one that I had time to look up. Even the Swedes got into the debunking.
There is no secret to losing weight. Reducing calories and increasing activity are tried and true (spending an hour at the gym, then eating fried chicken will not result in weight loss—I can tell you that first hand).
Almost anyone could lose weight eating fast food daily. 2,000 calories is the number typically used as an ideal for the average woman’s daily intake (2,500 for men). If you wanted to lose a modest but healthy one pound per week you would need to shave 500 calories a day off this number.
For 1,500 calories you could scarf a Whopper (670 calories) and a Cinnabon (730) every single day and lose weight (1,400 total). You probably wouldn’t stay full and would become completely scurvy-ridden and deficient in essential nutrients. So, you could also eat zero and near-zero-calorie roughage like carrots and broccoli and use the remaining 100 calories for an apple (65 calories) or an orange (85 calories).
This is assuming you are completely sedentary. 45-minutes-to-an-hour on an elliptical trainer would probably allow you a small handful of fries (220 calories for BK value menu size, 340 for a small).
Fast food isn’t a particular weakness of mine, though I am proud of my proposed miracle diet. I do like to drink, however. Why blow hundreds of dollars on those silly juice cleanses when you could drop weight fasting on seven martinis a day (roughly 200 calories each)? Everyone knows that cleansing is about getting thin not detoxing or being healthful.
Unrelated: why do people insist on spelling lose as loose?
Hate is a very strong word. At least that’s what my mother tried hammering into my head for years. That didn’t make me banish the word from my vocabulary–sometimes you really don’t like something. I’ll never be able to soften my stance on women substituting tights for pants or people who insist on walking up-and-down the left sides of staircases (those who stand on the left side of escalators instead of walking are right up there).
I’ve said that I hate brunch. That’s not really true. The whole ritual is kind of gross and not my thing, but it does make drinking before noon seem respectable and I can appreciate that. And since blizzards negate all normal self-imposed rules I felt ok with myself for seeking out the short rib hash down the street that I’d read about in Metromix’s Top Dishes of 2009 (my contribution to the list was Aldea’s arroz con pato).
But not before I ordered their classic bloody mary, a chunky, spicy (horseradish?) beverage in a tumbler with a pickle spear. Brunch comes with a mimosa, bellini or sparkling wine. I opted for the peachy cocktail towards the end of my meal because I don’t see them that often (probably because I don’t eat brunch). Who orders a bellini? That same night, I slogged through the not-that-engaging Elegy and Ben Kingsley ordered pre-dinner bellinis for Penelope Cruz and himself. I think it was supposed to be the choice of an older sophisticated man. That’s me all right.
The short rib hash is really a smart burst of decadence, not the greasy, heavy, starch-laden fare I often gravitate towards when dining out for my first meal of the day. Rich fatty meat, tiny cubes of potatoes and runny yolks are perfect with simple triangles of toast (the salt could’ve been toned down a notch, though). Hey, there’s even a little lettuce for extra class. In fact it was so well portioned that if there is to be a next time I’ll also order a short stack of pancakes or coffee cake. Savory demands sweet.
Previously on Buttermilk Channel.
Buttermilk Channel * 524 Court St., Brooklyn, NY
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