Posts tagged ‘Sightseeing’

Jun 13

Taco Triumverate

I’ve eaten my fair share of tacos, though sadly never on their home turf…until now (well, the week before last). Hours after landing, we hit up El Tizoncito and later in the week we found El Califa and El Farolito (if anyone ever looks for these two, Calle Altata doesn’t seem to be on any maps—look for Alfonso Reyes, the perpendicular street, instead) across the street from each other in a Geno’s/Pat’s fashion. I didn’t sense any rivalry though I like to imagine one exists.

Each eatery had distinctive characteristics and specialties, which I’ll compare below. I couldn’t help but notice descriptions from mainstream media and guidebooks using phrases like “bare bones” or “taco stand” to describe these places. That would only be the case if the writer never saw an actual street stall or fonda which would be nearly impossible since they fill the city. This trio is fast food in nature (at least two are chains—I’m not sure about El Califa) but there are menus and table service.

El Tizoncito 362 Calle Campeche Mexico City, Mexico	El Califa 22 Calle Altata Mexico City, Mexico	El Farolito 19 Calle Altata Mexico City, Mexico
Specialty: al pastor (gyro-style spit-roasted pork cooked and served with pineapple). They claim to have invented it.	Specialty: something called a Gaona with a registered trademark symbol. I wasn’t sure what this was so I shied away from it. I’m pretty certain that it’s a carne asada type taco, though I can’t deduce how it differs from the bistec.	Specialty: al carbón (charcoal grilled) which quickly becomes apparent when choking gusts of smoke wind through the room and make you tear up.
Despite being a chain, the Condesa location was the original. El Tizoncito has the least amount of seating (and the exposed outdoor seating really gave our “no, gracias” skills a work out, thanks to a hurdy-gurdy man, wooden chair salesman, small girl handing out those give me money cards, Indian guy trying to get back to India, flower pushers and silver jewelry hawker) but they do have a sushi bar type counter where diners can watch their food being prepped. I give them extra points for offering free samples and having a cartoon mascot pork blob with a pineapple hat that I think is named Tiz.	El Califa is vaguely upscale compared to the other two. They’re pricier, a little purist and have subtle décor. I ordered a bistec and a costilla but ended up with two of the grilled beef tacos. There was nothing wrong with this place but it lacked garish oomph.	I kind of liked El Farolito the best because they had the largest amount of seating and menu items (I know, most agree that specialization is key but I possess a Cheesecake Factory mentality) plus a torta joint on the other side and a juice counter. It felt sort of like a diner. Like El Tizoncito, this Condesa location is also the original. We found one the very next day at the Santa Fe mall but it wasn’t the same.
Chips and beans were a nice touch. The pale, creamy green sauce on the far left looked like guacamole but was the hottest thing on the tray. We were concerned by the lone plastic spoon because there was no way to not cross-contaminate each offering.	These were fancy because the came in earth tones and had individual mini wooden spoons.	I thought the green salsa in the foreground would be insane like the one at El Tinzoncito but it was tamer.
Perhaps we seemed clueless because while perusing the menu we were brought samples of the pastor, their specialty. Free food is always a plus.	Bistec tacos. Simple and to the point with high quality meat. Al carbón style.	Costilla (pork rib) taco with chopped bits. Double corn tortilla approach.
Now I am clueless because I couldn't tell you exactly what this is (it's not on their online menu). The mish mash included tacos, grilled onions and melted cheese.	It's hard to resist an al pastor taco. These came adorned with cilantro and onions while the grilled meats showed up naked.	I've had a gringa quesadilla in NYC before but couldn't recall what made it gringa. I was thinking the addition of cheese to the al pastor (despite cheese seeming like an American bastardization, plenty of melted white stuff finds its way onto tacos in D.F.) filling made it so. But I suspect it's the flour tortillas used for these gringa tacos.

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Jun 6

Amores Perros

Maybe the JFK terror plot bust this past weekend was no biggie, I have a hard time judging the severity of things, but when it appeared on CNN mere hours before I was scheduled to fly into said airport I was “oh no, not again.” Just days before we were going to fly out Barcelona last summer, the big British bust occurred. Maybe terror plots are constantly being thwarted and I only notice the ones that directly affect me.

Anyway, Mexico City is now done and over and I need to recap rapidly because my mom’s coming to town Friday and I’ll be consumed with good daughter sightseeing duties instead of internet tinkering. A few thoughts:

My first inclination was to compare Mexico City (from here out referred to as D.F. a.k.a. Distrito Federal like their D.C.) to Bangkok because it the closest thing in my first-hand experience. But it really wasn’t like Bangkok at all except that there’s a lot of chaos and traffic. Whenever I started feeling hot, fussy and frustrated, I thought “well, it’s not as bad as Bangkok.” S.E. Asia had more heat and humidity, more touting, more pedestrian unfriendly sidewalks, more language barriers but it seemed safer and more modern in many ways. You could at least use public transportation to get around.

Instead of stray dogs everywhere, a weird pervasive thing in Thailand, pet dogs take up like every open inch of space. Apparently, Chilangos love canines. Everyone in Condesa, the area we stayed in, seemed to be walking dogs, dining with their companions or have them barking from roof terraces. Parque Mexico had outdoor dog obedience classes and a mobile van for grooming. But I’m a cat person. The only cats we saw were scruffy street felines, one with a missing eye. At a mall pet store they had gerbils, guinea pigs, rabbits, puppies, birds and fish, but no cats. I started wondering if the cats as pets concept didn’t exist but there were ads for Whiskas all over the place. Perhaps kittens are kept indoors like most in NYC.

I then started thinking of D.F. as west coast. It’s much more of an L.A. than an NYC and I don’t always identify with that. The weather is very much west coast, i.e. nice. You know, 70s during the day with no humidity and 50s at night so you can wear light sweaters and jackets and your makeup doesn’t melt off your face. Here, it’s like 80s, sticky as hell and the temperature doesn’t budge once the sun goes down.

Also, you really need a car to get around and only losers take buses and subways. Practially every restaurant that's the tiniest notch above a hole in the wall has valet parking. Guidebooks make it seem like you’re taking your life into your own hands by riding the metro (or eating street food or using exposed ATMs or hailing street taxis) so we were initially scared off. But we started getting tired of taking $10 taxi rides just to go to adjoining neighborhoods. We did avoid the metro during rush hours and night, but it was hardly harrowing. The worst aspect was that it’s not air-conditioned and occasionally sat for long periods at stations. I don’t think anyone who rides the NYC subway daily would be put off by crowds or CD salesmen or musicians traipsing through. But unlike NYC, it’s not a great equalizer. You have to be a special level of rich to eschew subways here but in D.F. like much of America, middle class and above wouldn’t set foot in public transportation. James works with a guy from Mexico City who has never ridden it in his life and strongly recommended against the metro.

We also ate street food and (technically) hailed a street taxi but it was in a mall parking lot so the threat of kidnapping seemed reduced. And I didn’t have any majorly bad food reactions until the very last day when we had to leave and I was in serious trouble (it’s not two days that I’ve been back and my stomach is still not calm—in fact, I just had to run to the bathroom at work and I’m not one for such public displays). It’s too bad duty free doesn’t sell adult diapers. I was seduced into security at a French bistro, where we had our last dinner. It was all quaint and I let my guard down and ordered a salad when everyone says you’re not supposed to eat raw fruit and vegetables. I think the lettuce and sprouts nearly killed me. That’s what happens when you stray from meat, frijoles and corn products.

I don’t see anything wrong with watching TV on vacation. When I flipped on the TV right after we checked in, No Reservations in Puerto Rico (an episode I never saw) was on and I got sucked in. All those spa, beach, resort people lounge around the pool or sand or get massages–all essentially lazy things. I usually go to cities and for me, relaxing involves sucking up air conditioning on a king sized bed, sipping overpriced bottled water and watching crap like Van Helsing. Oh yes, I did and it wasn’t subtitled at all so it was kind of funny and more tolerable. Same for CSI, which I’ve never really watched in my life. I also watched most of We Don’t Live Here Anymore, which I’ve never sat all the way through in the U.S.

Film-wise we saw Piratas del Caribe at a near-empty matinee. I haven’t followed the franchise so it didn’t mean much to me, but it beat the other English language choice, Premoniciones.

The mall. No, I didn’t see any pyramids but I became consumed with finding a mall. I like malls on vacation, they’re grounding and non-hot (except in Mexico where they don’t believe in climate control). No one seems to have a problem with this in the parts of Asia I’ve visited. Singapore and Hong Kong are shopping crazy. The freaking Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur contain a giant mall. Even Penang, which is a tad backwaterish, had a modern mall. Mexico City not so much. But I knew a beauty called Santa Fe in some bizarre planned community on the outskirts of town, existed. It’s the largest mall in Latin America (and isn't all that huge). There was no way we were not going but the logistics proved exasperating.

Discerning locations and directions from websites in D.F. was taxing. There’s no Google Maps or Mapquest. I had no idea if this mall was a few miles away or an hour away. Could it be reached by public transportation? Who knew, because anyone who could afford to shop there would have a car. We considered asking our hotel but they overcharge and I feared at least a $30 charge each way to be driven and by this point we’d figured out the mall was only about six miles away.

It wasn’t until our very last day in the country that we pieced together a plan. We took the metro two stops to someplace called Tacayuba that had a bus hub, which supposedly had buses to Santa Fe. But once you get out of the subway it’s nutso and there aren’t any sidewalks or proper bus stops and traffic is insane and the only way to know where is a bus is going is to look at the little paper rectangle with destinations in the front window. I didn’t see Santa Fe bound vehicles anywhere and it was hard to look while dodging other buses. This is where we started to fret because there wasn’t a proper taxi sitio, and tourists aren’t supposed to approach random cars. But we did because we were hot and desperate and got crammed into a taxi with two other women and hoped for the best. About 20 minutes later and $2 each, we arrived at the freaky business district teeming with tall luxury apartments, pseudo-skyscapers and freestanding Chili’s. Awesome.

I realize Mexico has a severe income gap (not that there’s much of middle class in NYC either—any city where six figures is considered barely scraping by is perverse) so I get that there’s a market for the $550 Prada wedges I saw. But I do wonder about things like the $10 burger at T.G.I. Friday’s. That’s Manhattan pricing. There were a lot of items that weren’t outrageous luxury but surprisingly expensive. I don’t even spend $100 on a pair of pants or $4.50 for an iced coffee here. And I don’t think the growing Mexican middle class does either. However, the $48 seven-course high caliber-tasting menu I had at Pujol seemed like a great value compared to what you’d pay for the equivalent in NYC.

Oh shit, I was just going to rattle off a few thought and now I’m getting annoyingly wordy.

Elevation. It’s high (too lazy too look up exact number and make a comparison to Denver. Never mind, I can’t let that slide. D.F.=7,349 ft. Denver=5,280 ft.). You get drunk faster. My cardiovascular system went haywire and I thought my lungs were collapsing and my heart was giving out the first night walking around. I must be in worse shape than I realized and didn’t start feeling normal until the end of the week. Now in NYC I’m a maniac going up the stairs and have tons of energy. It’ll probably wear off shortly.

Food blogs. Where are they? (Don’t make me start in on my Asian blogger diatribe.) It’s not like Mexico is the Sudan. There’s an incredible food culture and someone immersed in it needs to capture and disseminate the goodness on the web. Oh, in English, so I can read it easily.

Hot food. Uh, duh. It sounds like I’m stating the obvious but Mexican food (well, the salsas and condiments) is really hot. I’ve sampled a decent amount of west coast and NYC Mexican food and I swear nothing has been as spicy and I have a high tolerance. The pickled jalapeños are at least twice as strong as what you find here. And the upscale restaurants don’t tone it down. The salsa accompanying my whimsically plated grilled steak at a fancy pants restaurant numbed my mouth and shocked my tongue. In a good way, of course.

Turibus=sheer evil. I know, I know, what do you expect from a tour bus. And the fact that they even mention complaint forms on their homepage is tip off. For my eleven bucks I’d at least expect vague punctuality and to be returned back in my original neighborhood not dropped off in the middle of nowhere in the pitch dark. We initially thought it would be worth trying the Turibus because it’s such a pain to get around the city and with a day pass you can get on and off anywhere on the route, 9am-9pm and why not see the city? (I’ve done the NYC one twice, not of my own free will—thankfully, this time round my mom has decided she’s seen enough from a double decker.)

First off, it took an hour to find the stop in our neighborhood. Mexican websites have a real problem with maps and locations and the lack thereof. Then they make you wear this paper wristband that screams I’m a tourist come pickpocket and harass me on the streets and say you have to keep it on the re-board. I took mine off immediately after disembarking and then realized that even though we were on top for what seemed like less than an hour I had received a violent sunburn (the blisters are still peeling and oozing) with a nice white circle where the band blocked the rays.

Fine, we spent the afternoon doing all the historic stuff in the central area then around 6:30pm saw the Turibus and debated whether to run for it or wait for the next one. Not running for it was a near fatal mistake. They are supposed to come every 30-40 minutes, yet we ended up standing on the hot, sooty street corner until almost 8pm. This was cruel because up until this point and every day afterwards, we would see the Turibus in like every corner of the city, completely ubiquitous and full of idiots waving to passerbys on the street. Nothing a good ol’ flip of the bird couldn’t fix. What I hadn’t considered was the 9am-9pm thing and that wherever the bus may be on it’s 2.5 hour circuit at 9pm is where it stops for the night. We didn’t make it back to our neighborhood by the cut off and we were left at some auditorium in Chapultapec Park and had to find a taxi to take us back to our hotel (we were still green—it was probably a 30 minute walk that we did later in the week but we didn’t know where we were at the time).

Ok, it’s easier to show photos with captions than to use lots of words without illustration so here’s a slideshow thing that links to my flickr set.

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Jun 1

Taco Overload

So, it's my last full day in D.F. and once again I've managed to get a scalding sunburn as I have on every vacation (even in Wales where it rained like 75% of the time). And I've eaten way too many tacos…and fancy food, too–I never thought I'd live to see tortilla foam. I also discovered an insane street food where they put a tamale in a big roll, creating a starch sandwich. As much as I love them, I think I'd eventually get burnt out on beans and corn if I stayed here longer and Asian food (other than sushi–they seem to love Japanese food) is severely lacking. I haven't seen a single Thai restaurant (though they did have pad thai at pan-Asian place that I didn't intend to eat at but kind of got stuck at because I was trying to escape a downpour).

Briefly thinking back to NYC, here is a Top 5 Thai Restaurant round-up I did for About.com that just got posted. I swear, I'm going to head out to Queens tomorrow night and load up on curry.

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May 26

Making a Run for the Border

Ok, so it’s nearly 6am and I’m almost off to Mexico City. Sometimes I do question why I chose the cities when everyone seems to know that you’re supposed to go to the beaches or elsewhere if you’re going to even vaguely relax (I learned that lesson with Bangkok). I know it's wrong but I wonder if they have Taco Bells in Mexico. They have Outback Steakhouses in Australia, so why not? Anyway, I assume I’ll have internet in my hotel room so I might post a bit thought that usually doesn’t happen. Let’s just hope I don’t get kidnapped because it’s not like anyone’s going to pay my ransom.

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Feb 28

Gino’s

Frankly, I would’ve been fine sampling neither deep dish pizza nor Chicago style hotdogs, but if I had to choose one regional specialty it would be the pie. I envisioned a circular, super dense lasagna that would be bready rather than noodly, and that wasn’t too far off. Deep dish isn’t terribly different from Middle American thick crust though the layering is reversed with cheese on the bottom, a sausage strata (assuming you order that meat) and a slew of red sauce the crowning glory.

I became well acquainted with thick crusts during a summer stint between high school and college as dough maker at a takeout-only Pizza Hut. I wasn’t crazy about the style then either (at the time there were two other crust options: hand tossed and thin but we didn’t promote them because they were a pain in the ass to prep and couldn’t be made in advance). The 7am start time was a killer but working alone in wee hours I made a few adjustments like using two squirts of oil instead of three in the big metal pie pans. My brilliant health-inducing plan only succeeded in getting me into trouble when the pizzas all stuck that evening. I seriously don’t think I’ve touched a thick crust pizza since 1990.

To be fair, I couldn’t give our large, which we were warned away from by our beefy ponytailed waiter, my full attention since I’d been on a Mexican food binge earlier in the day. One slice was all I could muster. Maybe I was distracted by all the Blues Brothers memorabilia, Thompson Twins tunes and writing on the wall (I couldn’t figure out if the reason why none of the graffiti predated 2006 was because the location was new or because they periodically paint over all the scribbling and start fresh). We’d intentionally over ordered so we could transport our leftovers back to NYC. Heck, they’re charging $26.97 plus $18 shipping for the same service. And I will say that Saturday evening after returning home, I really enjoyed the pizza. The hefty, buttery crust had held up well. The toppings also survived suitcase transit. Chicago makes one tough pie. A perfect New York slice would’ve been soggy, flimsy mess.

Gino’s * 633 N. Wells St., Chicago, IL

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Feb 24

Frontera Grill

1/2 Just this month I started catching Rick Bayless reruns on one of the public broadcasting channels. I don’t know what his deal is but his breathless, sing-songy stoner mannerisms are kind of distressing yet impossible to ignore. He almost sounds like he’s speaking to children, as if Mr. Rogers wore a dude necklace instead of a cardigan. I don’t usually laugh out loud when watching cooking shows (besides, he seems to know his craft) so we added Mexico: One Plate at a Time to our DVR queue.

I hadn’t considered trying his restaurants at all while in Chicago but what I feared might happen did. It was too bitterly cold for traipsing about on multiple subways and trudging through snow. We did that on Friday for hole-in-the-wall Mexican and by Saturday didn’t have the wherewithal to scout out the Lithuanian restaurant, Healthy Food, which I’d intended to visit. I’d heard about kugilis and bacon buns and was intrigued. I never ever eat Slavic, so Eastern European fare is exotic enough to go out of my way for on vacation.

Walkable (well, we cabbed it there and hoofed it back) plan B became brunch at Frontera Grill. I’m scared of the whole celebrity chef, memorabilia for sale in the foyer thing. But prejudices aside, the food was really pretty good, as were the cocktails, which are shaken tableside. Service is well informed and friendly, though I would say that they clearly pander to a certain audience. Or maybe it’s Chicago in general.

I don’t want to be an NYC know-it-all, but at Moto I didn’t really need an explanation of what shiso is. At Frontera we were told that a tamale was corn masa wrapped in a banana leaf. Does their typical diner not know what the heck a tamale is? Maybe our waiter was explaining their tamale since it could come in a corn husk. No biggie, I’m probably overly sensitive about over explaining.

We shared an order of sopes rancheros, which were crispy masa disks topped with shredded beef, roasted tomatoes, avocado and fresh cheese. The accompanying red and green salsas matched well. We were bummed when they took away the tiny dish of spiced pepitas and peanuts when are entrees arrived.

I should’ve stuck to my original guns and chose something eggy but I’ve been on a pozole kick lately and couldn’t resist their red version filled with pork chunks and hominy. The stew was satisfying but about ¾ of the way through I grew tired of the heavy, slightly salty flavors. I would’ve preferred a smaller portion, which is something I never thought I’d say.

At least I still had room for a cup of rich, tequila-spiked hot chocolate and chamomile and lime leaf infused flan with candied orange peel.

Frontera Grill * 445 N. Clark St., Chicago, IL

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Feb 23

Moto

When describing what I did for Valentine’s Day, the words Moto or Homaro Cantu don’t always register much recognition but if I say, “you know, the laser and ink jet guy from Iron Chef” the response is generally better. “Oh, that guy. Cool.”

Yeah, it was cool. I get the sense that Moto is less serious (or taken less seriously) than the other experimental game in town, Alinea, and that was what I was in the mood for. Surprises without stuffiness. Despite hardly being a thrifty meal, I liked the general informality and sense of whimsy.

I’m not sure if it’s a NYC vs. Chicago thing or Moto vs. comparable local restaurants but the servers seemed young in a way you don’t find here. Maybe it’s because they’re not aspiring models, stylists or actors (maybe they are—that’s not the type of thing I ask). I liked our doughy guy who had a slight Capote lilt to his speech. There was another waiter with floppy blonde hair who made me nervous because he could never quite get his descriptions out right and had a spazzy, surfer-inflected delivery. A general feeling of bright-eyed proud-ness was present, though.

Minus all the molecular bells and whistles, I was surprised at how American the food actually was. I appreciated the takes on nachos, mac and cheese, rib eye, popcorn and cotton candy. I’m not sure if that’s the Midwestern influence at work or what. Tweaking familiar favorites, evoking nostalgia. It works for Brit, Heston Blumenthal, right? There is a lot of texture and temperature play, crunchy and soft, cold and hot, sometimes it’s brilliant and occasionally it’s unsettling.

Moto was most definitely fun, though it’s not the type of food that you crave when you simply want something good to eat. Sometimes you’re just hungry and don’t want to think too hard or need to be delighted by unorthodox plating and presentation. It’s certainly not an emperor’s new clothes situation but I wouldn’t feel the need to dine this way on a frequent basis. Of course there’s middle ground between grubbin’ and avant-garde and the whole range is exciting to me.

Random Aside: I’m the one who’s usually annoyed by strangers’ antics but James was losing his shit with the male half of the couple on my left. I couldn’t really see him because we were seated on the same side of the table. During the middle of our meal he confidently explained to his date, a mousy, brunet Reese Witherspoon lookalike in a charcoal gray skirt suit, “I have one word for you: MO TO” while chopping the air for emphasis. (My internal voice changed his proclamation to MO ROCCA.) He also took credit for the metal suspended spoon contraption used on Iron Chef. I don’t know what his deal was; he didn’t work at the restaurant but seemed to know everyone and appeared to be getting special treatment. His bravado didn’t appear to put off anyone except us, though, so perhaps we’re crybabies. I’ve yet to encounter a female taking this same gourmand show off approach at an upscale restaurant though I frequently find myself seated near the reverse.

Initially, you’re presented with an edible menu with the GTM parade listed on one side and the ten and five course options on the flip side. We thought ten courses seemed about right. Five would be sadly lacking and the grand tasting menu seemed a shade over the top. We chose well, and stayed sharp until two sweet courses arrived. The menu on this occasion was Mexican themed and tasted like chile-cheese frico. There was a spicy dip beneath the readable cracker.

Unless I write as I eat, which I don’t do when I’m out for fun, I tend to forget finer details of the dishes. Their descriptions are obliquely simplistic so there’s a lot of filling in the blanks. I’ve copied wine pairings from the website. There’s no way I could remember any of that. I’m only moderately about wine, James not at all, but he loved the Bechtheimer Heiligkreuz Sheurebe, comparing it favorably to Vitamin Water (he thought our rose cava at Ureña tasted like “expensive soda”). He asked about it (we couldn’t remember the name to save our lives) and the nice wine stewardess gave us a second pour. I could understand why after looking all the wines up—it was the cheapest of the lot, only around $12 a bottle. I guess we’re easy to please.

salmon and sesame
larmandier lernier, 1er cru blanc de blancs, vertus, brut nv

If I’m correct, liquid nitrogen (which is stirred up in a copper pan tableside) is mixed with lime juice and drizzled atop the cubed salmon and sesame crisp. Little tangy white blobs form. Chilly, soft, crunchy, acidic all at once.

acorn with bacon
geil, bechtheimer heiligkreuz, scheurebe, kabinett, rheinhessen 2005

Maybe because our taste buds were still sharp but I really liked this one. The maple and squash cake is frozen but creamy on mouth contact like that astronaut ice cream you could get a science museum gift shops when you were a kid. The tiny squares of warm squash meld well and contained the world’s tiniest strip of bacon.

merluzzo and popcorn
waugh cellars, indindoli vineyard, chardonnay, russian river valley 2004

The chunk of fish is wrapped with noodles made from mango (no starch, just juice) and the mustardy swipes of sauce taste surprisingly like popcorn. The green blobs are crafted from shisho. I can’t recall what the white powdery substance is.

pomegranate and caped gooseberry

A sour palate cleanser. One husk contains a real gooseberry while the other holds a square of gooseberry gel which tastes nearly the same.

bbq pork with the fixin's
sutton cellars, trimble vineyard, carignane, mendocino county 2004

I think this was intended to mimic a pulled pork sandwich. The saucy meat sits on the right and on the left is a toasty but frozen square of squid ink covered bread sitting atop what I think was described as a praline sauce. We weren’t sure about the crumbs sitting next to it. I just know realized that the black chunk is meant to resemble a lump of charcoal.

pasta and ribeye
ramey, claret, napa valley 2004

The elbow macaroni looked like it came straight from the bag but it wasn’t tooth-shattering, just slightly crispy. The strange thing is that I took this title from their menu but I don’t remember meat being in this. Perhaps the wine had fuzzed my mind by this point but I thought the brownish blobs were savory cheese curds (that’s frightening if I can’t tell the difference between cheddar and beef). I’ve looked at photos of this dish on other websites and there appears to be steak strips in the glass and diners can pour the cheese sauce from a separate cup. Ours was self-contained. I might be the only American who’s not crazy about macaroni and cheese, but this dish was great.

lychee rigatoni fruit plate
meinklang, trokenbeerenauslese, bouvier, burgenland 2001

The pastas tubes are made of lychee and the sauce is a sweet, thick concoction containing white chocolate (which also struck me as very American—I love white chocolate but it has a lowbrow stigma, doesn’t it?). Beneath the crisp is a candied slice of fuji apple and a slice of a fruit that I’m forgetting.

two and three dimensional truffle

This was the cotton candy in orb and paper form. The truffle reminded me of iced circus cookie filled with cold water. I’m not sure if that was the intended effect. I liked the edible paper better than the bonbon.

graham cracker and quince
elio perrone, moscato d'Asti “sourgal” 2006

A strange but tantalizing malty, graham cracker-ish soup topped with fruity pellets.

kiwi, mango, mint and maize

I thought were done at this point. I didn’t realize that we were getting nachos (and some chocolate krispie doo dads) and my stomach capacity was at maximum. When describing this dish to a friend I found it hard to articulate how this was more than mere novelty. They use kiwi for chiles, grated mango as cheese, chocolate for ground beef and a lemon sauce for sour cream. In my head I kept picturing a Kraft Foods abomination. I assure you that there was nothing atrocious about these flavors.

I don’t know why I felt compelled to snap a photo of myself in the bathroom. So MySpacey. It was my one moment of calm, a buffer from the sensory overload on the other side of the door

Moto * 945 W. Fulton St., Chicago, IL

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Feb 22

Billy Goat Tavern

1/2 You know you’ve entered strange territory when a double cheeseburger starts sounding like light fare. My original itinerary placed us at touristy Gino’s for a deep-dish pizza lunch but our flight was delayed slightly and I became concerned about such a heavy item ruining our 8pm Moto meal. There’s something about Chicago that allowed me to feel uncharacteristically shameless about cheesy venues. Since I was on the tourist track and scouting walkable options, Billy Goat Tavern (made famous from the ‘70s Saturday Night Live cheezborger, cheezborger sketch.) seemed as good a choice as any.

Billy_goat_counter We liked how one second you’re on shopping central, Magnificent Mile, then after descending a staircase you’re in a spooky subterranean enclave like Batman’s Gotham City. After opening the front door festooned with a goat painting (the first of two I’d find in 24 hours), you travel down another level of stairs into a barebones, wood paneled, resolutely lowbrow joint, the kind of place people might think still exists in NYC but sorely doesn’t. The bar that occupies a good portion of the right half of the room is as prominent as the center grill.

I hate crowds, but I also get nervous when a place is empty. We were practically the only occupants at 4pm on a Wednesday but that was soon rectified. By the time we were ready to leave they were doing brisk business with baffled vegetarian tourists (they got the grilled cheese) and batches of Chicago Tribune employees from across the street, some nursing whiskeys and chain smoking, others conducing business meetings.

You order from the brief wall menu at the counter and a bartender comes around to take your drink order. The animated qualities of the counter guys (yes, they’ll do the SNL shtick) were balanced by the flat surliness of the Scatman Crothers-looking bar keep (though after we lingered over six Billy Goat lagers and tipping probably a little generously by local standards he warmed up and began encouraging us to stay and drink more).

The simple double cheeseburger on a roll is the way to go. It comes on a paper plate and you can dress it up with typical condiments like mustard, ketchup, pickles, onions and relish. This meat sandwich tempered with three beers was my healthy lunch. At least I was saved from caloric fries because they don’t serve them. The only available side is a bag of potato chips, plain or bbq, and I’ve never been a chip eater. I still say it was less filling than Chicago-style pizza.

Billy Goat Tavern * 430 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, IL

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Feb 20

Carnitas Uruapan & Birrieria Reyes de Ocotlán

1/2 There’s a tendency to believe that shops focusing on one item must be masters. Like you don’t want to buy banh mi where you get your pho, and the same goes for sushi and ramen. Of course there are tons of bad pizzerias, which kind of ruins this theory.

While on mini-vacation I did some single-minded sampling in Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood. Clueless whiners eat at Benny’s Burritos and Señor Swanky's, then complain that there’s no good Mexican food in NYC. That’s completely untrue, but the good stuff congregates in pockets and our immigrants tend to come from only a few regions, Puebla in particular. Chicago seems to have a little of everything, geographically, and treats we definitely don’t have. Since I only had two days in the city and my stomach is only so iron-clad, I decided to just try two dishes: Michoacán carnitas and Jalisco-style birria.

First we stopped at Carnitas Uruapan. It’s on the same block as the 18th Street el stop and you can spy the red white and green storefront from the air. If you didn’t know what carnitas were, you’d quickly get a rough idea based on the pig paraphernalia decorating the otherwise spartan room. It’s hard not to chuckle at the horrors portrayed comically: pigs cooking each other in a caldron, an angry knife-wielding chef chasing talking piglets and a bas relief sculpture of pigs nuzzling each other…so sweet…never mind the ribbons of fried pork rinds encased in glass inches behind my head.

Year of the pig aside, pork is having its foodie heyday. Though anyone who’s ever eaten Filipino lechon, Latin American chicharrones or Chinese pork belly or my favorite, Thai crispy pork with chiles and basil, is well acquainted with the crackly, fatty appeal.

There are variations, but essentially carnitas are chunks of pork that have been simmered in fat until meltingly tender, then crisped up through roasting. They’re a typical taco filling but I’d never been to an establishment wholly devoted to the fruits of this oily labor. At Uruapan you can get them in tacos or buy them by the pound. We split a pound of mixed bits. They ask if you only want meat. Not exclusively wanting meat means you also get skin, snouts, ears and heaven’s knows what else. Whole hog, for sure.

I seriously could’ve eaten the whole plateful myself but then I would’ve been useless for our second stop. Whole pickled jalapeños, red salsa and tortillas are the only accompaniments. We could’ve stood for a little chopped white onion and cilantro, though our self-made rollups didn’t suffer without. Our plate of meat easily yielded ten tacos. I hate mints and love caramel so the after-meal cajeta lollipop made me like Carnitas Uruapan even more.

It was only half a mile in a straight line to get to Birrieria Reyes de Ocotlán but we almost froze to death on the icy journey–remind me not to complain about brutal NYC weather. I would’ve been more excited about the prospect of warming goaty consommé strewn with meat, scattered onion and cilantro and a squeeze of lime if I hadn’t just loaded up on the other white meat. I ordered a small bowl to share with James but he hardly touched it because we only had one spoon and he was preoccupied with his BlackBerry (I couldn’t really complain because he was subsidizing most of this 48-hour excursion and hadn’t taken time off work. I guess his office assumed he was working from home).

I’ve only eaten goat a couple times in my life but that’s more of a scarcity than a scared issue. I’m not sure why Americans are so grossed out by goat meat, we don’t even really eat lamb—it’s too gamey, I suppose. But purportedly, it’s low fat (on a recent F-Word, Janet Street Porter showed up with goat at a Weight Watchers meeting to convince British dieters of its charms) so I told myself that I was balancing out the badness of the previous pork fest.

Orange-brothed birria is soothing and fortifying. There’s nothing offensive about the flavor, which is slightly sweet and not really lamb-y in the least. I’d love a bowl for breakfast and that would most definitely bug out coworkers (this Times piece about eating at your desk irritated the hell out of me, and this quote in particular “‘When I’m interviewing someone and I see their bones protruding, I know it’s a good hire,’ he said. ‘They’re extremely disciplined.’” Er, or have emotional problems. Eating habits aren’t anyone else’s business in the workplace, though I will admit to being dismayed at my current soon-to-end job where no ones takes lunches at all. Seriously, no one eats or takes breaks. I bring yogurt, granola bars and apples from home to eat at my desk because they’re inoffensive and inexpensive. I’m going to get smelly, greasy Cuban food tomorrow–see ya, suckers).

I’d like to figure out tortilla eating etiquette. I was trying to watch how two women seated across the room were consuming their flattened corn disks. With a soupy dish it seems like you might dip pieces in the broth or maybe tuck some shreds of meat into a substantial torn off wedge. Even so, I might use three tortillas total. Four if I was making an effort. But you’re brought a stack of eight or so and halfway through your meal you’re asked if you want more. No más, gracias, I’m going to explode. Is one person really supposed to consume eight-plus tortillas? I love my starch, but that seems excessive.

Both Carnitas Uruapan and Birrieria Reyes de Ocotlán tickled me with devotion to few items done well and their sense of humor about the animals being served as food. A taxidermied goat head with a toothpick in its mouth and pigs stewing each other are the best anthropomorphic antics I’ve seen beyond southern barbecue signage.

Carnitas Uruapan * 1725 W. 18th St., Chicago, IL

Birrieria Reyes de Ocotlán * 1322 W. 18th St., Chicago, IL

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Jan 4

Hash House a Go Go

1/2 Ok, I wanted to get all of my Las Vegas food ventures written up by the new year, but here’s a straggler that I don’t feel I can just shit can because it’s 2007. I never start with a clean slate until the second week of a fresh year anyway.

Despite the kitschy name, the food at Hash House a Go Go isn’t silly. I only tried breakfast but their M.O. appeared to be creative country style standards, served in enormous portions. We chose this place after getting scared by buffet crowds. I figured that any place requiring a car to get to (and good enough for Martha Stewart) would be wiser.

It’s practically like three buffet trips on a single plate anyway. The dish looks bizarrely flattened and smaller in 2D—the thing took up like half the table. My Andy’s Sage Fried Chicken from the “Indiana Favorites” section, did contain a chicken wing but that wasn’t really the bulk of the dish. It came sitting on a giant pile of bacon mashed studded mashed potatoes that also had strips on top for good measure, and was matched with two eggs, a massive biscuit, numerous tomato slices and the edges of the plate were glazed in a maple reduction. Oh, and there was a watermelon wedge, which I didn’t touch because I don’t eat melon.

I washed it all down with two giant $7 bloody marys, garnished with cornichons, olives and pickled beans. I love green beans in a bloody mary—it reminds me of the days and nights spent at Holman’s in my old Portland neighborhood (I’ve never understood why monte cristos are so scarce in NYC and why they put them on the breakfast menu when they’re sandwiches for any time).

I hate wasting food but it’s just not sensible to wrap up leftovers on vacation. I’ve learned this the hard way many times (for instance, eating cold, gelatinous Sichuan beef and ma po tofu while packing in Hong Kong because I couldn’t bear to toss it out). James still insisted on getting his jalapeno, chorizo hash to go, only to throw it out the next morning. He’s even thriftier than I am.

Hash House a Go Go * 6800 W Sahara Ave., Las Vegas, NV

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Posts tagged ‘Sightseeing’

Taco Triumverate

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Taco Overload

Making a Run for the Border

Gino’s

Frontera Grill

Moto

Billy Goat Tavern

Carnitas Uruapan & Birrieria Reyes de Ocotlán

Hash House a Go Go

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