A Year In Food

2006-03-07T23:46:00.000-05:00

Mar. 7.

The Last Course - Thanks to everyone who's read my blog, offered recommendations, provided criticisms and made comments. I've really enjoyed working on A Year In Food, through the many superlative meals and the few life-scarring ones. I wish I could've gotten through my entire European adventure and kept going in California, but I'm too busy and poor at the moment to make it worthwhile. As for what's next, my long-gestating novel will be done within the month, and I'm focusing on thrusting it into the waiting arms of inevitable rejection. I may also try another blog down the line, if inspiration happens to strike. (If so, I'll post about it here.) In the meantime, in lieu of petit fours, I offer you some of my favorite posts to conclude this last meal...

- Lonesome Hero.

The Grocery, August 4, 2005

Pizza World Tour, May 22, 2005

Per Se, June 4, 2005

Tia Pol, April 3, 2005

Himalayan Yak, July 6, 2005

Pó, May 19, 2005

Le Bernardin, July 22, 2005

Tomatina, August 30, 2005

WD-50, April 2, 2005

The Modern, April 16, 2005

2006-02-26T18:54:00.000-05:00

Feb. 26.

Special Feature -

A Year In Food - What I thought would be a year in food turned out to be the year in food. I really feel gratified to have shared so many tremendous experiences with all of you, to have learned so much and tasted so much. Now that I'm poor again, trying to cook (not pretty) and subsist on tacos, the idea of $300 dinners seems like a long-distant memory. Still, they're a memory I'll carry permanently with me, along with the perfect hummus, gorging on gelato, exploring Costa Rican backroads, discovering the outer boroughs' wonders, and so much more. With that in mind, here's a look back at 2005, three hundred sixty-five days that have proven to be even richer than the cannoli filling at Rocco's.

Best New Restaurant (over $50 meal)
1) Per Se
2) The Modern
3) Masa
4) Devi
5) Cacio e Pepe

Best New Restaurant (under $50 meal)
1) Una Pizza Napoletana
2) Hummus Place
3) Mercadito
4) Franny’s
5) Klong

Best Appetizer (over $50 meal)
1) Oysters and Pearls (Per Se)
2) Uni risotto with black truffles (Masa)
3) Ceviche Progression (Le Bernardin)
4) O-toro Tartare with Iranian osetra caviar (Masa)
5) Octopus, tomatoes, olives, purslane, oregano vinaigrette (The Grocery)

Best Appetizer (under $50 meal)
1) Steamed pork and crab tiny buns (New Green Bo)
2) Shrimp Pakoras (Tangra Masala)
3) Venison and Chestnut Terrine (Craft)
4) Roti Canai (Overseas Asian)
5) Herring Sampler (Aquavit)

Best Entrée (over $50 meal)
1) Black Spaghetti with Rock Shrimp, Chorizo and Black Chilis (Babbo)
2) Roasted Maine Lobster in a "Folly of Herbs" with Asparagus and Salsify (The Modern)
3) Mint Love Letters with Spicy Lamb Sausage (Babbo)
4) Homemade nettle gnocchi tossed with tomato comfit, rosemary and buffalo mozzarella (Cacio e Pepe)
5) Chorizo-Crusted Chatham Cod with White Cocoan Bean Puree and Harissa Oil (The Modern)

Best Entrée (under $50 meal)
1) Lobster Roll (Pearl Oyster Bar)
2) Pan Roasted Sea Scallops (Pearl Oyster Bar)
3) Banana Walnut Pancakes (Clinton St. Baking Company)
4) Mushroom-stuffed Veal with Porcini Risotto (Assenzio)
5) Roasted Atlantic Salmon with Soba Noodle, Soy Beans, Shiitake Mushrooms, Soy-Wasabi Vinaigrette (Bistro St. Marks)

Best Dessert (over $50 meal)
1) "Coffee and Doughnuts" (Per Se)
2) "Snickers Bar" (Per Se)
3) "Egg" (Le Bernardin)
4) Austrian Chocolate Hazelnut Souffle with Chocolate and Vanilla Ice Creams and Apple Sorbet (Danube)
5) Milk chocolate-hazelnut parfait, orange reduction (WD-50)

Best Dessert (under $50 meal)
1) Assorted Ice Creams (Berthillon) (Paris, France)
2) Assorted Gelatos (Della Palma) (Rome, Italy)
3) Assorted Gelatos (San Crispin) (Rome, Italy)
4) Goat's Milk Ricotta, Rose-Rosemary, and Meyer Lemon with Blackberry Gelato (Otto)
5) Dulce de Leche (Itzocan Cafe)

Best Soup
1) Butternut squash shrimp bisque with saffron (Itzocan Cafe)
2) Barbecue duck dumplings in corn soup with sweet corn and pepper relish (The Grocery)
3) Hot and Sour Soup (Tangra Masala)
4) Matzo Ball Soup (2nd Ave. Deli)
5) Celery Root Soup with Maine Diver Scallops, Black Trumpet Mushrooms and Chervil (Hearth)

Best Salad
1) Fried Watercress Salad w/ Chicken, Shrimp and Squid (Sripraphai)
2) French Fry salad, hen of the woods mushrooms, parsley, capers, lemon juice, olive oil (The Grocery)
3) Octopus Salad with Spicy Lemon Dressing (Tab Tos)
4) Heirloom tomato salad with olive oil, basil and sea salt (Diner)
5) Roasted beet salad (Babbo)

Best Pizza
1) Una Pizza Napoletana
2) Trianon da Ciro (Naples, Italy)
3) Da Michele (Naples, Italy)
4) DiFara
5) Franny’s

Best Cocktail
1) Mango-Passion Mojito (The Modern)
2) Per Se Cocktail (Per Se)
3) Monkey Business (El Avión)
4) Danube Cocktail (Danube)
5) Coming Up Roses (The Bar Room at the Modern)

Best Sandwich
1) Sesame bagel with lox, tomato and cream cheese (Russ and Daughters)
2) Classic Vietnamese Sandwich (Nicky's Vietnamese Sandwiches)
3) Doner kebab (Imbiss International) (Berlin, Germany)
4) Pastrami sandwich on rye (Katz’s Deli)
5) Arepa con Perico y Carne Mechada (Caracas Arepas Bar)

Best Day of Eating
1) May 22 - Pizza World Tour
2) Jan. 30 - Three Meals Under $30
3) Apr. 3 - From Jewish to Spanish
4) Jul. 10 - Asian Adventure
5) Jul. 25 - Dessert World Tour

Best Service
1) Per Se
2) Le Bernardin
3) Babbo
4) Pó
5) WD-50

And finally, here is a list of my favorite 50 meals and my favorite dish at each place...

1) Per Se - Oysters and Pearls
2) Masa - Uni risotto
3) The Modern - Roasted Maine Lobster in a "Folly of Herbs" with Asparagus and Salsify
4) Sripraphai - Fried Watercress Salad w/ Chicken, Shrimp and Squid
5) Babbo - Black Spaghetti with Rock Shrimp, Chorizo and Black Chilis
6) Una Pizza Napoletana - Margherita Pizza
7) The Grocery - Barbecue duck dumplings in corn soup with sweet corn and pepper relish

8) Trianon da Ciro (Naples, Italy) – Margherita Pizza
9) Cal Pep (Barcelona, Spain) – Fried shrimp, calamari and sardines
10) Danube - Maine Day Boat Lobster with Sunchoke, Mango, Hon-Shimeji Mushrooms and a Saffron Curry Broth
11) Craft - Venison and Chestnut Terrine
12) Itzocan Café - Dulce de Leche
13) Pearl Oyster Bar - Lobster Roll
14) Tangra Masala - Hot and Sour Soup
15) Russ and Daughters - Sesame bagel with lox, tomato and cream cheese
16) Devi - Tandoor Grilled Lamb Chops with pear chutney and curry leaf potatoes
17) Da Michele (Naples, Italy) – Margherita Pizza
18) Le Bernardin - Ceviche Progression

19) Tia Pol - Patatas Bravas
20) Hummus Place - Hummus Tahini
21) DiFara - Plain square

22) Sac Buregdzinica (Sarajevo, Bosnia) – Beef burek
23) Taqueria Cancun (San Francisco, CA) – Al pastor taco
24) Franny’s - Tomato and Mozzarella with House-Cured Garlic Sausage Pizza

25) Grimaldi’s - Pepperoni pizza
26) Denino’s - Sausage and mushroom pizza
27) Al Di La - Malfatti
28) Pó - Tortelloni with Ricotta and Ramps in a White Butter Truffle Sauce
29) Cacio e Pepe - Homemade nettle gnocchi tossed with tomato comfit, rosemary and buffalo
30) Nicky’s Vietnamese Sandwiches - Classic Vietnamese Sandwich
31) Imbiss International (Berlin, Germany) – Doner Kebab
32) Congee Village - Lobster Congee

33) Shake Shack - Double Shack Burger
34) Khushie - Chicken Kali Mirch
35) WD-50 - Slow poached egg, parmesan broth, tomato
36) Rose Water - Kevin's Farm Grilled Chicken With Mustard Greens, Falafel, and Roasted Pumpkin Seed Sauce
37) New Green Bo - Steamed pork and crab tiny buns

38) Shimizu - O-Toro sushi
39) Taverna Kyclades - Roe dip
40) Mercadito - Shrimp Tacos
41) 2nd Ave. Deli - Matzoh Ball Soup
42) Dix Vins (Paris, France) - Entrecote
43) Otto - Goat's Milk Ricotta, Rose-Rosemary, and Meyer Lemon with Blackberry Gelato

44) TiJo's (Paris, France) - Grand Marnier crepe
45) Itzocan Bistro - Pumpkin Seed-Crusted Red Snapper with Zucchini
46) Assenzio - Mozzarella-stuffed Veal with Porcini Mushroom Risotto
47) Sorbillo Pizza (Naples, Italy) - Calzone
48) Nougatine - Slow-Baked Salmon with Pad Thai
49) Overseas Asian Restaurant - Roti Canai
50) Tacos Matamoros- Al pastor taco

2006-02-19T00:46:00.000-05:00

Dec. 17.

Lunch -

Taqueria Cancun - 2288 Mission St., Mission District, San Francisco
An al pastor taco, a carnitas taco, a Mandarin Jarritos
$6

It’s different in San Francisco. The architecture here is painted in colorful pastels, the sky rivals London for all the shades of grey it can turn, I’m treated to daily views of the Golden Gate Bridge outside my window. It’s beautiful and calm, it’s lonely and foreign, it’s overwhelming and exciting. I’ve been exploring the sights like a fourteenth-century conquistador, walking the city out of breath from its insurmountable hills.

One particular area of interest for me is the Mission District. Before I settled in the Richmond, with its alluring mix of Hakka joints and Russian bakeries, I was planning on living there. It was the closest thing to my beloved East Village, my friends told me. And though I’ve found it closer to a mashup of Sunset Park and the Lower East Side, it’s still an intriguing cross-section of thrift shops, homeless people, swank bars and taquerias.

Knowing me, the taquerias came first and foremost. I did my research, and learned about Taqueria Cancun, which has won more superlatives than a high school beauty queen. It sounded delicious and the prices were extremely affordable so I anointed it my first official meal in my new city. As I walked in, the smells of frying beef were thick in the air and a homeless man in a ragged suit was screaming. A punk girl with a scissor-sharp mohawk was ordering a burrito. Her cuter friend had piercings up and down her face.

Eager to show off my newfound knowledge, I stepped up ordered an al pastor taco and one with carnitas. I trilled my R’s, flaunting my accent from my days of presiding over the Spanish Honor Society. I did my best not to drool as I watched the line cooks scrabble together the meal. Then I took my free basket of chips, and picked up my first grilled tortilla. To my mostly uninitiated taste buds, it proved to be an experience, an event. Not just good Mexican, but outstanding, soul-shaking, rapturous Mexican. I tasted flavors on some other level, a tango of cilantro, hot sauce and tender, seasoned meat, simple and unpretentious but oh so necessary. It was as good a welcome mat to my new home as I could hope for.

Of my two tacos I had, I preferred the al pastor, but compared to any others I’ve had, both easily ranked at the top. Next time, if I decide to brave Fear Factor territory, I may even try the tripe or brains also tantalizingly featured on the menu. Whatever I get, there’s no doubt that I’ll be back at Taqueria Cancun to keep being amazed, while also checking out the hundred other taquerias within walking distance.

After so many incredible food experiences in 2005, I was surprised and grateful that one last one snuck in under the wire. After so many highlights, I couldn’t believe that something could still taste so new and unknown. So while I may have given up great bagels in the trade, my Cancun trip made coastal differences seem ever more beautiful. 9/10

2006-01-26T22:17:00.000-05:00

Jan. 26.

Special Feature -

All About Me(me) - I've kindly been tagged for memes before by some very cool blogs and I've always meant to answer them. But then I'd see a turkey reuben or a jar of cilantro chutney, and I'd get distracted. But no more! Goaded into disclosure by Mona's Apple's very own Mona, here's an exclusive glimpse at the man behind the stomach:

Four Jobs I've Had in My Life:
1. Editorial Associate at a small publishing house
2. Paralegal at a large, soul-numbing corporate law firm
3. Minimum wage librarian
4. "Sandwich artist" at Subway (Fuck yeah!)

Four Movies I Could (and I do) Watch Over and Over:
1. Ratcatcher
2. Waking Life
3. In the Mood for Love
4. Contempt

Four Places I've Lived:
1. San Francisco, CA - now
2. New York, NY - before now
3. Charlottesville, Virginia - before before now
4. Staten Island, NY - before before before now

Four TV Shows I Love to Watch:
1. Freaks and Geeks
2. Nowhere Man
3. Futurama
4. The Wire

Four Places I Have Been on Vacation:
1. Costa Rica
2. Montreal
3. Sarajevo
4. Flagstaff

Four Websites I Visit Daily:
1. Prefix Mag
2. The New York Times
3. Le Monde
4. The Delicious Life

Four of My Favorite Foods:
1. blood oranges
2. spinach paratha
3. lox and cream cheese
4. chanterelles

Four Places I Would Rather Be Right Now:
1. Paris
2. Manhattan
3. Hawaii
4. Thailand

Four Tags:
1. The Delicious Life
2. Amateur Gourmet
3. T he Taste Land
4. Eat Drink One Woman

2006-01-18T13:06:00.000-05:00

Dec 1.

Dinner -

Shake Shack - Madison Square Park, Gramercy Park
Double Shack Burger, cup of pumpkin frozen custard
$10

Maybe I forgot. Maybe the formula was tweaked. Maybe the products got even better while I was gone. Whatever it involved, I was blown away on that wintry night I made my return to Shake Shack. Already my favorite burger, it managed to become even better, literally rolling my eyes back with total pleasure. The meat is probably the key, its premium pedigree distinguishing itself from its burger competitors. But all of the other ingredients played their part too, from the warm, melted cheese to the soft bun to the creamy complement of secret Shack Sauce. Even as I type this, my mouth’s drooling from the memory. A knowing smile is lifting my lips. It was that good.

Somewhat disappointed with the concrete and the shake on my last trips (see May 3, Apr. 10) I decided to give dessert one last try. After such a satisfying entrée, it was a risk, but I hadn’t had any sugar in about, oh, two hours. Also tempting was that the frozen custard now came in the special seasonal flavor of pumpkin. So, ignoring the bitter temperature and the icy wind, I stepped back up the counter and bravely ordered away. Finally, letting out a sigh of relief and enjoyment, I’d found a fitting end to a terrific meal. The pumpkin custard was like a great Thanksgiving pie in scoop form. With dashes of cinnamon and a thick but soft consistency, it was even good enough to stand alone, a success in its own right. By the end of the meal, I’d decided that I must’ve forgotten just how incredible Shake Shack could be. It’s not a mistake I’ll be making again. 9/10

A Hamburger Today's May review of Shake Shack

2006-01-12T19:53:00.000-05:00

Nov. 28.

Dinner -

Tacos Matamoros - 4503 5th Ave., Sunset Park, Brooklyn
Two al pastor tacos, a chorizo taco, chalupas mixtas, some of Ganda's shrimp cocktail, an horchata, a lemon-lime Jarritos
$10

My friend Dario asked me one day why Mexican food was subpar in New York. In a city that excels in so many nationalities, it feels like people have pretty much ceded the wonders of tacos and burritos to the West Coast. And while there are some bright spots that tweak the formula (Itzocan Café, Bonita), outstanding straightforward Mexican fare is pretty hard to find.

Still, I knew that it had to be out there after I checked in on other food blogs. The most promising lead was Ganda’s impassioned defense of Sunset Park’s Tacos Matamoros on her site Eat Drink One Woman. There, she called it the best tacos in the city, in caps no less, a tall claim to make and one that I just had to investigate.

Ganda and I decided to meet up just after Thanksgiving, when the effects of turkey and tryptophan had time to wear off. On a dark and frigid night, I made my way down to Sunset Park, a neighborhood I’d only been to a few times. It boasted a densely Mexican community, a fact that boded well for the food. Through the drizzle, I also walked by a busy Taco Bell, a fact that foretold of less promising results.

It quickly became obvious though that I was in the hands of an expert. Ganda, who grew up in Los Angeles and went to school in Berkeley, had grown up on great Mexican food. She elaborated on the differences between Southern and Northern Californian Mexican (the former is closer to the food in Mexico). Living in the area, she’d also had time to master the Matamoros menu and provide some helpful recommendations. I went along with everything she suggested.

At the top of her to-do list was the al pastor taco, which is roasted pork that came seasoned with cilantro and salsa. We both ordered two in Spanish from the friendly waitress – I added my obligatory caveat “sin cebollas” – and I also added a chorizo taco. Ganda got a plate of chalupas mixtas, alternating between red and green salsa, for us to share.

She also ordered another favorite of hers, the shrimp cocktail, whose description she nails in her own review: “served just like it is in Mexico City, in a tall old-fashioned sundae glass, [t]he cocktail sauce is pretty sweet, chock full of creamy ripe avocado cubes and a ton of impossibly fresh, plump shrimp.” The taste I got of it ensured that I would definitely get one for myself next time.

Through dinner, Ganda and I talked about my imminent move to San Francisco and she started to list all of the amazing restaurants I needed to visit. It was nice to meet someone whose eyes bugged out in joy over a perfect bowl of pho or a transcendent baguette. Her recs gained even more credence when I took a bite of my al pastor taco. The flavors were bold, lively and exciting. The chorizo, which I’ve loved ever since my first trip to Spain, was nearly as good, with an oily heat that lit up my taste buds. Everything else was also consistently great, from the sharply flavored chalupas with their crispy corn bases, to the horchata, the cinnamon drink that I enjoyed in Valencia.

By the end of my meal, I walked to the subway on quite a high. Meeting Ganda was a pleasure, and our one conversation that night made me more eager to move to the West Coast than any number of travel brochures and guidebooks. I also knew that I now had an answer for Dario. Though New York may still not be able to compete head-on with California, its Mexican gems are much like any other ethnic food in the city: They just require a little digging and a dependable guide to be unearthed. 8/10

2005-12-13T20:40:00.000-05:00

Dec. 13.

On The Move - So I arrived in San Francisco last night and today, I already had my first day at work. I'm now a copy editor at a small publishing house and I'm already waist-deep in manuscripts. As such, I'm taking a brief hiatus as I get adjusted to a whole new city and a whole new set of circumstances. (Anyone have a great cheap studio for me to move into?) But with a new state comes many exciting new food possibilities, along with a lot more posts from Europe and New York still to come...

Update: I now have a great cheap studio!

2005-12-09T13:38:00.000-05:00

Sept. 21.

Copenhagen, Part Three - Supermarkets in Europe can be a real experience. They can range anywhere from the palatial Auchan in Bordeaux to the dingy, depressing aisles of Netto in Copenhagen. The latter looked like some holdover from a Bolshevik-era Baltic state, with sparely stocked shelves and unappetizing options. Even exiting was an issue, as the only way out involved pushing past the staggeringly long lines at the one open checkout. After giving Netto a few chances, we resolved to go to the Irma a few doors down instead. It was more expensive, a concern in already-expensive Copenhagen, but its relatively large layout and recognizable products made it seem like a Whole Foods in comparison.

At the Irma, I bought my breakfast that morning. Once again, I went with a jar of trustworthy taramosalata, but in the name of innovation, paired it with a package of garlic-coriander naan. Vince and I found a nearby park to sit in, not a difficult task in Denmark, and I proceeded to attempt my Greek-Indian fusion. It was mostly a tasty success, though the bread itself was too dry and boring. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if my idea inspires a trailblazing restaurant called Curry Roe or Athen’s Delhi.

From there, we set off on our day’s itinerary. Because it was Wednesday, all of Denmark’s museum were free, so we started with visits to the Staten Museum for Kunst and the National Museum. The Staten Museum for Kunst, or the State Museum for Fine Arts, was renovating its gallery space, so walls that usually displayed four paintings now had fifty. It made for a novel though overwhelming viewing experience, as any one room saturated hundreds of works mere inches away from each other. Still, the power of the collection, which spotlighted Danish art and covered the centuries admirably, made it a valuable visit. Less interesting was the National Museum. There, we checked out a special exhibit about toys, but it was only a paltry few rooms of stuffed animals and soldiers.

After the museums, we went to Christiania, a spot that I’d been eagerly awaiting. It was a commune that operated independently from the rest of Copenhagen, populated by hoards of hippies, squatters and radicals. It was, until 2003, considered very dangerous, because of the heavy sales of hard drugs and a tendency toward violence, with the worst offender being the notorious Pusher Street. Since then, the increasingly conservative government has cracked down on alternative Christiania, with aggressive raids that closed down the drug shops. It's tried to bring the “free state” under control, while threatening to shut it down permanently.

Christiania ended up being very interesting though also at times, uncomfortable and depressing. On the positive side, the omnipresent graffiti was beautiful and passionate. For an aficionado like me, it was startling, almost as inspiring as all the walls of the Staten Museum. Also, it was nice to see a self-sustaining community, complete with bars, homes, vegetarian restaurants, and communal meeting areas. (It’s impossible to buy property in Christiania. When a space becomes available, the community decides who can move into it.) On the other hand though, so much of the area was in disrepair, with bare barracks and broken-down shacks serving as shelters. Many of the inhabitants looked dirty and unhealthy, smoking and drinking throughout our visit. Dirty dogs roamed around too.

There were many other downsides. For one, the police presence created an uneasy tension between the residents and the officers. At one point, some of the drunk and angry residents got into the faces of the cops, chanting and screaming for them to leave. Also, in order to supplement their incomes, some of the Christiania population sell cheap souvenirs to tourists and operate more expensive, tourist-friendly places, diluting the character of the independent-minded community. Lastly, for all of its trouble over drugs, the problem still lingers, both for residents who use and visitors. Throughout our walk, men in trenchcoats whisper-asked if I wanted hash or coke. My stress-free experience in Amsterdam seemed to make more sense by the minute.

After spending about forty minutes there, I was glad to have seen Christiania, but I was also glad to leave. While I respect the counterculture, my experience there also highlighted many of the shortfalls of isolated life. So we headed back to society, where we again had to choose a dinner option for the night. Tonight, Vince suggested Middle Eastern, which seemed just as curious an experiment in Copenhagen as pizza. I ordered a falafel sandwich with hummus and hot sauce, and the owner filled it up with lettuce, tomatoes and cabbage. I was shocked at how good it was, and Vince, who got a sampler of dishes including baba ganoush and hummus, agreed. Unlike the pizza, it wasn’t just good for ethnic food in Scandanavia, but flat out delicious, with every element at its prime. Best of all though, it meant that I’d never have to see the Netto again.

2005-12-06T14:07:00.000-05:00

Nov. 27.

Lunch -

Tacobite - 905 Lorimer St., Greenpoint, Brooklyn
A chicken taco, a pork taco
$4

I was helping Pat move from his Greenpoint apartment out to Boerum Hill. Along with his brother Jim, we loaded his CDs and books into boxes and drove them through the borough. Around two, whenever our mild hangovers started to wear off, we all went out in search of food. Jim suggested a new taco stand down by McCarren Park. I hadn't had a good taco in ages, so I quickly and optimistically agreed.

The cold was muted, even letting through a thin sun, as we walked up to the stand. It was attached to perpetually empty Monsignor's Restaurant and next to a mechanic's shop. The large board listed beef, pork and chicken tacos, as well as burritos and burgers. There were also Styrofoam plates taped to the window that listed specials such as chicken quesadillas and Coronas. The Mexican man behind the window pulled it open and took our orders. It turned out we all wanted the same thing, a chicken and a pork taco. As per usual, I asked for mine sin cebolla.

While we waited for the food to be made, Jim, Pat and I checked out the sale next door. In front of the mechanic's were tables and tables of fun junk, including John Kerry dolls, creepy frog statuettes, extension cords, coloring books and floodlights. To think, I could've done all my Hanukkah shopping right then and there! A few minutes later, our lunches were ready, the warm soft tortillas wrapped in aluminum foil. We brought them back to Pat's still-messy apartment and dug in.

The tacos proved to be very good, with their most admirable quality being their spicing. Far more dynamic than most Gotham Mexican, they had a complex mix of herbs and spices. Surprisingly, they even had a little heat and also came with lemon wedges, for fans of an extra citric touch. I did prefer the chicken to the pork though, the latter being ground and less satisfying. Also, they needed to be eaten right away, because letting them linger a little too long caused the lettuce and tortilla to soften. Still, Tacobite was a pleasant Sunday surprise, well worth its price and the walk. If Pat didn't have to be out of his apartment by the end of the week, I could see us making a lot more visits to the stand. 7/10

Dinner -

Sripraphai - 64-13 39th Ave., Woodside, Queens
Fried Watercress Salad w/ Chicken, Shrimp and Squid; BBQ Pickled Pork Spare Ribs; Beef Drunken Noodles; Southern style Curry with Chicken; Fried tilapia filet with Chu Chee Curry; coconut rice; Doughballs with Coconut; Coconut and Tapioca in Banana Leaf; a Thai Iced Tea
$23

In Spain, I dreamt of curries, red or green, with splashes of coconut milk. In Germany, I longed for the fried crunch of watercress stalks. In Prague, Budapest, Sarajevo, I craved a heat as complex as multivariate calculus and flavors that lingered for days. In other words, all through my trip, I was dreaming of Sripraphai (see Jul. 10, Feb. 5, Jan. 8). When I left the country for three months, I knew that I’d miss my friends and my CDs and constant Internet access, but I was surprised to learn just how painfully I’d miss that excellent Thai restaurant in Woodside.

I shouldn’t have all that surprised that good Asian food was hard to come by in continental Europe, and that spicy Asian food was even more of an anomaly. Even here in New York, Thai kitchens frequently douse the heat to appeal to a larger audience. But I’ve yet to have a bad experience at Sripraphai, or even one that hasn’t had me speedily reaching toward the water glass with a fire-stricken grin. So since my return, I’d been counting down the days until I could fill the table with some of the best and most affordable plates in the city, until I could pour another classic concoction over the mound of coconut rice, until I could fill my plate with noodles, seafood, and greens. That moment finally came on Sunday.

Pat, Manny and I met up at seven, where the smells of crispy pork and peppers were already exhilarating me. Manny, in his first visit to the restaurant, suggested I take the lead and order for the table. He knew how to win me over. The problem though wasn’t in choosing the few star dishes, but the stars among stars. “You can’t go wrong here,” I explained. “It’s more about what you really like or want to try.” After some brow-furrowing deliberation, I set us on a path of action, with two appetizers, a noodle dish, a curry and a fish, mixing in old favorites with some new ideas. Manny wisely asked our very sweet waitress to stagger the meal.

First up was the fried watercress salad, one of my desert island picks. Every time, it astounds me with its abundance of textures and flavors. Manny claimed too that he was “blown away,” a very high compliment considering that he can be a tougher critic than Henry VIII, and Pat happily agreed. Our other appetizer, the pickled pork ribs, were also dead-on, a sour, piquant glaze jazzing up the familiar taste of ribs. They disappeared far quicker than the well-sized portion would’ve suggested.

Arriving next were the drunken noodles, the Southern curry, and the tilapia filet. The noodles were just as delicious as I remembered them, but somehow the other bolder dishes managed to outshine them. The curry, Southern because of the region’s even greater predilection toward heat, didn’t disappoint with its blazing taste. More importantly, the temperature didn’t mute, but instead elevated, all the other wonderful flavors. The winner of the night though may have been the fried fish, which all of us kept helplessly returning to. The fish itself was fresh and succulent, soft inside and crispy outside, and the sauce served as an addictively interesting complement. I also enjoyed the large halves of Thai eggplant scattered throughout.

Finally, we decided to finish with desserts, even though I warned that they were kind of peripheral to the Sripraphai experience. We pressed on anyway, and picked out two of the plastic containers our waitress brought over. One was soft balls of dough topped with coconut and the other was a base of tapioca pearls topped with a firm coconut cream wrapped in a banana leaf. I enjoyed them the most, probably because I knew not to expect too much. Of all the courses, dessert was the only one I didn't dream about. However, just about everything else about Sripraphai turned out to be a dream come true. 9/10

2005-12-05T12:11:00.000-05:00

Sept. 20.

Copenhagen, Part Two - Vince found a walking tour in a tourist magazine, so we set off exploring the sights. Many of the buildings on the walk were from the 14th and 15th centuries, mostly fledging churches and royal offices that survived the years. More recent but still very pretty was the Radhaus, or town hall, which occupied the center of the city. Continuing on to the more pastoral part of Copenhagen, we pushed on to Frederikstaden, where den Lille Havfrue, or The Little Mermaid, sat waiting. Mournfully overlooking the water, the small sculpture by Edvard Eriksen looked appropriately trapped and conflicted, as tourists jostled to join her on her rock.

For lunch, we again had to look for bargains. Figuring it would be appropriate for Scandanavia, we bought a jar of pickled herring and a bag of black bread. This was a new experience for Vince, but, having grown up with hearty Russian eaters, I was well-versed in the ways of the briny, metallic fish and the dark, porous loaf. He scooped up the nubs of onion floating in the murky liquid while I avoided them. Reaching the end of the herring, I felt the same way about it as I always do. It's not bad in occasional doses, but it's not something I want more than that.

Afterward, I went into a clothing store to look around. I had only brought four white undershirts for the trip, and, over a month into a trip, that was proving to be a challenge. Now and then, I'd wash them in the sink with detergent, but it only seemed to mask the smell. I was looking at a pack of shirts when the unthinkable happened. My camera toppled out of my pocket and slammed against the linoleum floor. I raised it up and cradled it against my body, wailing a slow-motion "Nooooooooooooo!" After the loss of my laptop (see May 19), it was too much to take. I raced it to numerous camera shops, begging them to save my damaged camera. They shook their heads sorrowfully, with stares as helpless as the Mermaid's. Out of options, I stretched the black fabric of the camera bag over my poor Minolta and buried it in my backpack.

Still, I was determined not to let the loss ruin the day. After a full day of walking, Vince and I headed back toward Nørrebro, the area by our hostel. We decided to go back to Toppoli, the pizzeria we'd visited the day before. Even more than the affordable prices, I think we both wanted a place where the owner recognized us, where the menu was as familiar as a nursery rhyme, where we felt like we belonged. In other words, a Danish Veselka. But although we were just here yesterday, the pizzamaker showed no sign of recognition. Undaunted, we put in an order of a Quatro Stagioni which came out bubbling from the oven. We coated the semi-good pie with red pepper bits and ate up, again looking to find solace in food.

2005-11-30T03:54:00.000-05:00

Nov. 19.

Lunch -

DiFara -1464 Ave. J, Midwood, Brooklyn
Two squares, two zeppolis, a can of A&W Cream Soda
$7.25

Once again, I was facing a monumental decision. Reunited with New York, I had to figure out where I'd go to celebrate my return. There were so many places I missed while traveling, so many flavors and locales unique to my hometown, and I had such a limited time left to eat. I just couldn't bear to squander any opportunities with a mediocre meal.

But then I remembered that I was meeting up with Dario, my former officemate from the law firm and a two-stop veteran of the now-famous Pizza World Tour (see May 22). He'd been floored by DiFara that day and proceeded to bring it up for weeks. He spoke about Dominic's square (known as the Sicilian elsewhere) with a kind of breathless reverence ordinarily reserved for A-list celebrity sightings. I half-wondered if he would still be rhapsodizing about it now, six months after the fact. Sure enough, when I asked him if he had any dining out suggestions, right away he threw out, "How about DiFara?"

We met up outside the pizzeria, a street down from the J train in the heavily Jewish neighborhood of Midwood. Inside, the line was already packed, as veteran pizzaiolo Dominic and his son focused on crafting pie after beautiful pie. He cut and sprinkled fresh basil on the creations. He ground cheese and poured olive oil across the dough canvases. It was just as enjoyable to watch as ever, making the crowded half-hour wait a little more tolerable.

I'd been planning to order a plain square and a sausage square, but by the time I got up to the counter, I compromised by getting two of the plain squares fresh from the oven. It was faster and easier than waiting for the customized sausage. I also got zeppolis, which came three for a dollar, to split with Dario. After all, what could represent Brooklyn better than fried dough?

The squares, like all the pizza at DiFara, taste infinitely better when they're steaming hot. That wasn't a problem as, right away, we tore into the delicious dishes. The pizza was still as quintessential New York as we had built it up, the square still as complex and simple as the best out there. It didn't compare to the Naples pizza I recently had (reviews still to come), only in the sense that they were so different in style and execution they were practically unrelated.

The zeppolis didn't inspire the same amazement. They were good in the same way all zeppolis in any neighborhood pizzeria are tasty, but they didn't stand out or wow us like the pizza. Part of the reason was that the dough balls had cooled off by the time we were ready for them. Also, it'd be hard to imagine a dessert that would be able to compete with the pizza. In fact, in a city of thousands and thousands of restaurants, it's hard to think of much that could compete with DiFara's pizza, or a food that could have made for such a welcoming homecoming. 9/10

2005-11-23T12:57:00.000-05:00

Sept. 19.

Copenhagen, Part One - Having previously traveled to Spain, France and Germany, I had a good sense of what to expect. But Scandanavia posed a big, exciting question mark for me. All I could picture were towering blondes, frigid temperatures and lots of fish. That wasn't quite true, at least not in idyllic Copenhagen. Instead, I found a city that blended the urban and the pastoral, the stunning with the quaint. For a capital city, it felt surprisingly accessible and humble, offering pretty views of the water and landscape without overselling itself. And best of all, it was seventy degrees the entire time we were there. In a weird way, with its charming restaurants and shops, it even reminded me of coastal Maine.

After taking in the vistas, it was time for a visit to Copenhagen's pride and joy, the Carlsberg Brewery. Carlsberg's beers were nearly as ubiquitously consumed in Denmark as Pilsner Urquell is in the Czech Republic, and its green-and-white logo proudly adorned every restaurant awning and napkin dispenser in sight. I'd tried Carlsberg ("Probably the best beer in the world") before but didn't realize what a big deal it was to the Danish. Then, after getting a thorough education on everything from brewing, bottling, marketing and scientific innovations, Vince and I got two laminated tickets to taste the product at the end. Not only could we choose from the Carlsberg varieties, but their other storied brands, Tuborg and Jacobsen, as well. I started with the Jacobsen chocolate stout, which had dark and wonderful undertones, tasting all the better as I considered the immense process it required to reach my glass. Then I cleansed the palate with their wheat beer, a delightfully white, light contrast quite similar to Hoegaarden.

After the tour, we walked around the downtown area some more, looking for a place to eat dinner. (We'd had an included breakfast at the hostel in Hamburg, but I won't bore you with the tales of cereal and fruit cocktail.) Because it used the krone rather than the euro, Copenhagen proved to be more expensive than any of the other places we'd been so far. Thus, we had to restrict ourselves to searching supermarkets and very cheap eateries. Eventually, we settled on a place called Toppoli Pizzeria, a few streets away from our hostel. The idea of eating Scandanavian pizza seemed interesting enough, and both of us really missed the good old days of DiFara (see May 22, Jan. 1) and Denino's (see May 22). Of course, the menu was in Danish, which meant a cavalcade of v's, o's with slashes through them and j's somehow following h's. We were able to decode enough of it to clumsily order a Pizza al Mare which came with tiny shrimp, spinach, mushrooms and ham. It was surprisingly not bad, although it was also nothing special. Still, for a day that would be otherwise boring-- eating pizza and drinking beer-- we made it quite memorable.

2005-11-21T11:58:00.000-05:00

Sept. 18.

Hamburg - Hamburg, we hardly knew ye. Inevitably, some places on our trip get shorter shrift than ours, and this northwestern German city was right up there with Lyon for most cursory visit. Because we had to transfer, our train didn’t roll into Hamburg until just before eight. Then we learned our hostel, which was supposed to be three train stops away, was more like three cities away. Along a dark, deserted crossing, we walked and walked, lugging our backpacks behind us like patient Atlases.

Finally, after a forty minute walk, we arrived exhausted and weary, but mostly hungry. We asked the receptionist what was still open, and she said we had the choice between a Greek gaststätte and another one of those strange pan-Asian places that dished up Chinese, Vietnamese and Thai together. We opted for the former, where Vince got the opportunity to put his German skills from college into practice. He ordered lamb gyros for both of us. I slumped into a metal chair and watched the counterman slice the long, thin strands of meat from the spit. All I had to eat all day was a bagel at the Amsterdam station and I was just happy to have anything at this point.

The gyros turned out to be pretty good, and thankfully fit for the historic German appetite. They came loaded with red cabbage and a tangy dressing, which both distinguished them from others. Eating by the bursting forkful, we started to relax and the stress of travel evaporated. Then, as if on cue, we noticed that the fridge was stocked not only with soda but minibar-sized bottles of liquor. We began with ouzo, moved onto the apple schnapps, and finished up with vodka. Suddenly, a night that seemed destined to be ruined was salvaged, as we lingered in the restaurant for hours, until it was closing. By then though, we had laughed ourselves stupid and undone all the angst of the day.

The next day, as with Lyon, we tried to fit in as much as possible in our brief chunk of time. We took the U-bahn in and started by seeing the Rathaus, the impressive town hall. From there, we walked north and sat by the water along the Alster Canal. Then, we stopped by the Reeperbahn, Hamburg's own seedy version of a Red Light District. It seemed to be on its last legs, a caricature of itself, much like post-Giuliani Times Square. I didn't care much though. I really only wanted to see it because of Tom Waits' song about the neighborhood: ("A high dive on a swimming pool/Filled with needles and with fools/The memories are short but the tales are long/When you're in the Reeperbahn.")

It wasn't at all the full tour that Hamburg deserved, but we tried to stay optimistic. After our impending three-city tour of Scandanavia, we'd be coming back to four more cities in Germany. They'd at least get our total attention.

2005-11-18T12:50:00.000-05:00

Nov. 18.

Special Feature -

Reader Mail - I recently received an e-mail from Emile, a knowledgeable reader from Melbourne, who wrote in with more info on the broodjes I loved so much in The Netherlands:

"The broodjes you mention definitely are the number 1 thing I miss from amsterdam after moving overseas (and salted herring from the street stalls of course. I do urge you to try them, possibly on a roll with fresh onion).

I just wanted to mention that they're a speciality unique to suriname, and perhaps the dutch antilles. Like suriname itself, they're basically a fusion of various ethnic cooking styles, most prominently hindustani and javanese. This is why they might appear 'asian.'

If you like surinami and are adventurous, consider going into an eatery and see if they serve:

vlees - meat sausage
bloed - blood sausage
fladder - intestine
bere - fried spiced doughnut

They should be offered with pickels and 'peper,' the latter being a relish of 'madame chanet' peppers, which are extremely hot. Be careful with this. A good place to get this kind of thing is on the very exotic Bijlmer market. The Bijlmer is a mostly ethnic suburb southeast of the center easily reached by metro. It features lots of hideous 70/80s highrise, an architectonic turkey with weird ideology behind it."

Architectonic turkey with weird ideology, huh? Sounds pretty cool. Thanks, Emile. If I ever get back to Amsterdam, I'll definitely take your advice. And if anyone else has more to add on a topic I've covered, send it my way and I'll be sure to share it.

2005-11-17T14:08:00.000-05:00

Sept. 17.

Amsterdam, Part Four - So far, I had been trying to stick to Amsterdam's cultural side, but there was no way to deny its more hedonistic impulses. Perhaps more than any other city (Las Vegas?), its image is tied to its permissiveness and indulgence. Even my mother, when I told her that I was going there, couldn't keep from offering a strange grin and warning me not to "smoke anything strange." I assured her I wouldn't.

Instead, I went up to the Red Light District. It was only around noon so I wasn't sure if there'd even be any red lights glowing. There were about ten, scattered around the widespread area, where women in day-glo bikinis sat behind glass doors in claustrophobic little booths. They tried to do their best approximations of sexy as they filed their nails or surveyed the empty streets. A few of the prostitutes were beautiful in the generic Playboy sense of beautiful. The others had bobbling stomachs and massive breasts and thighs. Far more than sexy, the whole scene seemed kind of sad.

Then, finally after that, it was time to disobey my mother. I did my research and found a place called Grey Area, which many call one of Amsterdam's best coffeeshops. Vince and I met up at the small shop on Oude Leliestraat, run by two American expats, and I perused all the interesting offerings. (My plan was to smoke before our dinner at Tempo Doeloe, hoping it'd only increase my already huge appetite.) After a consideration of Grey Area's tempting menu and asking for some recommendations, I ended up going with the Greyberry, which had a light blueberry flavor. John, the owner behind the counter, rolled the very reasonably priced weed for me into a joint. Vince and I claimed one of the tables among the walls plastered with graffiti, signs, stickers and photos, and I lit up. This was easily the best marijuana I've tried. It was like a tasting menu at a four-star after so much mediocre fast food.

From there, we went onto Tempo Doeloe, probably Amsterdam's most famous Indonesian restaurant. After severely missing the heat and spices from Sripraphai, I was ready for all the hype surrounding this place. The guidebooks all warned that the food was blazingly pedis, the on-line reviewers sang the praises of extra spicy dishes and even the restaurant's own menu cautioned to work your way up to the options marked with three red pluses (the ones where "our 'kokkie' (chef) has not shown any mercy with various kinds of peppers.") It sounded perfect. I was so ready that I even ordered the most expensive choice on the menu, the rijsttafel istemewa. The rijsttafel is a rice table, in which small bowls of various entrees are all centered around heaping bowls of rice. My istemewa (the grand rice table) came with twenty-five little courses, with low flames burning under them to keep them warm.

Even without the berry high, I would've been a happy man. The flavors here were multifaceted and beautifully crafted, all the more apparent after comparing to our earlier experience at Tanjung Sari. There was clearly great care put into the shaping of each miniature plate. As our waiter explained to do, I started at the far right with the mildest dishes and slowly worked my way over into the spicier quadrants. I made sure to also follow his instructions and to treat every dish individually, rather than making some mash of them in my rice. A quarter of the way through, my favorite tastes were the Gadon Dari Sapi, or "beef in creamy sauce with coconut cream and fresh coriander," and Orek Arek, or "stirfried cabbage with garlic and various herbs." As I moved into the dishes marked by one plus on the menu, I started to detect some really nice mild heats. The vegetarian options particularly had a sharp pepperiness to them.

Confidently, I pressed on, eager to get to the real firestarters among the bunch. The wonderful and well-crafted flavors continued, but the heat never came. Despite all of the press to the contrary, I found the so-called spicier dishes kind of bland, lacking that necessary spark that can truly elevate a dish. I even started to wonder if I'd been given the wrong table by mistake, or if there might be another one coming. But then, there still stood before me, the two plates that were supposed to be the spiciest of all, the Ajam Roedjak, or "chicken in hot sauce with cream of coconut and tjabeh" and the Daging Rendang, or "beef cooked in tasty, hot sauce with cream of coconut," which came with the dreaded three-plus warning. I tried them both and felt barely a tingle. I was quite disappointed, but felt that at least the dinner was redeemed by how good everything had tasted. Tempo Doeloe may not have produced the heat it promised, but it remained a quality meal. Still, I probably wouldn't make another reservation there without reservations.

After dinner, I went back to the Red Light District to see how it had changed at night. Sure enough, it had transformed from desert to full-blown circus. Over a hundred red lights were glowing, with girls in the same fluorescent bikinis striking poses and calling out to clients. The alleys were packed, mostly with college-age boys in clusters but also crowds of curious gawkers and even tour groups of rowdy seniors. There were also a lot of women taking in the sights. I saw a guy my age unabashedly approach the glass and ask how much "it" cost. "Fifty euros," came the woman's seasoned response. He nodded meekly and disappeared behind the pulled red-velvet curtain. The scene only felt more pathetic to me, as more men disappeared and emerged from the booths. While I'm far from a prude, and don't really see the point of criminalizing prostitution, the Red Light District struck me as perhaps the least sexy experience possible. Even the model-beautiful women seemed more like prisoners in their glass rectangles than prospects. Nonetheless, I was glad to have witnessed this side of Amsterdam, probably as an integral part of a very complex city as any.

2005-11-16T14:06:00.000-05:00

Sept. 16.

Amsterdam, Part Three - It was another day of exploration. Vince had headed to Delft, the world's blue-and-white ceramic capital of the world, while I stayed behind to see more of the capital city. I started off the morning with a visit to the Albert Cuyp market, located on Albert Cuypstraat in the neighborhood of De Pijp. Unlike its Spanish counterparts, which also had a wild assortment of foods, the Cuyp functioned more as a flea market, offering everything from shoes to cameras to medicine to herring. A brass band was playing too, making the morning a lively one. I bought a few tangerines (I'd already had delicious free cornflakes at the hostel) and got going when it again started to drizzle.

I headed up to the Anne Frank House, another one of the landmarks I had long been looking forward to seeing. It was definitely well worth the wait. Walking through the house and up to the attic where the Franks hid was a starkly powerful experience, and the exhibits provided a lot of harrowing but necessary information. Instead of trying to present the magnitude of the Holocaust, the museum showed the tragedy through the lens of a single family, making the loss feel all the more personal and intimate. Afterwards, I went to a bookstore and read all the English-language news magazines I could find. Everywhere, the story was about Katrina and the government's mismanagement of the hurricane's aftermath. It was an unfortunate reminder that social inequities and governmental apathy can still add up to disastrous results today.

For dinner, Vince and I met up to honor the Dutch's love of all things fried. Along with croquettes, the most prominent food is patats, or their steak frite-like French fries. Like the Belgians, the Dutch enjoy mayo on their potatoes, but that's only one of many choices they'll consider. Their patat shops are known to offer more exotic combinations like wasabi mayo, spicy ketchup and peanut sauce. I went with the more traditional curry, which turned out to be a watery but tangy brown-red sauce. It wasn't bad, and neither were the fries, which were served in a paper cone. Still, they were thick and dry and I had to grudgingly admit that I preferred the ones from the Lyon McDonald's. It was a slight disappointment, but I was still very much excited, because the next day, Vince and I had reservations at the famous Indonesian restaurant Tempo Doeloe, slated to be our second big splurge of the trip...

2005-11-15T16:02:00.000-05:00

Nov. 15.

Home - Well, I'm back safe and sound in New York, after three months in Europe. I've done my best to update from the road, and I appreciate all of the kind e-mails with thoughts and advice. But now that I'm back, get ready for more updates, more photos and more food, as I recount the rest of my trip and take as many bites of the Big Apple as I can before I move onto California on December 5th. Most importantly, there are still many standout meals from Europe on the horizon, and, I expect, some to come from NYC too.

2005-11-06T18:10:00.000-05:00

Sept. 15.

Amsterdam, Part Two - Beware the bike. In Amsterdam, standing in the mauve-painted bike lane is more dangerous than the street. Everyone, of all ages, sizes and races, is a two-wheeled demon, and the city is a constant chorus of bike bells warning errant tourists to leap for cover. Eventually, I was mostly able to avoid walking into the lane, but the first two days were a series of near-collisions and deft footwork.

The bikes were all the more prominent because I was again walking all over town. A large circular ring of canals and bridges, Amsterdam proved quite the pleasure to maneuver, even under the continuing drape of mist. In the northeastern part of town, I found a sandwich shop called Tokoman that served the same Asian broodjes I loved in Rotterdam. The spitfire proprietress had a sign hanging up that read "This isn't Burger King. You either get it my way or you don't get it at all," which didn't faze any of the customers on a line that was consistently twelve people deep. The shop smelled wonderful too, charged with exotic and sharp aromas. When my turn came, I randomly ordered a pom and a gehund brahkt. I'm still not sure what I had as she spooned the fillings from the metal containers, but both were wonderful. With an excellent bread with a ripe crunch, the two broodjes were even better and more unique than Rotterdam's. I was appalled all over again that, as far as I knew, nothing like this was available in New York.

Afterwards, the rain really started to hammer down so I sought refuge in a lugubrious bar called Cafe Eik en Linde. It was almost a saloon, populated by world-weary locals and women who've downed more than their share of suds. I ordered a Weißbier and took a seat in the corner to write a little poetry. Long-haired septugenarians who looked a long way from a shower played an odd variation of billiards with only three balls and a table with no pockets. Then a frail man in a felt hat and a wheelcahir started to blow into a harmonica. I finished my beer and ordered a coffee to make sure I wasn't dreaming.

The rain never let up so I started on the winding road home. I made it back eventually, my clothes reduced to cotton sponges. I dried out in the lounge of my hostel, while five or six people rolled massive joints around me. Eventually, Vince made it back from his daytrip to Leiden, and we ventured out to find dinner. Naturally, the rain charged down more forcefully than ever as soon as we had gone too far to turn back. We chose a neighborhood Indonesian place called Tanjung Sari as much for its dryness as its intriguing menu. Also, I had really wanted to try the cuisine, reputed to be Amsterdam's biggest food specialty.

For eight and a half euros each, we both ordered fried rice with chicken sate, which came with eight accompanying sides. I was most interested in the daging rendang, or stewed beef in Sumatran sauce, eager to experience the full spiciness of Indonesian food. To further underscore my mission, I stressed to the waitress that I would like it very spicy. Our dishes came, my rice flanked with such curious companions as sambal goreng telor, or egg in tomato sauce and opor ayam, or chicken in saffron sauce. All of them were tasty, but I was most interested in the daging. Taking my first bite of meat, I was reminded of flavors from Thailand and Vietnam but most prominently Malaysia. There was the same interplay of spice and sweetness that made food from that region so wondrous but also difficult to pull off. Like much other Southeast Asian food, my meal had great flavors but was still missing the essential heat to truly make the dish sing. Nonetheless, as an Indonesian introduction, dinner only confirmed what a strange and diverse variety Amsterdam could offer.

2005-11-02T19:25:00.000-05:00

Sept. 14.

Amsterdam, Part One - When we arrived in Amsterdam, it was mourning. The sky was a limp grey, the clouds drooped like surrendering shoulders, and a heavy misty drizzle was spraying down. It was far from the bacchanalia I was expecting, but we hopped on the tram and went with the flow. After arriving at the Flying Pig Palace, I dropped off my backpack and headed directly to the Van Gogh Museum (Gogh pronounced like a man clearing his throat). Van Gogh is one of my favorite artists and I had been waiting to visit this museum for a long time. It was of course beautiful and inspiring (though overpriced) and I learned just how heavily influenced he was by Japanese painting.

From there, it was a matter of meeting Amsterdam, even in all of its soggy gloominess. I walked around aimlessly, along the Leidesplein and across the canal bridges. It was amazing in such a different and distinct way, worlds apart from the romantic designs of the Romance countries. Here, the predominant color was brown and beige and the houses were low and shy. (Interestingly, even as so many windows faced the street, almost none had curtains to cover them.) From my initial views, Amsterdam seemed quite enchanting, but of course, it wasn't without its other side too. There were practically more souvenir shops than people. The city was teeming with American and Australian kind, to the point where English had become the default language. And for a place with such a liberal stance toward sex and drugs, it also seemed caught up in flaunting them, like a friend's parents who brag to everyone about how permissive they are. Also, with so many seedy coffee shops lining the streets, the smell of weed was a constant and looming presence.

That smell must've built up our appetities at least, because by six, Vince and I were both ravenous. The obvious choice was our old favorite from Barcelona, Maoz Falafel, which originated and has the most outposts in Amsterdam. One was quite close to our hostel thankfully, so we both ordered a falafel grosse and dove into the salad bar fix-ins. Again, the choices were surprisingly healthy and thoughtful and the fried chickpea balls were better than should be expected from a franchise. I made so many return trips to stuff some more parsley-laced tabouli or butter pickles into the pita that I thought we might get kicked off. But alas, Amsterdam is a city invested in sin, and Maoz is one gluttonous temptation that there's no need to resist.

2005-10-25T15:52:00.000-04:00

Sept. 13.

Rotterdam - When the overnight train to Nice proved to be a waking nightmare, we decided to scrap our itinerary and make some adjustments. One such adjustment was to add a day in Rotterdam before making our eventual way to Amsterdam, thus easing us into the Netherlands' rowdier capital. When Vince and I arrived at the central station and walked through the small Chinatown, I couldn't help but notice the wild buildings, the city's defining characteristic. Namely, it looked like there'd been an architecture contest and the judges couldn't pick a winner so they just decided to build everyone's entry.

Checking into our hostel, we spent most of the day walking around and taking in the notable sights, among them Erasmusburg, Rottermdam's most famous and accomplished bridge. Along the way, we passed many "coffee shops," which all distinctively smelled like my second year college apartment. Afterward, it was time for lunch. I walked around a few blocks, all of which had ten to twenty letters in their names, and stumbled upon a shop that claimed to sell Belgian Javanese and Surinamese broodjes, or sandwiches. It was called King Foeng, and I was immedately intrigued by the comination of Asian, African and European influences. Walking in blindly, I stepped up to the counter and ordered a dynamite, which consisted of hot sauce and pork, and garnalen, or shrimp. Both were completely phenomenal, with a crunchy bread reminiscent of bahn mi and a filling that outshone a lot of great Thai food. I felt shocked that not only had I never tried such a delicious sandwich, but that I had never even heard of it. In fact, it was so good that I ha no chance but to return to King Foeng, even after I discovered that many other places in Rotterdam also offered the same mix of Dutch-ruled nationalities. This time, I tried the kouseband garnalen, or shrimp and string beans, and the steak broodje. Again, both were fantastic although ultimately, my favorite was the exquite plain garnalen with its waves of heat. And while Rotterdam didn't entice me as much as it would an architecture student, the multicultural broodjes alone were well worth the detour.

2005-10-21T18:36:00.000-04:00

Sept. 12.

Paris, Part Five - It was my last day in Paris, but it was also a perfect one. The morning started with a last visit to Champion, where I bought a jar of traffic cone-orange roe dip and split a truly excellent black walnut bread. The bread's darkness and its nutty crunch contrasted vividly with the smooth lightness of the fish eggs. From there, I went strolling through Montmartre and tracked down a copy of Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal. Verses in hand, I walked down to the Tuileries, Paris's most famous and stunning jardins. Kids were steering toy boats on the water, families of ducks were waddling by, the sun seemed to bless the benches with haloes. I started to translate the first poem, "Au Lecteur," grappling with the fluid argot. The more lines I trudged through, the more enchanting the process became. Coupled with the grandeur of the Tuileries' sculptures and the serenity of the scenery, the moment felt ideal.

Continuing my downward trajectory, I headed south over the Seine and back into Montparnasse. My goal this time was to visit the Café de Flores, a spot on Boulevard Saint-Germain all the Left Bank intelligentsia used to haunt. Camus and Picasso for example made frequent appearances, but most meaningfully to me, Sartre penned Being and Nothingness among the same walls too. As soon as I walked in, I knew my environment had drastically changed, the crowd more Michelin three-star than unwashed backpacker. Still, a bowtied waiter with slicked back hair welcomed me warmly as I took a seat against the wall to study the businessman thumbing through Le Monde or the elderly regular in the beautifully tailored suit who every waiter chatted with when they saw him. I ordered an eclair and a cappuccino and broke out the Baudelaire again. For the next few hours, I sipped my coffee and nibbled at the pastry, untangling tenses or scribbling in my notebook. The experience brought on another onslaught of euphoria, even after my waiter produced the sixteen-euro check.

Finally, at eight, I reconvened with Vince for dinner. After so many days of saving at supermarkets, we were going to have our first splurge meal of the trip. The place I'd picked was Dix Vins, which L'Express picked as the best bistro under thirty euros. Located on rue Falguière, it felt like a quintessential Parisian bistro with dim lighting, simple but inviting decor, and a prix-fixe menu filled with familiar but thoughtful classics. Called the Divine Formule, it offered three courses, an appetizer, a meat course and cheese or dessert, for twenty-four euros. I started, as the restaurant's name aptly suggested, with a glass of wine. I chose a Corbières, and turned my focus to all of the prix-fixe's delectable options.

I inaugurated the dinner with the pâte du campagne maison, or pâte of the country house. Nutty and firm, it threatened to revise everything I thought I knew about pâte, managing somehow to taste both novel and traditional. Next, I proceeded to the entrecôte, or steak, which came at a two-euro supplement. I was more than happy to pay when I took the first bite of the meat. This dish needed no ingenuity, just quality beef cooked with deep, masterful flavor. Since it was French, l'entrecôte was also slasher-flick bloody but it worked well here.

With my wine running low, the waitress-owner brought over dessert. I had picked the tarte citron, or lemon tart, which was at least as tart as it was lemon. The triangular sliver was a cleansing if slightly too simple end to a terrific meal in a very soothing ambiance. For me, the dinner proved well worth the splurge and even better, Dix Vins gave a perfect city, the city of cities, the close it deserved.

2005-10-17T13:35:00.000-04:00

Sept. 11.

Paris, Part Four - All along, I had been saving myself like a Catholic waiting for his honeymoon. Sure, I had those splendid pastries in Madrid and the formidable tarte aux abricots in Nice, but I looked at those as mere foreplay, some clumsy under-the-sweater action that shouldn´t really count. This morning, I was ready for the real thing however, and so, bravely I marched up to a nearby Montmartre patisserie and joined the line scaling out the door. The odors of dough and cremes were more intoxicating than a spice market´s and the lineup of cakes, croissants and confections posed quite the choice.

I decided to go with the millefeuille, a classic dessert of flaky puff pastry interspersed with vanilla cream. It literally means a thousand leaves, in reference to its many layers. I then added the almandine, an almond-based pastry that tasted reminiscent of marzipan, and the tartelette pomme, or small apple tart. The result? Surprisingly underwhelming, to be honest. They were good to be sure, but they each had their faults. Trying the millefeuille, I realized it was the same thing as the Napoleon, Russia´s name for its version. That immediately pitted it against my aunt´s and grandmother´s creations, a battle it would inevitably lose. For me, the millefeuille´s undoing was its vanilla, which was too sweet and cloying. The almandine on the other hand was too dry and by the end, boring. The tartelette had no such evident flaws but it also failed to stun. All in all, it was a tough, faith-shaking turn of events.

Luckily, I had a surer bet to save the day. In this vein, Vince and I headed to the Ile St. Louis, a picturesque Paris island where Marie Curie used to live. After making a necessary stop at the Cathedrale Notre Dame, it was onward to Berthillon for ice cream. On my guidebook´s advice, I had ventured out to the oak-paneled glacerie seven years ago when I was last here and since then, I still periodically dream of those perfect scoops of pamplemousse and noisette. My new guidebook concurred, calling it the best ice cream in Paris but also the city´s ˝worst kept secret.˝ Even Augustin´s family loved it, chattering excitedly when we mentioned we´d be visiting the famed shop.

It was starting to mist as we approached, but neither that nor the long, curling line outside was going to stop me. More daunting was again making a choice between all the flavors. My first time up I went with a scoop of peche de vigne, or peach of the vine, and agnaise, also known as prune armagnac. The red peach boule had a rich, ecstatic depth to it, somehow more peach than peach. The prune armagnac, which I previously tried at Il Laboratorio in gelato form, was equally wonderful, with a nice balance of liqueur and fruit. Barely finishing my ice cream, I got back on line and this time, went with the cacao extra bitter and mirabelle, a small yellow plum. Again, the results were incredible, with the fruit flavors ultimately being my favorites. I was also so glad that after so long, this iconic eatery was still at the top of its form.

I was reluctant to leave Berthillon but we were also expected at Augustin´s for dinner. Then I realized we could unite the two pleasures by bringing his family a package of the shop´s beautiful macaroons. Walking from the Ile back toward the Champs Elysees, I took in all of the impressive sights we were passing. Then reaching the Rue de Bassano, towering Augustin greeted us again at the door and I struggled to relate our day´s adventures to him in a still-freshman level French. Again, we were welcomed to the cheerful family´s table and again, they produced a simple but heartwarming meal. Tonight, in addition to the croquettes and the meat plate, the main dish was an olive-topped pizza. I thought it was delicious but Vince seemed to love it even more. We laughed and joked, I tried to make a French pun, Constance told us about a tennis game she lost that day. I felt even less a guest and more like family. To round out the night, the Mom brought out the plate of the macaroons we had given them. They came in chocolate, vanilla and almond, and sure enough, they were all terrific. By the end, I felt almost spoiled by all the wonders I was experiencing and all the joy I was feeling.

2005-10-13T01:11:00.000-04:00

Sept. 10.

Paris, Part Three - Bakeries in Paris are painful to pass. The displays behind the glass can be so staggering that I freeze like an indecisive turtle. The tarts practically glisten. The breads pose proudly. Only the faint clank of Euros in my pocket starts me walking again, reminding me that I don't have money to spare. But this morning, I ignored those dissonant coins and my at-risk cholesterol level and walked into a particularly fragrant boulangerie. My choice obvious, I reemerged with a Quiche Lorraine in hand. Already, it was turning the white bag a greasy grey in spots, but I didn't give it long to last. And of course, it proved delicious, decadently creamy and effortlessly buoyant.

From here, it was onto the Georges Pompidou museum, which Matt had declared "awesome" the previous day. It was beyond awesome, perhaps even managing to outshine the Orsay. The building itself was a feat, with the structure of it turned inside out, with pipes and the internal bric-a-brac moved to the exterior. Inside, the permanent collection, entitled the Big Bang, was just as challenging and confrontional. Instead of being organized chronologically, the contemporary art was built around themes, such as Destruction, Guerre, Sexe and Subversion, and subthemes such as Voyeurisme, Nazisme, Chaos and Ironie. Not everything in the collection worked for me, but it felt so exciting to see so many disparate works colliding with and commenting on each other. More than a dialogue, it was a dialectic of chaos and inspiration. I could´ve easily spent the whole day there, in the crosshairs of the works, but Vince and I had to race to get to my friend Augustin's house.

I met Augustin a month ago on my plane ride to start this trip. We were both flying from DC to Amsterdam (where I'd then connect to Barcelona) and we were sitting next to each other. For the next seven hours, we talked about everything, from his life as a Parisian teenager to my former life as a New York law lackey. He told me about his family and friends in France and marveled at how much fatter the people were and how bigger the cars were in America. We barely paused in our sprawling conversation, alternating between questions, cultural differences, linguistic differences, ponderings. By the time the plane landed, we were sadly exchanging e-mails and addresses, and Augustin invited me to call him when I arrived in Paris. That´s exactly what I did.

Because he lived a few blocks from the Champs Elysees, we agreed to rendezous at the Arc du Triomphe. A military band was playing in full costume and the well-dressed urbanites were parading up the crowded avenue. Augustin, already well over six feet tall at sixteen, guided Vince and me around, telling us stories and trivia about Paris's most iconic street. Then we headed to his three-bedroom apartment on the Rue du Bassano, where his perfect family was waiting. I can't begin to explain how cute his father, mother and sister were, but they put the Cosbys and the Cleavers to shame. They welcomed us like relatives from a war-torn country and implored us to take seats at the dinner table. As we passed around the plates, the meal proved simple but such a pleasure, replete with potato croquettes, salad, steak and a plate of luncheon meats. The father made puns in German and English and exclaimed "I am so hilarious!," slapping the table comically. I talked with the mother in my rudimentary French, as she didn't speak English, which mostly meant pointing at foods and saying they were good. In between, Augustin and his sister, Constance, acted as intermediaries and told us anecdotes.

After the appetizers and meat, the sweet, ruddy-cheeked Mom brought out a cheese plate. ˝Les fromages sont bonnes!˝ I said. After we passed around the cheese and drained our wines, we turned to the dessert of fruits and ice cream. Again, it was nothing fancy but a great closer to a terrific night. And after being on our own for so long, it was such a relief to be around a family, especially one this generous. To make matters even better, they nearly begged us to come back, which we happily agreed to. ˝Unless you get to your home and change your mind,˝ the father said, ˝because you are on the toilet and you go...˝ He imitated the sound of a volcano erupting and we all laughed again.

Leaving their house, Vince and I were both overjoyed and gratified. Retracing our steps, we revisited the Arc du Triomphe after dark and then watched the Eiffel Tower burst into its frenetic light show at nine o´clock. The throng of people assembled let out a collective gasp of excitement at the overpowering display, but between the bakeries, the Pompidou, and dinner at Augustin´s, to me, it just felt like an exactly appropriate finale to the night.

2005-10-05T09:48:00.000-04:00

Sept. 9.

Paris, Part Two - Paris is overwhelming, with temptations large and small. A walk down the street can yield the scent of a profound gruyere. A walk down another street can put you at the foot of the dazzling opulence of the Opera House. At some point, it becomes easier to seek out the unappealing streets than the majestic ones, when nearly all of the city's channels seem swelled with magic.

Our morning started at the Basilica Saint-Coeur, the lovely, tourist-teeming house of worship quite close to our hotel. At the top of a hill, it overlooked the vast miles of metropolis below, just as its residents were starting to go about their days. From there, we hit up the Champion supermarket, where I stocked up on a cheap pre-packaged Brie, a wheat bread with walnuts and raisins, and two Royal Gala apples. I generally don't like apples plain but I love pairing them with Brie. Besides, something about those red- and yellow-dappled orbs proved irresistible. So the breakfast, though basic and quick, turned out pretty wonderful, with every component managing to impress.

Vince and I walked south afterward toward the 7th arrondisement, where all the major attractions awaited. Down by the placid Seine, we forewent the Louvre (I'd already paid homage to the coy Mona Lisa and amputated Venus on my last trip) and the Eiffel Tower in favor of l'Orsay. A museum dedicated to art from 1840 to 1914, it wowed me so much previously that I just had to return. I had to see the grandeur of the former train station, which houses the stunning and wide-reaching collection of Impressionism, Post-impressionism and Art Nouveau. Just like I expected, I was awed and inspired all over again by the constant waves of beauty.

After the museum, we headed down to Montparnasse, Paris's arty southern area. We were going to check out Ti Jos, which the ever-wise Anonymous recommended to me in my comments section. A creperie known for its ciders, it sounded like a delicious and very French dinner. Unfortunately, it didn't open until seven so Vince and I sat along the Boulevard Edgar-Quinet to wait. I memorized a few French verbs (most prominently, le cidre) and read a chapter of Tropic of Cancer. Then I looked up and bizarrely, saw my former East Village roommate Matt crossing the street. I called out to him and after the bewilderment wore off, I learned that he'd moved to Paris to study art. I had no idea he had left New York and he had no idea I'd left either, but here we were all the same on a random street in the city of lights. We agreed to reconvene after dinner and catch up.

But first, there was dinner. Ever since my previous visit to Paris, where I practically subsisted on street crepes, I longed for more of the thin, flat batter-skins. The ones I tried in New York (the Crooked Tree Creperie) were fine but didn't really compare. Now, after trying Ti Jos, I know how little even Paris's streets crepes compare to the real article. One sight of the woman cooking in the back, with her eerie resemblance to Whistler's Mother, should have given it away. We started by splitting a galette, a close cousin of the crepe, filled with ham, cheese and mushrooms. It had a great light texture coupled with a wonderfullz rich flavor. The warmth of the filling upped the ante even further. Next, I had a Great Marnier crepe, which came flambée. Our jovial waitress brought over the dish as the dancing flames engulfed it. Everyone in the restaturant, all locals incidentally, turned to watch. The woman at the next table put down her menu and informed her husband she'd order the same thing. It was a smart move as the Grand Marnier crepe was even better, with a sweet, alcohol-spiked heat radiating through the lightly charred perimeter. To make the whole meal better, I of course also had un verre du cidre de maison. It was so much better than the weak American ciders I'`ve tried. This was closer to a beer, with enough apple flavor to make it pleasant but enough heartiness to savor. My one reservations about Ti Jos, or creperies more generallz, is that they end up being somewhat expensive for the amount of food you eat. Still, the price of about sixteen euros for a truly terrific meal was still well worth it.

True to my word, I called up Matt and we met back on Boulevard Edgar-Quinet. He told me about his few weeks in Paris and about his art classes. I rhapsodized about the city and how it had such an intrinsic culture of beauty. Not knowing French, he still seemed unsettled and lonely. We talked about homesickness and being a foreigner. After wandering for a half hour, we found a bar that looked cheap. We both ordered pints of wheat beer and looked at each other with surprise when the glasses came. They were much bigger than we were expecting and the price had risen accordingly to match: nine euros per person. He was a poor student and I was a poor traveler, so we did what we had to. He looked left, I looked right, I gathered up my notebook, and we took off running. Later, he called up his friend Meg, another American studying art here. She supposedly lived a block away from Jacques Chirac on the Rue de Babylone, so we took the Metro down there. Meg, her roommate, Matt and I sat around and drank Kir Royale out of yogurt jars and talked and laughed, carefree and happy.

2005-10-02T19:10:00.000-04:00

Sept. 8.

Paris, Part One - "It is no accident that propels people like us to Paris. Paris is simply an artificial stage, a revolving stage that permits the spectator to glimpse all phases of the conflict. Of itself Paris initiates no dramas. They are begun elsewhere. Paris is simply an obstetrical instrument that tears the living embryo from the womb and puts it back in the incubator. Paris is the cradle of artificial births. Rocking here in the cradle each one slips back into his soil: one dreams back to Berlin, New York, Chicago, Vienna, Minsk. Vienna is never more Vienna than in Paris. Everything is raised to apotheosis. The cradle gives up its babes and new ones take their places. You can read here on the walls where Zola lived and Balzac and Dante and Strindberg and everybody else who was ever anything. Everyone has lived here some time or other. Nobody dies here." - Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer.

I don't believe in love at first sight. I mock the concept of soulmates. And yet when we arrived in Paris at dusk, I instantly felt an undeniable attraction to the city, a pull, a lure. I'd only been here for three days before, at age seventeen, but that hadn't stopped me from dreaming up its allures and mythologizing them. Now, with the city unfurling before me, against the twinkle of early stars and the streetlamps' citric auras, the packed rues' raucous energy, the songs spilling out of brasseries, the apartments' exquisite slopes and frets, I felt a little shocked. Paris seemed even more beautiful and exciting than the ideal I'd conjured up for it.

Our hotel, a bare one-star in the northern reaches of the dixieme arrondisement of Montmartre, added to the appeal. The room was a lonely white and only had a bidet. Both the toilette and the douche were down the dark-lit hall, with access to the shower restricted to a few hours at morning and night. Staying there, I felt more like an artist, just a poisonous bottle of scotch and an antique typewriter short of the fantasy. The location fit too, as Montmartre used to be the domain of intellectuals, writers and painters, like Picasso and Stein. Today, it maintains its interesting identity as a center for immigrants, most notably Arab and African, and students.

Eager to explore the area, Vince and I set out walking. About two hours in, I was pretty hungry so we surveyed the options still open. The kind of Asian traiteur I had tried in Nice was all over Montmartre, seemingly one or two to a street. They all had the same dumplings and noodles arranged by their entrances. The other omnipresent choice was again doner kebab, which I was more in the mood for. I went with the cutely monikered Paristanbul, where I ordered what they called un sandwich Grec avec frites. The fries were fat and rectangular like steak frites and were pretty good. The so-called Greek sandwich was also pretty good with its lively hot sauce and generous helping of veal, or "small beef" as the owner explained it. It was better than the doner in Barcelona but didn't match the exemplary ones in Granada. Still, I figured from now on I would leave doner for Berlin, where they had truly mastered it. In the meantime, I' d be better off concentrating on the manifold miracles of French cuisine in the heart of its temple.

2005-09-26T07:32:00.000-04:00

Sept. 7.

Lyon - Lyon seemed beautiful through the glass of the speeding tram. Unfortunately, the tram was carrying us out of Lyon and into Bron, the town on the outskirts of France's financial capital. We had decided to play it safe by booking a cheap hotel in advance, knowing that its location might not be ideal. In the reality of the situation, ¨might not be ideal¨ translated to ¨fuck-far away.¨ On the bright side, I had managed to grab a simple baguette of jambon, fromage et beurre, or ham, cheese and butter, from a cafe outside the train station. On the dimmer side, Hotel Stars, which was located by the scenic expanse of highway and strip malls, had a cruise ship theme. Let me repeat that: a cruise ship theme. It had life preservers on the walls and portholes for windows. The rooms were also claustrophobically appropriate. I found myself hoping it might sink.

We made the most of the remote location though, checking out the shops and gazing at the food in the French supermarkets. I tried to pick up le vocabulaire wherever I went. The day was looking slightly improved until even that brief streak came swiftly to an end. To pass the time, Vince and I spent stretches of our trip playing cards and making bets. Most of them were fairly innocuous (see Mar. 13)-- buy the other person a postcard, bed choice in the next hostel, shave a strip of hair on your legs-- but sometimes, it became painfully serious. One of the Bron bets was that the loser had to eat a meal at McDonald's... cruelly, I lost. Even worse, Vince got to select the meal.

Unique to French McDonald's were the limited-time offer of the Mythics, which consisted of the McFarmer, the McSummer and the bizarrely-named McTimber. They alternated based on a schedule so of course, we happened to be there for the McTimber. A man of my word, I ignored the unappetizing description and ordered the burger covered in cheddar fondue, Monterey Jack fondue and a sauce made from cheddar fondue. I even got to show off my burgeoning French skills, specifying ¨sans oignons,¨ and adding ¨frites moyennes¨and a ¨Fanta orange.¨With trepidation, I peeled back the cardboard lid and took in the sight. The burger looked like some defeated shell of its photographed self, all squashed and squishy. With growing trepidation, I took a bite. The kindest thing I could call it was interessant, but tres mauvais would be more like it.

I'd heard before that French McDonald's were better than the original because of stricter governmental regulations. Whether the beef was any better was hard to discern because the gloppy fondues were so overpowering. I have to hope the meat is an improvement though, because otherwise, the shocking popularity of the chain in a country of such culinary magnitude would be even more depressing. But hey, at least the frites were still as great as ever.

The next morning, it was onto Lyon proper. We only had until four o'clock to see as much as possible and we were determined to maximize the time. Our first destination was Les Halles, or the market-halls, France's version of Spain's large markets with all sorts of vendors. The differences here were that absolutely everything looked ravishing, plucked from a gourmand's elaborate dreams, and that all of it was priced accordingly. If I had been on my old salary, I would've run rampant, but this time, we limited ourselves to a hundred grams of a high-quality jambon du maison. Finding nothing else we were prepared to splurge on, we hit the nearby Champion supermarket to stock up. There, I got a pamplemousse, or grapefruit, mainly because I love saying pamplemousse, my first post-Tomatina tomatoes and the first bad bread of the trip. Stale and altogether awful, this baguette was an insult to Frenchmen everywhere.

From here, it was onto sightseeing. We ventured into Vieux Lyon, or the old part of town, which involved crossing two scenic bridges. Charming cafes and cobbled streets awaited us, with a comfortable appeal reminiscent of Bordeaux. It was interesting to see such traditional Gallic architecture against the backdrop of Lyon's modern sections, where the norm was very corporate buildings with mirrored glass. It was almost like the city had a split personality, divided between the competing impulses of history and commerce. I would've loved to see more, but it was onto Paris, that beautiful nucleus where all impulses come to converge.

2005-09-21T04:47:00.000-04:00

Sept. 5.

Nice and Monte Carlo, Part Two - On our second day in the Riviera, we daytripped to Monte Carlo. If Nice wasn't an unending monument to luxury, I expected Monaco to pick up the slack. In honor of that, I decided to have caviar for breakfast. At the Monoprix supermarket, I bought a bag of brioche and a jar of oeufs de lompe, little and crunchy black eggs. The meal was in total under four euros but between it and the champagne, I was doing my best millionaire impression. By the time the train rolled into the station, I'd finished half of the fishy dip and Vince and I were off maneuvering the lofty climes of the city. It seemed like everywhere we went meant ascending mountainous staircases or breathlessly scaling up tall hilly curves. Down below, the water looked regal in the shadow of cruise ships.

That everything in Monte Carlo was picturesque was no surprise. That most of the restaurants weren't at all prohibitive took me more aback. Maybe I've been inured by Manhattan prices, but a dinner prix-fixe at most of the inviting bistros apppeared downright reasonable. Still, I resisted their Circe calls, headed back to Nice around six and had more of my caviar and brioche instead. Damian and Lynne returned from Monaco's beach next and Vince turned up around seven. We talked some more, they cooked, I wrote and we ended up back on the beach with new bottles to conclude the night.

The next day was supposed to be my beach day. Apparently, that was the plan all around as we each gathered at the window expectantly. "It's looking quite ordinary out," Lynne said charmingly to describe the grey soup brewing outside. Soon, it was misting, drizzling and chilly, definitively dashing my plans for a swim. Instead, I spent all day walking or writing until the rainstorm that had been building all day burst. It sent me into the refuge of a Virgin Megastore, where I bought a French-English dictionnaire, tired of half-assing my way through the country. I had spent three weeks learning the language in early 2004, before being hired at the law firm ended that pursuit. Now that I had the time and the interest though, I could finally make good on the goal.

When the rain dissipated, I found myself back in front of Ah-Ha Chinese Fast Food. Missing Thai food like a cokehead misses rolling up dollar bills, I ordered their Poulet Thai Curry, a milky orange chicken curry with squash, peppers and potatoes. It sated my craving and was decent enough, but it also made me miss the marvels of Sripraphai. Then I had the idea of spooning in healthy doses of hot sauce and pickled chilis. Suddenly, it went from average to exciting, lighting up the roof of my mouth. It wasn't at all what I was expecting to find in Nice, but it did give an otherwise ordinary day some much-needed heat.

2005-09-17T14:35:00.000-04:00

Sept. 4.

Nice and Monte Carlo, Part One - Our trip to Nice didn't quite live up to the town's name. Trying to save money and time, we took our first overnight train from Bordeaux. The ride itself was smooth and painless, but no matter what acrobatic position I contorted into, it didn't invite any sleep. Other passengers were whispering in front of me; suitcases were perpetually thudding and crashing. By the morning, when the train rolled through Cannes and into Nice, I had probably snuck in three hours. I didn't care though, figuring there'd be apt opportunities to relax on the Riviera.

To kill time while our hostel was being cleaned, we circled the vicinity around the beach. I quickly discovered that, instead of sand, Nice made do with large oval stones. The women were tanning topless, the old, flabby men favored bikinis-- the older and flabbier, the skimpier the cut, and Lacoste T-shirts behind glistening vitrines cost sixty-five euros. Other than the stores, it was much like I was expecting. But as we ventured further from the curving coast, something interesting happened. Homeless people appeared, the ethnic restaurants multiplied and prices were within reason. The area of luxury in Nice was much smaller than I would've guessed.

Our hostel still not ready, we made another loop and found a boulangerie-patisserie to get breakfast. It was crowded and everything looked beautiful. I went with a tarte aux abricots, to compare it to my stellar apple tart from Spain. This pastry had a firmer base and sweeter glaze and tasted as good as it looked. It couldn't match its Madrid competitor, but it still sent me back to the same shop just a few hours later. Now checked in, I got a croissant and brought it back to my room. I cut it open and spread Nutella across it. Buttery, sweet, flaky and rich, it seemed to encapsulate everything great about France.

At this point satiated, I went to the beach. The water was a little too cold but that didn't stop plenty of people from swimming. I laid my mat over the stones, stripped off my shirt and wrote. It had been so long since I'd written poetry, but suddenly, I felt inspired to do so. A gentle sunshine was dappling my shoulders, I was studying the curves on gorgeous women, and I had Nutella in my belly. How could life get any more inspired?

Later, for dinner, Vince and I headed north, back towards the ritz-free part of town. The big story, we observed, was the glut of Asian restaurants. Their sheer proliferation practically taunted us after the drought in Madrid. Strangely too, they almost all combined nationalities in some ambitious Pan-Asian mash. After walking by so many, we finally caved, cautiously hoping to redeem our last miss. Our goals set lower, we settled on Ah-Ha Chinese Fast Food, which claimed to offer Chinese, Thai and Vietnamese fare. It also billed itself as a traiteur, or caterer, which meant that all the food was pre-prepared and reheated to order. It seemed like a bad idea from the outset, but we soldiered on, splitting orders of Pork with Black Mushrooms and Chicken Mai Fun. Neither touched anything on the Chinatown barometer, but both were surprisingly tasty. The Mai Fun had just enough grease to make it go down addictively and the Chinese mushrooms in the pork dish were a great break from our usual diet, even if the salty sauce coating them was subpar.

But perhaps the nicest aspect was the self-service aspect. While we usually had to beg and plead for tap water, occasionally to no avail, here they provided pitchers and glasses for that express purpose. They also had a variety of sauces, including pickled chilies and Sriracha. Adding some chilies to the noodles suddenly invigorated them. It was just a little gesture but a meaningful one for us, and it proved enough to earn us our Asian redemption.

Afterward, we met back up with our friendly Australian roommates, Damian and Lynne. They were a couple from Sydney who had been traveling east to west for six weeks. She was a graphic designer and he was a cop. After my trip last year to Eastern Europe, I already knew how much I loved the company of big-livered, big-stomached Australians. And after not talking to anyone but Vince for so long, I found myself chatting with them prolifically. The four of us went to the beach with the cheapest bottles we could find. Vince and I split a semi-decent demi-sec Andre Gallois champagne. We all told our stories for hours, relieved to have new people to hear them, and watched the calm waves comb the stony shores.

2005-09-14T23:29:00.000-04:00

Sept. 3.

Bordeaux, Part Three - It was our last day in Bordeaux and I was thoroughly enchanted. I spent hours just walking around, taking in the easygoing ambience. But my enjoyment only grew when we went to a supermarket called Auchan for lunch. It was massive, almost the acreage of a Wal-Mart, and it had three aisles dedicated to cheese alone. Going through the store, I got samples of an incredibly juicy cantaloup, bread, bouillabaise, dark chocolate and three kinds of cheese. Perhps even more excitingly, Vince and I found a two-liter bottle of spring water for 17 cents, shattering our previous record. Once the shock of possibilities wore off, we split a toasted sesame baguette and a smoked sausage that was very reminiscent of Polish kielbasa.

After lunch, we went to the bustling shopping district and visited the Cathedrale St. Andre. Then we drifted out to the more rundown area closer to the train station, where I found myself drawn to the mix of Arabic and African restaurants. But after walking through the Basilique St. Michel, it was back to the Auchan to dream up another meal. Somehow, this one turned out even cheaper as we split yet another damn baguette and a large 90-cent wheel of Camembert, France's favorite and smelliest cheese. Both were passable but the real star was our other buy, a package of two caneles.

I had developed the tendency of freezing in front of every patisserie I passed, gazing open-jawed at the glittering array of tarts and pastries. I knew most of them all too well, but foundmyself confounded by the little cake-like creatures in the shape of a lampshadeand the shade of a varnished deck. With a little investigating, I learned they were called caneles and the ones in Auchan's pastry department turned out to be the cheapest we could find. I took a bite of mine and immediately loved it. It was exceptionally moist with very prominent flavors of eggs and rum. It was similar though better than a baba au rum. I wished that I could have a few more, but unfortunately, my time in Bordeaux was through.

2005-09-12T16:37:00.000-04:00

Sept. 2.

Bordeaux, Part Two - When we last left our hero, he was sick and homeless in Bordeaux. With the temperature dropping, I was also now shivering. But with nowhere to go, Vince and I settled on a bench and tried to kill the seven or eight hours until our hostel would open. Having finished my Murakami novel, I started in on Sartre. It was a great read but I found it impossible to concentrate. I was spending too much energy sniffling and rubbing my arms to keep the goosebumps down. I also really had to go to the bathroom now. But I forced myself back to the page to read as much as I could tolerate. When it felt like two hours had gone by, I got up to check the parking meter. Twenty minutes. I started to pace around the block, trying to endure fifteen-minute blocks. As long as I could get to one-fifteen, I reasoned, I could get to one-thirty. Still, time moved as slowly as a turtle on heroin. Around three, the pain in my bladder became too painful to take. I found a desolate, unlit street off the Rue Buffon and squeezed between two dumpsters. On my first day back in France, I was reduced to pissing like a bum.

Somehow, finally, five o'clock came. The first buses of the day were running again and a pallid blue hue started to peek through the black. We hoisted our backpacks back on and walked halfway to the station before we found the right bus. The few other passengers looked bleary-eyed and adrift. When we got to the Gare St. Jean, a man was twisting a coat hanger to steal chips from a vending machine. Bums in defeated winter jackets were pawing through trash cans. At least it was warmer here, I tried to convince myself.

Vince and I took refuge in the sale d'attente, or waiting room, with the other anxious travelers. I tried to get some sleep with my bag clenched between my legs but I was too nervous. I looked enviously at the man in the center of the room. He was lying with his face down on the floor, so still and straight and oblivious to the thundering noises of rumbling trains and slamming doors that I thought he might be dead. It was then that I realized what had happened: I was trapped in the middle of a Tom Waits song.

I ended up sleeping in paranoid half-hour intervals, more out of need than desire at this point. Then eventually, the ordeal had ended and we made our grateful return to the hostel. By now, the sun was shining and I was too numb to feel too bad. When we arrived at Hotel Studio, we even got the good news that we wouldn't be charged for the previous night. Still, I felt that Bordeaux would have to work pretty hard to undo its earlier slight.

I took a nap and ventured out to see the town. To my delight, it was not only well worth the trip but turned out to be my favorite stop on the trek thus far. Filled with shops and bistros, galleries and wine shops, I was utterly disarmed by its charming and unassuming allure.It felt like a modest neighborhood of Paris without the tourists or the city's accelerated pace. It wasn't centered around landmarks, souvenirs or double-decker buses. It just was what it was, an enchanting, relaxing ville in the heart of wine country.

For lunch, I found a Champion supermarket and roamed the aisles. I ended up with a baguette, a jar of store brand Nutella knockoff and, in the interest of recovery, a bottle of fresh-pressed clementine juice and some bananas. It had been ages since I'd had the silky brown chocolate-hazelnut spread and I'd forgotten how decadently good it was. After lunch and some MTV Europe and then a dinner of more Nutella and bread, I ventured back out to explore the town again, which I still couldn't get enough of.

2005-09-10T16:14:00.000-04:00

Sept. 1.

Bordeaux, Part One - It was going to be a tense day, that much we knew. The only train Vince and I could take from Valencia was leaving at one and arriving in Norbonne at ten-fifteen. We would then have only thirteen minutes to transfer to the train heading to Bordeaux. Once we got there at midnight (if we got there), we would have to find a way from the train station to the city center a half hour away. Then if we accomplished all that, there was still the very real possibility that we would find our hostel closed for the night.

But whatever, I thought, there'd be plenty of time to worry. First, we needed to pay a last visit to the Mercado Central in Valencia and stock up on everything we'd be eating that day. Trying to keep it as cheap as possible, I went with a hundred grams of a generic-looking ham and a hundred grams of mortadela, a kind of bologna that's almost always the least expensive meat the vendors sell. I also got a whole wheat baguette and, just to keep things educational, two paraguayos. The fruits, also called doughnut peaches in the UK, intruiged me ever since I saw them. Still, I figured they couldn't be very good. They looked like squashed peaches, with the same fuzzy, faded coloring but also a flattened, depressed shape. However, all the signs at the fruterias promised they'd be "muy dulce," or very sweet, as if the ugly paraguayos needed to be defended.

I started the trip by making a mortadela sandwich. I probably haven't eaten bologna in about ten years, so I was kind of taken aback by how much I enjoyed the meat. It wasn't elegant, it wasn't subtle, it wasn't refined, but it was rich, fatty and filling, a hat trick of deliciousness as far as I was concerned. I also ate my first paraguayo and was very pleasantly surprised. Once I got past the off-putting outside, I was rewarded with a sweet, juicy white inside, similar to a white peach. I didn't even try to ration my second one, eating it right away.

Around six, when we were inching out of Spain's northernmost towns where people were still lounging on beautifully isolated beaches, hunger struck again. I had the second half of the baguette and the ham. It tasted better than it looked, but was still nothing special. I went back to reading my Murakami novel and wondering if we'd make our connection. Thankfully, the train was extremely punctual and delivered us to Norbonne with time to spare. We had completed the first iffy part of our trip successfully.

By eleven-fifty, we had reached Gare St. Jean in Bourdeaux. I was so happy and excited to be in France, in the land where vins and fromages were elevated to art, that I started to assume that everything would turn out all right. I was so enchanted by the fluid turns of French girls' tongues around hard R's and soft N's that I started to forget I had acquired a fever and a runny nose over the course of the day. Then we found the town's bus still running and rode it all the way to the stop we needed. By now, I was feeling really rough and I had run out of tissues, but at least we had reached the centre ville smoothly.

All we had left to do was get into our hostel. We'd e-mailed thel the day before to let them know of our late arrival, hoping that would prove enough. With our backpacks weighing on us, we trudged down the Rue Hugurie and saw the front office of the hostel dark. We rang the bell and knocked loudly. There was no answer. We tried again and again with the same result. It started to occur to us that we had been locked out. In my worst case scenario, I figured we could always find another hostel or at least a cheap hotel. So we went north, we went south, east, then finally west. All the lodgings were dark. Most were also full. Even the few bistros and cafes that were still open were closing. My forehead felt like a can left in the sun when it became painfully clear: we were stranded in Bordeaux with nowhere to go.

2005-09-09T00:59:00.000-04:00

Aug. 30.

Valencia, Part Two - It was another morning, which meant another visit to the market. Today, I got ciabatta from the panaderia, jamon serrano from the carneceria, and a handful of mesclun and three ripe tomatoes from the fruteria. The mesclun was an important addition, providing some much welcome greenery and crunch. More important were the tomatoes, which I was eating because I didn't know if I'd ever want to eat them again. Tomorrow, we'd be going to the Tomatina festival, engaging in a brutal hour-long grand-scale fight. Biting into the rapturously succulent skin of the first tomato, I hoped I wouldn't have to turn against such a great fruit. Afterwards, Vince and I went to the Museo del Bellas Artes, which meant looking at three hundred more depictions of Jesus as an infant or Jesus being crucified. Luckily, they also had a special exhibit of Josef de Ribera portraits which I rather enjoyed.

For dinner, we decided we needed another "splurge." As it was the night before Tomatina, everyone was sitting at the outdoor bars, where round after round of drinks occupied all the tables. Walking around town was like being at the Tower of Babel and I was enjoying all the palpable excitement. We ended up at the Bar Pilar, another destination recommended by Vince's guidebook. It served tapas and specialized in mejillones, or mussels. The area under the bar was even lined with plastic buckets, where diners threw their emptied black shells afterward. Not ones to ignore a specialty, we went with an order of mussels, tried again with patatas bravas, split two sandwiches and each got a glass of their cheapest wine. Sandwich-wise, Vince ordered his standby, a tortilla francesa with jamon. I tried to branch out with the blanco y negro, which came with a white strip of lomo and a dark black pudding.

The mussels were tasty, soaking in a tomato-pepper broth. Still, it was the broth more than the mussels that was unique. On the merits of the seafood alone, I preferred the ones in the paella the previous day. As for the patatas bravas, the potatoes had a nice crispy outside, with a base of spicy sauce and topped with a thick dollop of mayo and in terms of the sandwiches, the omelette was quite good, improved by the salty cuts of ham. I also enjoyed my piece of lomo. However, resolved to give the ominous black pudding a try, I can now say that I have no need to try any more. Until I get resurrected as a Brit, ground meats masquerading as puddings will not be my cup of tea.

Then, finally, it was August 31st, a day that was nine years in the making. Ever since I first heard of Tomatina, the annual festival that's really just one huge tomato target practice, I knew I would have to attend. I dreamed of being one of those red-drenched lunatics in the bloodbath of seeds and skins, featured in a clip on the news every year, and I dreamed of venturing into the Spanish countryside to peg strangers in the head with projectiles and to have them assault me right back in a hailstorm of produce.

We took the half-hour trip to Buñol on a special Tomatren. Everyone headed there was either quiet or nervous, awaiting the carnage to come. In the town plaza, where all the buildings were draped in clear tarps, the crowd only grew and grew. As we assembled, we all focused on a soap-greased pole near the front, at the top of which dangled a giant ham. The goal was to climb to the top and capture the ham, thus kicking off the start of the festival. People piled on, desperately clinging to the slippery wood, eager to emerge the hero.

We watched, we laughed, we cheered, we booed when the selfishness sent the pile topping, we sang "olé olé olé!" when a communal mood struck. We were ecstatic and young and even those of us who weren't felt like they were. It took about an hour of anticipation, of false starts and near-misses, of rivalries and pulled down pants for the ham to come down too. Now all we had to do was celebrate and wait for the trucks of tomatoes to barrel down the streets.

Soon, it was madness. Hoses of water rained down on the crowd. A streak of red whirred past my ear. Another bright blur sailed over my head and splattered against the wall. I was covered in juice. We were so tightly packed. I grabbed eight weapons at once and launched them. I ducked and dove. Others rose up on the ledges and made themselves targets. They were pelted mercilessly and without pause. More trucks kept coming. I kept throwing. I kept being thrown at. An uncrushed tomato smashed directly into my eye. I started blinking red. Everything was red. Everyone was wet and gummy. People kept chanting louder, defiant. Another tomato smacked into my ear. I started getting malicious on innocent targets. Time went by and the center of the plaza turned into a swamp, a swamp that ate flip-flops and balled-up T-shirts and sometimes even whole people. I squeezed my way into the center, the swamp, the pulpy core of danger. The tomatoes flew even more ferociously there. Everyone was completely drenched. I was more tomato than man now, a tomato down to the atomic level. We had been swallowed up and shat out as a rough, crunchy ketchup.

Then a horn sounded and somehow, the war just as suddenly ended. The townspeople started to hose us down and sell us beer. Car radios pumped out catchy beats and former enemies danced together in the streets. The few men still wearing shirts stripped them off and the women walked around in their stained bikinis, basking in the adventure we had all endured together, the experience we had all contributed to creating.

Exhausted and still picking chunks of tomato out of my hair, I caught the train back to Valencia and took one of the longest showers of my life. I got a lot of food at the supermarket and ate ravenously. Still, I made sure that my jamon serrano, mixed green salad, bottle of horchata, rustic baguette and four containers of banana yogurt would also last into dinner. The bit-of-a-splurge ham was incredible and the special-to-Valencia horchata was cinnamon-y and interesting, but for once in the end, the food was but a detail in an insane day that took nine years to ripen.

2005-09-06T17:19:00.000-04:00

Aug. 28.

Valencia, Part One - Neither Vince nor I cared too much for Valencia. It wasn't a bad city per se, but it couldn't compete with the heights of the previous three. To me, it felt most like a mini-Madrid, without the capital's grandeur. And speaking of Madrid, the comparison was all the more apparent, because we had to stop there and transfer trains, which added up to a very long day. During our layover in Madrid, we found a bar near the station, with the usual cast of characters: an old man smoking at the counter and meditatively sipping a glass of wine, an old woman obsessively feeding the slot machine, a few younger people grabbing a quick bite to eat. In that setting, I decided to try the calamari sandwich after seeing it on so many menus. The bread here was below average but the seafood made up for it. It was warm, fried and fresh, with six large rings for a reasonable 3.20. It filled me up until our eventual arrival in Valencia at eight, when we just went to the closest supemarket we could find. With the deli counter closed, we improvised with Emmental dip, ham, plum tomatoes, plums and a package of whole wheat toast. It was good enough for the night.

The next morning, we immediately headed to the Mercado Central, yet another massive market. This one was the largest yet with the capacity to hold a thousand stalls. The meat and cheese were by and large more expensive here, but the bread was more varied. We bought a triangle of very good Brie and, in an effort to add sole variety, Vince suggested we try the sobresada. Once the woman at the charcuterie cut it for us, we realized the bright orange meat looked raw. I asked if it could be eaten as is, and she said it was like a patè; It just needed to be spread on bread. So I got a baguettina and applied the cheese and sobresada across it. It tasted like mushy pepperoni, interesting for sure but probably not something I'd get again. I also went back and bought some sweet Valencia oranges, figuring this would be the place to do it.

For dinner, we left the city center, where we were staying and walked an hour east to the coast. We'd heard that the best paella in Valencia, which is supposed to have the best paella in Spain, could be found in an area called Las Arenas. It was right on the beach, and after some searching, we found a strip of restaurants all dishing out that famous pot of yellow rice. Compâring the prices and the popularity of the places, we settled on one called La Baraka. There we could get paella de mariscos, or seafood paella, for 8.70€ each. It took a half hour to prepare, but when it arrived steaming, the smell intoxicated me.

While I doubt we'd stumbled upon the best paella in the city, it was the best I've had. Oilier than its New York counterparts, it contained much firmer rice that gave it a crunchier texture. The seafood was also fresher, with the mussels being particularly great. I was surprised though that the portion, while certainly fairly-sized, wasn't more intimidating. So much of the food we'd encountered otherwise was so spoilingly affordable.

2005-09-03T17:51:00.000-04:00

Aug. 26.

Granada, Part Two - To start our third day, we returned to the Mercado, revisiting all of the stands we'd hit the previous day. The proprietors recognized us and were even friendlier today. There was a real sense of community here. Afterward, we took our mild goat's cheese and fat-free ham to a bench in the park. I gave a bum some of my spring water for his dog, and he spent the next fifteen minutes raving about how America was destroying the world and how George Bush was evil. Unfortunately for my country, a lot of the non-bums I've talked to also share that opinion.

For dinner, we returned to the supermarket and pieced together more bargain sandwiches. Tonight, it was lomo (the pig's back) and a semi-cured sheep's cheese. In our effort to go upscale, we also upgraded from the 65 cent wine to a bottle for 1.26. It went just as quickly. Afterwards, we went to an Arabic teteria called Kasbah, that was decorated with billowing silks and colorful patterns. I had a pot of tea made from violets and we clapped along to the swaying beats as a beauitful bellydancer entranced the crowd.

On our last day, we got meat and cheese from a charcuterie, but both proved disappointing. The cheddar was painfully sharp and the chicken tasted processed and gross. At least, our bread was as good as ever. For dinner, as we wandered Granada's curving streets for the final time, I wqs determined not to repeat Barcelona and Madrid's mistakes. We laid our stakes on Kebab King, where I got a Shawarma Taj Majal, filled with yogurt, salad and pollo picante. The yogurt and salad were both great, but here, it was the very spicy chicken and hotsauce that won me over. Like Granada itself, the flavors lingered long after the meal was gone and I didn't mind at all.

2005-09-03T17:42:00.000-04:00

Aug. 24.

Granada, Part One - The difference in Granada is instantly visible. It's located in Andalusia, Spain's Southern region and the area previously inhabited by the Moors. Thus, the Muslim influence is far more pronounced and in fact, central to the city's character. Women in burqas populate the streets, teterias, or tea shops, line the blocks, and the aromas of spices and fruity tobaccos drift through the districts. It's also home to the Alhambra, a mind-boggingly intricate 14th century Muslim palace and one of the world's most beautiful landmarks.

When we arrived in Granada though, I was too hungry and tired to take in the culture. It was only in the zeakness of this state can I rationalize what I did. Instead of seeking out some authentic and delicious secret of Spain, I settled on Bocatta, the local answer to Subway. (Though they also have Subway.) I thought Bocatta, a fast-food spot we'd seen in Barcelona and Madrid, might be an improvement from the weak fare most chains serve up back home. Apparently however, nothing was lost in translation. My bocadillo of jamon serrano wasn't terrible, but it was more expensive and smaller, with worse bread and meat, than any nearby bar serving the same thing. Disappointed, I wrote off the meal as a moment of excess optimism. Dinner was better, simpler and cheaper fortunately. We found a supermarket where we bought chorizo and turkey at the deli counter, some cucumbers and fruits, and a 65 cent bottle of wine. Best of all, the wine was surprisingly good, at least for the price.

Reinvograted the next day, Vince and I visited the Mercado San Agustin, Granada's version of the Mercat de la Boqueria. Again, we had tons of choices for fresh breads, produce, meats, cheeses, and seafood, with about a hundred and fifty vendors to select from. As each one specialized in one area, we walked around, comparing prices and assembling our lunch piecemeal. Today, it was a sandwich of burado, a cheese made from sheep's milk and a fat-free ham. The ham was average and bland, but the cheese wowed me, the best of the trip thus far.

After lunch, we went to tackle the Alhambra, our main reason for visiting Granada. It was as awe-inspiring as I remembered, with the walls of the Alcazabar palace being the highlight. They were as naturally harmonious as Fibonacci numbers, producing elegant symmetries that dazzled the eye. The Generalife, the sultan's retreat was also beautiful, with its plentiful flower gardens and fountains. After spending five hours touring the site, we decided to maintain the Arabic theme for dinner. Vince's guidebook recommended Al-Andalus, which specialized in kebab and shawarma, just like about forty percent of the restaurants in Granada. My shawarma mixto, with a mix of chicken, beef, salad, yogurt and mushrooms, proved to be a true standout though. In fact, I'd say it's the best shawarma I've had. Its best feature was by far the yogurt, which was creamy and deeply flavorful, but the cuts of beef were also a cut above the rest.

2005-08-30T07:35:00.000-04:00

Aug. 23.

Madrid, Part Three - Supermarkets, supermarkets, supermarkets. That's the watchword for the budget traveler and it's certainly been ours. And with a Capabro located just up the block from our hotel, it couldn't have been easier. Thus, our third morning in Madrid started with another visit to the deli counter, and a hundred grams each of brie and turkey. Brie's among my very favorite cheeses and this one met the challenge. It really went well with our whole wheat baguette.

Newly energized, we set out for more sightseeing. The first stop was Chueca, which the guidebook called ¨bohemian,¨ but was closer to one part Soho, two parts Chelsea. We also wandered through an unending stretch of Chinese fabric and clothes shops. More interesting was the Plaza Mayor, the most prominent and beautiful town square, and the extravagant gilt of the Palacio Nacional.

As dinnertime neared, we looked for cheap alternatives to avoid the supermarket sandwich fate for one night. Vince froze in front of a pasteleria, or pastry shop, perusing all the alluring confections. ¨We could just eat dessert tonight,¨ he suggested, half-joking. I gave him a second to retract before eagerly agreeing. After all, we were young, crazy and on vacation. What better way to express that than dessert for dinner?

Luckily, Tahona San Onofre was fantastic. Besides a very friendly counterwoman, their pastries and cakes were all intricate and wondrous. One cake had a scene from Snow White sculpted on it in icing. We spent ten minutes vacillating between the rows and rows of sweet opportunities. Finally, I went with a coca de castaña, an apple tart and three mini-pastries. The coca de castaña was a thick sheet of baked dough topped with candied fruits. It was great and novel, though by the end, proved a little too sweet. The apple tart consisted of baked dough in the shape of an eye and about the size of a large soapdish, and layered apples that were cradled inside, sweetened with cinnamon sugar. It was magnificent, so soft and wonderfully seasoned. My mini-pastries were also uniformly excellent, almost at the level of a Financier or Payard.

Our last day in Madrid was a quieter one. We got a post-noon start and with no particular landmarks left, we just aimlessly drifted, choosing streets randomly. For lunch, I kept it light, getting a bottle of water, and a peach, plum and tomato. The produce in Spain has ranged from good to extraordinary and these three choices all tilted to the latter end. Around five-thirty however, we were both getting hungry again. We checked out the menus del dia at the restaurants circling Plaza Mayor, and most of them were around ten euros. That's pretty cheap for a three-course prix-fixe, but we wanted to see if we could do better. Vince had read in his guidebook that Chinese restaurants were very inexpensive and known to serve large portions. I hadn't had Chinese food in a while, and wondered if it could be any good in Spain. I doubted it but I didn't mind the prospect of large, cheap portions.

We found a place after some searching but it was closed. The menu was in fact quite inexpensive and we wanted to wait it out, but there were no hours posted. No problem, we reasoned. We'd hit upon another one soon. After an exhaustive effort, we turned up another one with comparable prices. Again, it was closed with no hours posted. We knew that Spaniards didn't typically eat dinner until eight and that most restaurants didn't pick up until nine, but we hadn't expected the utter desolation of earlier choices. It was also then in our quest that we noticed the dearth of other nationalities. We hadn't seen any other Asian restaurants-- no Thai, no Japanese, no Vietnamese, any other European-- no French, no German, no Italian besides pizza. I'm sure there were some out there, but for a capital city to be so inundated with Spanish food and doner kebab at the expense of everything else seemed strangely limited.

We weren't able to find any more Chinese restaurants, open or closed, but we now felt set on it. Vince remembered that we'd passed one near our hotel, so we headed back in that direction. it was nearing eight already by the time we approached, frustrated but hopeful. Sure enough, with the way our luck was going, a construction crew was stationed in front of the restaurants. Pipes were exposed, workers were carrying in pieces of sheetrock, and the owner was outside yelling at the foreman. ¨When are you serving food again?¨I asked him when he'd finished yelling. ¨Not till Friday,¨ he answered. We had waited this long. We had traveled this far. Now, we were sunk.
Our last resort was to ask at our hotel if there were any more Chinese restaurants in the area. Surprisingly, there was one. I did my best to translate the desk clerk's directions, and we ended up at Palacio Oriente, a remote spot I can't imagine many people finding on their own. We were just relieved that it was open. The place was huge, able to seat a hundred comfortably, but for the duration of our meal, we were the only ones there. Still, we ate on, each ordering an asparagus soup with crab meat, and splitting the pork with bamboo shoots and Chinese mushrooms and the chicken with almonds. The liquor list proved to be an even better bargain than the food, with options like sake and lychee liquor being only one euro. Vince got the former, while I got the latter.

The soup was pretty good with its pieces of white asparagus, but also nothing special. The chicken was unpleasantly salty and while the pork was better, it was still average and oily. As we ate, I wondered why we'd wanted Chinese in the first place. Unfortunately, it only got worse from there. Even though we were the only ones there, the owner mostly ignored us as she ate dinner with her family at a table out of view. She tried to pressure us into ordering desserts that neither of us wanted. But it was only when the check came that we were really bothered. She had charged us six euros for the sake and three for the liquor, nearly as much as the rest of our meal.

I went up to argue and she said that she'd asked ¨¿con comida?¨when I ordered. I took that to mean, did we want drinks with the food rather than before. She insisted that in Spanish, ¨con comida¨ meant, did we want enough alcohol to go with all of our food. I asked her to adjust the price somewhat and after some debate, she let us off at ten euros a piece. That dropped the total about four and a half euros. We felt better but still cheated, especially because the food wasn't all that good. ¨We should have recognized the bad omens,¨ Vince said. For the second time in a row, it was an underwhelming end to an otherwise exciting city.

2005-08-26T17:38:00.000-04:00

Aug. 23.

Madrid, Part Two - Our second day involved another epic hike around the city. We ended up back at the Puerta del Sol, after finding almost every restaurante and supermercado closed. I suggested we try Maoz's vegetarian falafel, if only because I was getting very bored eating sandwich after sandwich. For 3.20 euros, I got a pita overloaded with five balls of fried chickpeas. There was also a salad bar, with plenty of tempting options to fill the pita with. After subsisting for a week on bread, meat, cheese, and raw produce, the concept of prepared veggies seemed like a godsend. I maxed out on great curried chickpeas, spiced carrots, butter pickles and three tongs' worth of salad. I also put plenty of the green salsa picante over everything. It made for a fantastic meal, my best of the trip. While the falafel wasn't quite up to the par of Alfanoose, the exteriors being a little too thick and deeply fried, all the extras put this lunch over the top. Already, we're planning on hitting up one of Maoz's five locations in Amsterdam.

After lunch, we visited the Prado, which was free on Sundays. I wasn't too impressed the first time I went, and similarly, I was left largely cold this time. The art in the museum's three-floor collection dates mostly in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, while my aesthetic veers toward the modern and abstract. (In hindsight, I should've gone back to the more contemporary Reina Sofia instead. When we tried on Tuesday, our last day in town, we learned that was when it was closed.) Post-Prado, we toured the Retiro, Madrid's signature park and, after only Central Park, my second favorite in the world. It was as alluring as ever.

For dinner, we of course made a return trip to the Museo del Jamon and bought some of that deep burgundy ham hanging proudly on display, some standard pink ham, a harder cow's cheese they featured as ¨especialidad de la casa,¨ and two whole wheat baguettes. It was all stunningly cheap and the special ham was stunningly good. Splitting a dirt-cheap bottle of Cabernet we picked up along the way, we had a feast in our hotel room, gambling on games of Texas Hold 'em to end our second day in Madrid.

2005-08-26T17:20:00.000-04:00

Aug. 22.

Madrid, Part One - Our journey to Madrid got off to an exciting and tense start when we just barely made the train. After that close call though, it was smooth sailing and five hours later, Vince and I arrived in Spain's capital city. Of all the cities in Europe, I've spent the most time here, studying Spanish over a three-week period. Madrid was much like I remembered it, steeped in lavish and classically European architecture and majestic parks and public arenas. Compared to Barcelona, it also felt older and more serious, less interested in stimulating the tourist's appetites.

Our appetites were plenty stoked though, as it was approaching three o'clock. We left Atocha station and found a nearby bar to get more sandwiches. (In Spain, a bar is like an American cafe with a full bar.) This time, I had salchichon (salami) on another excellent and immense baguette, whereas Vince went with the jamon York. The owner, amused by our lack of mastery with the language, offered us a bowl of peanuts too.

After lunch, we hoisted our backpacks back on and took the metro to our hotel. It was located just a few streets away from the Plaza de Toros, Madrid's world-famous bullring. We put down our stuff, I swam in the pool, and we set out to wander more of the city at night. We walked by the magnificent kingdom of the Palacio de Comunicaciones, down the Gran Via, around the bustling Puerta del Sol and back toward our neighborhood. Along the way, I spotted the Museo del Jamon, or the Museum of Ham, and we knew right away this was where we had to have dinner.

A huge space with a bar, table seating, and a vast deli counter, we had tons of possibilities to choose from. While we pondered, we took in the sight of the massive hamhocks of jamon iberico hanging from the ceiling, stretching from entrance to exit. I ended up going with the croissant mixto, which came with strips of ham and cheese, and I added tomato too. While the croissant was on the stale side, the ham was truly terrific. Vince loved his omelette as well, pronouncing it the best thing he´d had in Spain thus far. We both agreed this was one museum we'd be happy to curate.

2005-08-22T19:03:00.000-04:00

Aug. 20.

Barcelona, Part Three - On our last day in Barcelona, we went to Playa Barceloneta, a dark-sand beach at the base of the city. The water was a little too cold for swimming, but I wandered around the Mediterranean shore for a while. Despite the brisk wind, plenty of natives were tanning. It made for some of the best sightseeing of the trip. Afterward, Vince and I walked along sidestreets, ending up in the busy hub of Playa Catalunya. It´s located at the northern tip of Las Ramblas, the strip of walk that´s home to street performers, caricaturists, flower vendors and loads of tourists.

For dinner, we finally had our first tapas of the trip. After comparing prices at nearly every restaurant we passed, we ended up settling for a place just off of the Plaza called Edelmann. It seemed a little too central and Americanized to be too good, but the prices were the cheapest we found. (On this trip, that makes a difference.) Right away, we were pegged as Americans, given English menus, and a waiter fluent in English came by. We pressed on, alternating picks, ending up with a respectable variety of dishes. Vince chose the spinach omelette, the potatoes in aioli, and cod fritters. I picked the baby squid stuffed with beef, mushrooms sauteed with ham, and something mysterious called ¨la bomba picante¨or ¨the hot bomb.¨I also had a large mug of San Miguel beer.

The light omelette was pretty good as were the cod fritters, whose crunchy shells contrasted well with the meaty white fish. Neither of us liked or finished the potatoes, whose supposed aioli was really just unsalted mayo with dill. Vince was right to compare it to an unfinished potato salad. As for my selections, the squids themselves were tasty but the ground meat filling was not, the mushrooms were good but not interesting and the hot bomb was great, my favorite dish of the night. It turned out be a large fried ball of potatoes and meat, topped with a spicy sauce. It was new and exciting and one of the few things that stood out. Otherwise, we were left not exactly disappointed but at least underwhelmed. In a city famous for its food, we ended up with something decidedly average.

Luckily, that mediocrity was tempered by our two earlier meals. We´d been so enamored with the Mercat de la Boqueria, we ended up going back for our penultimate dinner and breakfast. Revisiting the various stands, we dreamt up the infinite combinations for all the possible sandwiches we could have. On the first go-around, we had chorizo pamplona, a bright red pork reminiscent of salami and queso ahumado, a smoked cheese that was similar to Gouda. The next time, we got smoked salmon and a soft, salty goat cheese. Both sandwiches were delicious and extremely affordable. It just goes to show some of the best meals are the ones you make yourself.

2005-08-18T20:35:00.000-04:00

Aug. 18.

Barcelona, Part Two - August is apparently the cruelest month. On our third day in Barcelona, we were all excited about checking out one of the city's premiere tapas bars, Cal Pep. We went early just to ascertain its location, only to learn that it's closed for the month of August. It was a disappointing blow, but luckily, I came armed with back-up. My friend Manny had raved to me about another tapas hotspot called Quimet y Quimet. Vince and I made the trek over to the Poble Sec stop and finally tracked down the street it was on. Although it was set to open at seven, the door remained close. We made another circle around the block and finally asked a waitress across the street. "They're on vacation until September," she explained in Spanish. We just shook our heads and limped away.

A few streets down, we consoled our tapas-free stomaches with doner kebap, which literally translates to "rotating meat." It's an Arabic lamb sandwich that's filled with lettuce, tomatoes, onions (though I get mine "sin cebolla"), dressing and if you want, hot sauce. It was pretty incredible in Berlin, distinguished especially by the terrific bread. In New York, doner can be found in Turkish restaurants, but it's nowhere near as good, because the lamb comes pocketed in a pita instead of that wondrous bread. I was planning to wait until Germany, where doner kebab is said to be the best-selling fast food, and that may have been the right instinct. The doner in Barcelona was certainly not bad, but the flatbread wasn't quite there, there was too much of the ranch-y dressing, and the hot sauce barely registered. Another minor disappointment that night, if only by comparison, were the patatas bravas Vince and I sampled at a tapas bar afterward. We weren't all that hungry but we wanted to see if they could compare to the delicious ones served at Tia Pol. But no, they weren't crispy enough, the tangy sauce lacked tang and they seemed altogether ordinary.

Today, we reserved our tickets for Madrid and Granada at the train station and I made do with another bocadillo for lunch. This time, it was chicken and lettuce with mayonnaise. Once again, it was huge and filling, and came on a great crunchy baguette. We spent the day sightseeing visiting the Palau Nacional, the Olympic Stadium, Montjuic and the Botancial Gardens, taking in the gorgeous views of the city below us. We've been walking an incredible amount and drinking liters and liters of water. (A liter and a half of water today cost 21 cents, which is only about an American quarter.) Tomorrow, we've resolved to try our luck with tapas again. Gambas and chorizo only come to those who persevere.

2005-08-17T15:48:00.000-04:00

Aug. 17.

Barcelona, Part One - So here I am in Barcelona in a dingy Internet cafe. It´s strange to be back here, since this was the first place I ever visited in Europe, back when I was a mere sixteen years old. Seven years later, I´m returning to majestic sights such as Gaudi´s La Sagrada Familia and Park Guell, and in addition to the attractions themselves, it´s almost as if I´m revisiting my old self. Foodwise, it´s been an interesting experience as Vince and I are attempting to keep it as affordable as possible. We been eating bocadillos at bars, and so far, I´ve tried lomo (the back of the pig) and jamon del pais (Spanish ham). They´ve both been huge and filling on some terrific bread, and quite a bargain at about two and a half euros. Last night, we went to a supermercado and bought bread, bleu cheese, packaged ham, tomatoes, fruits, and a big bottle of red wine. The whole thing was only four and a half euros between us, and the wine was only a euro! (That´s about a dollar twenty at the moment.) This morning, we walked around the Mercat de la Boqueria, off of Las Ramblas, a tremendous open-air market full of pigs´ heads, fresh fish, meats, cheese, fruits, candy and other assorted treats. I had some amazing gelato at a stand, choosing mango and Vietnamese pitahaya, which I´d never even heard of. Then Vince and I bought some cheap semi-soft cheese and had massive sandwiches reusing last night´s bread. Oh, the life of a backpacker.

2005-08-14T03:00:00.000-04:00

Aug. 14.

Special Feature -

Big News - So where we last left off, I had quit my job, moved out of the East Village, and was staying in Brooklyn. As of August 7th, I've been staying in Northern Virginia at my friend Vince's parents' house. (We've been raiding their refrigerator ever since, so no blogging below the Mason-Dixon this time.) In less than three hours, he and I will be flying off to Barcelona to kick off a whirlwind three-month trip backpacking across Europe. After that, I'll be returning to New York for a brief stint to pack up my life into a suitcase or two, and moving out to... San Francisco. Why, you ask? I've always wanted to live in California, and San Fran seems to have some of the best food in the world. I have no idea what I'll do out there, but I'm excited and it looks to be yet another adventure among adventures.

Thus, as I'll be hightailing it across a whole other continent for the next ninety-two days, I expect my blogging to become more sporadic. But I will do my best to post on the road and keep you up to date on my culinary odyssey. (First stop: Cal Pep!) So while things will be different around A Year In Food, they should also be pretty exciting. Finally, if anyone has any advice on must-go places in any of the following destinations (and it has to be extremely affordable!), please post in the comments below...

Itinerary:

August
Barcelona - 15-19
Madrid - 20-23
Granada - 24-27
Valencia - 28-31

September
Bordeaux - 1-3
Nice - 4-6
Lyon - 7-8
Paris - 9-13
Amsterdam - 14-17
Hamburg - 18- 19
Copenhagen - 19-22
Oslo - 23-24
Stockholm - 25-27
Copenhagen - 28
Berlin - 29-Oct.1

October
Frankfurt - 2-3
Munich - 4-6
Prague - 7-11
Vienna - 11-12
Budapest – 13-17
Sarajevo - 18-20
Zagreb - 21-23
Ljubljana - 24-25
Salzburg - 26
Venice - 27
Florence - 28-30
Naples - 31-Nov.1

November
Rome - 2-5
Bologna - 6-7
Geneva - 8-9
Marseille - 10
Barcelona - 11-12

2005-08-06T03:00:00.000-04:00

Aug. 6.

Dinner -

Grimaldi's - 19 Old Fulton St., DUMBO
A large pepperoni, ham and mushroom pie; a large sausage, garlic and sun-dried tomato pie; a Brooklyn Lager
$19

It was going to be my last night in New York for a long time. After so many prized meals in my favorite city in the world, I should have been agonizing over all of the possibilities. Instead, I called up my friends and told them to meet me at Grimaldi's. It was so simple and it seemed perfect: New York-style pizza at perhaps my favorite pizzeria in the city.

There are many reasons I love Grimaldi's, before you even get to the pies. There's the exquisite pepperoni and the red checkered tableclothes. There's the breathtaking view of the Brooklyn Bridge just down the street. I like the sweet smells of tomatoes, cheese and dough that permeate into the crowd whenever someone opens the door. I even enjoy the daunting line of tourists and locals that's permanently stationed outside of the restaurant, and the mood of anticipation they add to the air. But of course, all of that is only an appetizer to some really stunning coal-oven pizza.

Lindsay, Davin, Matt and I split two large pies, each one coming with three toppings. It was just the right amount of food for four very hungry people, and even I was surprised by how quickly it vanished. Making their first visit, all three of them were wowed by the famous blend of the crispy crust, the softer center, the delicate cheese and the terrific toppings. It again made me wonder what some Grimaldi's-bashers were talking about when they complained about uneven pies and mushiness. Maybe I've just been lucky, but over three visits and six pies, I've never had anything short of a phenomenon.

After our satisfying and delicious dinner, with my friends already talking about returning to Grimaldi's, we concluded the meal by walking across the bridge. Dusk was beginning to set in, tinging the sky with ribbons of purples and navies. I saw the building I was working in just the other day on the skyline. I saw the beauty in so many exquisite landmarks I'd taken for granted. As excited as I was to be embarking on a new stage in my life, it was going to be painfully hard to leave my city. With a great visit to Grimaldi's with some of my closest friends, with a stirring walk across the boroughs, I had ensured that I would have a terrific last night, but it was also a reminder of how much I would be missing. 9/10

2005-08-04T03:00:00.000-04:00

Aug. 4.

The Grocery and Ravioli

Corn soup and Bass

Duck and Gingerbread Pudding

Dinner -

The Grocery - 288 Smith St., Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn
Vegetable fritter over tofu salad (amuse) paired with Blanc de Blancs, Charles de Fere Reserve, Brut NV, France; Goat cheese ravioli with red beet borscht, pine nuts, fried shallots and gold beets paired with Sancerre, ‘Les Boucaults’ Domaine Pastou ’04, Loire; Octopus, tomatoes, olivers, purslane, oregano vinaigrette paired with Alvarinho, Auratus ’04, Portugal; some of Manny’s House smoked trout, white cornmeal blini, chive sour cream, quick pickled cucumbers; some of the French Fry salad, hen of the woods mushrooms, parsley, capers, lemon juice, olive oil (complimentary); Barbecue duck dumplings in corn soup with sweet corn and pepper relish paired with Cabernet France, Chinon Baudry ’04, Loire; Foie gras terrine, red onion and peach chutney, hazelnut brioche paired with Late Harvest Petit Manseng, Jurançon Uroulat Charles Hours ’03, France; Striped bass, pea flan, sugar snaps, basil paired with Mourvedre, Reserve Chateau Roulet ’04, Cotes de Provence; Slow-rendered duck breast, quinoa crepe, market carrots, beet greens, black currant red wine sauce paired with Cabernet Sauvignon Freestone ’01, Napa; lemon-lime, guava and mango sorbets (dessert amuse) paired with two kinds of rosé wines; Gingerbread steamed pudding, pan-seared pineapple, sour cream paired with Graham’s Twenty-Year Old Tawny Port; some of Manny’s Chocolate Fig cake, coconut, passion fruit sorbet
$128

I was calling the Grocery around eight to get a reservation. “Hold on just a sec,” said the kind voice answering on the other line. “Let me take a look at what we have for you.” I waited as he flipped through the book. Then he started calling out, “Red snapper go go. Go on the red snapper. Let’s get the string beans.” Suddenly, I realized I wasn’t talking to the host but the chef in the midst of dinner service.

That was my introduction to Carroll Gardens’s Grocery, and it was a very appropriate one. While at many restaurants, the star chefs aren’t even in the kitchens most of the time, Charles Kiely and Sharon Pachter are not only cooking but they’re hosts and waiters too. They’re closely involved with every meal, which gives their small 30-seat restaurant the feel of a friend’s living room. If your friend were a highly respected chef committed to using fresh, seasonal ingredients and smart, innovative approaches to New American food at every turn that is.

Dario, Manny and I had decided to visit the Grocery to celebrate my last week of work. As I was about to leave New York, it was also the last time in a while I’d get to see these good friends. But I insisted that we keep the mood light and the topics away from such thorny fare as our indefinite futures, the thousands of hours we’d dedicated to mundane tasks, and the sorry states of some of our love lives. Instead, we could concentrate on the appealing and reasonably priced menu and the pleasures of good wines.

Just as we’d done at Daniel, Manny and I were attracted to too many options to pick, so we talked Dario into getting the tasting menu with wine pairings. “I guess this is the night to do things up,” he assented. Sharon Pachter came by to explain how it worked and to ask about our preferences or dislikes. Dario said he didn’t want any seafood, and I specifically requested their special of duck dumplings in corn soup. It just sounded too good to omit. “We can definitely do that,” the chef said, smiling. “So it’ll be five courses and then a choice of dessert. You’ll get a half-pour of wine with each course. If you’d like, we can write up a menu and have you approve it and we can just go ahead and surprise you.” We all declared our desire to be surprised.

And consistently surprised we were, from start to end. First came an amuse of a vegetable fritter over a finely chopped tofu salad with more than a half-pour of champagne. It was a light, pleasant start firmly asserting the Grocery’s mission of American food through a thoughtful gourmet lens. This only became more apparent as our proper courses started to emerge.

A goat cheese ravioli was the first appetizer. The pasta was good enough to stand on its own but it was all the better paired with red and gold beets, pine nuts and fried shallots. It had just the right proportion of ingredients and textures, each one meaningfully contributing to the dish without dominating it. Next, we all received a different plate. I got the Portuguese octopus smoked with black tea. It also featured slivers of pickled red onion, Kalamata olives, a red onion reduction and an oregano vinaigrette. I loved the boldness of it, fittingly far more potent and pronounced than the ravioli. Then Manny and I switched midway through and I got his smoked trout on cornmeal blini. While far different, with the trout and Russian crepe reminding me of a high-end lox sandwich, I was just as happy with this as the excellent octopus. And while I didn’t get to try Dario’s striking carrot-lime risotto, he later said it was the best thing he had all night.

Also very cool was that in addition to our three different dishes, we were brought a fourth appetizer of a French fry and hen of the woods mushroom salad to sample. It was a generous move, and the seasoning on the salad was terrific. Right then, I felt pretty sure I could eat hen of the woods mushrooms for the rest of my life and never get tired of them.

The third course for all of us was the soup I’d requested. It was an ideal summer dish, with the warm dumplings and chilled corn contrasting beautifully. The addition of the corn and pepper relish gave this distinct preparation a decidedly Southwestern feel, something that wouldn’t be out of place on a Mesa Grill menu. Again, the simple but very considered blend of high-quality ingredients was disarmingly great, and among many qualified contenders, the soup ended up being my favorite dish.

Our final appetizer was a tender terrine of foie gras, well complemented by a red onion and peach chutney and pieces of brioche topped with hazelnuts. It was another standout, but at this point, that was no surprise. An interesting touch for this course was that Sharon brought out a Jurançon dessert wine and a Riesling, describing the features of both and letting us choose which we preferred. Manny and I both went for the slightly sweet former, while Dario chose the latter.
We’d had four courses at this point, which suggested one entrée was still on its way. Instead, we received two, continuing the trend of going above and beyond. (Another indication of this was the ongoing tendency to give very healthy pours of wine.) The striped bass was superb, only improved by the pea flan and the soffrito of fennel, carrots and onions. I loved the duck breast even more, which could’ve stood up against any French restaurant’s version. The most traditional preparation we had, it incorporated a deep red wine sauce and a side of carrots and swisschard. It was a dish that seemed designed for our cabernet, and was yet another highlight among highlights. And while he also loved the very different corn soup, I think the duck ended up as Manny’s favorite course.

Before dessert, we received three scoops of sorbet in a silver tin. Our flavors were lemon-lime, guava and mango, and they were a refreshing cleanser after the duck’s heaviness. We were also given a pour of two rosés to compare and contrast. Then for dessert, I selected the strange-sounding gingerbread pudding with seared pineapple, coins of grapes and sour cream. It was a unique and satisfying departure that I wholly appreciated. Midway through, I switched with Manny again and sample his chocolate fig cake, coconut and passion fruit sorbet. (The staff had apparently also heard him raving about the mango sorbet and he was rewarded with an extra scoop of it with his dessert.) It was also tasty though the cake was a little too dense for my taste. Still, both the creative desserts went very well with my last pairing of Port (here we were offered four choices of dessert wines). The bit of caramel cognac ice cream I stole from Dario was also quite good.

When we were done with our meals, Sharon and Charles came by to talk with us further. They’d heard bits of our reverent discussion of the dinner and asked if we were chefs. “No, just food fans,” I replied. I raved about the meal to them for a minute and even after all the attention they’ve received, they were genuine and gracious about the praise. From the back, Charles brought out the messenger bag I’d checked and I awkwardly tried to hand him a tip. He smiled and shook his head, as if to say there’s no need. This restaurant wasn’t a moneymaking scheme engineered around draining the customer for all he’s worth. The Grocery, from amuse to dessert, from stellar course to stellar course, is truly a labor of love. 10/10

* A Full Belly covers the brouhaha over the Grocery's 28 food rating in Zagat's 2004 guide
* The New York Times' coverage
* Tikun Olam offers its response

2005-08-02T03:00:00.000-04:00

Aug. 2.

Dinner -

Diner - 85 Broadway, Williamsburg, Brooklyn
Heirloom tomato salad with olive oil, basil and sea salt; a two-cheese plate; whole grilled dorade with bean and red onion salad; a mint julep; a glass of Muscat; a café au lait
$56.13

I guess now is the time for me to bring you up to date on all the shocking twists my life has taken on. After sixteen months, I quit my job at the law firm. The lease on my apartment ended in July and I moved out of my beloved East Village apartment. My friend Pat (who you may remember from such meals at Le Bernardin (see Jul. 22), Kuma Inn (see Jun. 18), Mercadito (see Jan. 9), and everything in Costa Rica (see Feb. 8, Feb. 9, Feb. 10, Feb. 11, Feb. 12, Feb. 13, Feb. 14) let me stay at his place in Greenpoint, which officially made me a weeklong Brooklyn resident. (As for what happens when the week in Brooklyn expires, you’ll just have to keep reading to find out.)

To commemorate my time in Bucktown, I decided to spend the week eating exclusively in the borough’s restaurants. My first meal was going to be at Diner, a spot I’d long been meaning to try. I was excited because it was founded by Mark Firth and Andrew Tarlow, who also opened the tasty Mexican spot Bonita (see Jun. 11). That Diner was one of Pat’s favorite destinations only clinched the deal.

After an extended half-hour walk from Pat’s apartment to the far boundaries of Williamsburg, we reached the restaurant. It was cool from the start: a vintage dining car reconfigured as a trendy but modest hangout. The mood inside was fun, with lots of 20-something regulars and locals. Our waiter came by, and sat down next to Pat on his side of our booth. “Let me tell you about our specials,” he said, taking out a marker. As he introduced the ten or so specials, he scribbled down a keyword for each on the white paper tablecloth. It was quirky but a surprisingly effective way of remembering the available options.

It became even more important when Pat observed that the specials were always the way to go here. The few standard menu items are all pretty good, he explained, but the specials are where the kitchen shines. I was inclined to agree, as they sounded far more adventurous than mussels and burgers. He vacillated between the red snapper and the pork loin before picking the latter. I went with the whole dorade, a fish I’d last had in Costa Rica.

As for appetizers, intrigued by a number of dishes, we decided to split. I got the heirloom tomato salad, whose sweet, juicy tomatoes were accentuated by a liberal dash of extra virgin olive oil, basil and sea salt. The result was a deliciously seasonal, confident and deftly well-proportioned opener. Also tasty were our generous portions of the two cheeses, the harder one of which had been soaked in red wine. It was another subtle touch that paid off in powerful flavors.

My entrée continued the streak of simple but careful cooking. The grilled dorade was very good, with its large serving of unadorned fish, even if it was a little too dry. At points, I thought it could’ve used a little saucing, but a little self-applied lemon juice did the trick just as well. The bean and onion salad also added a necessary vinegary tartness, and made for a far more welcome side dish than a boring lump of rice or a more predictable mix of vegetables.

As my dinner demonstrated, like at so many successful restaurants in Brooklyn, the details at Diner are at the forefront. Whether it's the dark red rind on the cheese or the terrifically fresh tomatoes, Diner successfully hides its culinary seriousness behind a casual air and an admirable ease. But no amount of irony can hide that this Williamsburg favorite is a winner or that my Brooklyn week should be a very promising one. 7/10

* A Gastronome in Training also recommends Diner's brunch in October 2004

2005-07-28T15:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 28.

Alto and Polenta

Pasta and Beef Duo

Cheeses and Marquesa

Dinner -

Alto - 520 Madison Ave., Midtown East
Candied watermelon with goat cheese and arugala salad (amuse); Polenta Integrale - chanterelle mushrooms, white asparagus, braised lumache and preserved truffles (Appetizer); Potato-Spinach "Strangolapreti" - ricotta and potato gnocchi with rabbit "in civet," shaved parmigiano (Pasta); Beef Duo - braised cheek and slow roasted sirloin, cherry tomatoes, smoked eggplant puree and summer squash (Entree); Brunet - goat's milk cheese from Piedmont with crystallized rosemary, apple and pinenuts; Hoch Ybrig - cow's milk cheese from Hoch Ybrig with caraway and shallot marmelata with microfennel salad (Cheese); Marquesa di Cioccolato - roasted figs, candied fennel and zabaglione (Dessert); mignardises; half a bottle of Ghemme Cantalupo 1999; Jasmine Dragon Pearl tea
$138

Some restaurants are born stars. Others take time to develop their shine. Alto, as my recent dinner there suggested, was a little of both.

For starters, I found the décor of the northern Italian restaurant beautiful. It’s all the extravagance and opulence you’d expect of a Madison Avenue address, but it also manages to feel classy and understated. Serene and relaxing, it feels like a four-star setting, even if some of the other arenas fall slightly less loftily.

Service, for example, was erratic, with occasionally glaring mistakes. The strangest encounter was with the sommelier, who reminded me of Lisa Kudrow. I explained the dishes Vince and I were having, and indicated I’d be more interested in a bottle of red. “A light-bodied red would go really well with your courses,” she agreed. I asked her for a few recommendations and puzzlingly watched her turn to the whites section. She pointed out one after another, alternately describing them as oaky, light or supple. “Didn’t you say a red would pair well with the food?” I double-checked. She agreed again, and started flipping further to the back. I thought the problem had been resolved, but for some reason, she showed me three more whites. Even more interestingly, all of her choices were over seventy and many were between one hundred and two hundred. I thanked her and just picked a red that was a better fit for our price range.

Other mistakes included our waiter showing Vince the bottle of Ghemme and giving him the inaugural taste even when I clearly ordered it, and perhaps a snideness in his correcting my pronunciation of Hoch Ybrig. But otherwise, service was top-notch, with a staff member always on hand at the end of a course, and a very friendly waitress who later took over our table.

As for the food, it was mostly excellent, but also not without its problems. Scott Conant, the chef here and the respected L’impero in Tudor City, did a good job with selecting his menu, because there were a lot of tempting options. Focusing on the Alto Adige region of Italy, which borders on Germany, Conant brings the diner to a largely untapped component of Italian dining. There are Germanic influences and an haute French approach to the cooking, bringing fusion a whole new meaning.

Forgoing the tasting menu, we opted for the $72 prix-fixe, which comes with a choice of appetizer, pasta, entrée and dessert. I started with a polenta that featured chanterelles, asparagus, lumache (a kind of snail) and truffles. The polenta itself was wonderful, nearly as lavishly creamy as churned butter. All the ingredients in the dish were also impressively prepared, but at points, I felt like too many flavors were competing for my attention. A simpler preparation could have highlighted the key flavors better.

The next course, the pasta, was by far my favorite. It had been so far deconstructed and refined that it resembled a traditional pasta about as much as a bowl of cereal. Capped with slices of shaved parmesan, the ricotta and potato gnocchi surrounded slivers of rabbit in the center. A finely chopped “salad” of vegetables swirled through the course. It was Keller-esque (see Jun. 4) in its playfulness, and nearly as delicious.

My next course was all about red meat. It capitalized on a current trend of presenting the variations of the same ingredient in the same dish. Here, it was roasted sirloin and braised beef cheeks. It was another great course that displayed a healthy dose of creativity. My one complaint is that the beef cheek seemed boring beside the more dynamic sirloin. Even the smoked eggplant puree wasn’t able to enliven the staid cheeks.

We added a cheese course in between the entrée and the dessert, and selected the Brunet and the aforementioned Hoch Ybrig. The former came with rosemary, apple and pinenuts, while the latter had a microfennel salad and a caraway and shallot marmalade. Both the Brunet, a goat’s milk from Piedmont, and the Hoch Ybrig, a Swiss cow’s milk, were good, but they were overpriced at $12 for two cheeses.

My final course was the chocolate marquesa, which the waiter explained was similar to a mousse. It was a solid dessert, with its thoughtful complements of figs, fennel and zabaglione, but ultimately forgettable. Our mignardises were more enjoyable.

By the meal’s conclusion, Alto seemed to be both a slight disappointment and a restaurant to watch. My dinner there ended up feeling more like a seesaw than a star, with its frustrating vault between heady highs and off-putting lows. I have no doubt that Alto can join the galaxy of New York’s greats in time. For now, it has to polish its shine a little further. 6/10

2005-07-26T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 26.

Dinner -

Babbo - 110 Waverly Pl., Greenwich Village
Chickpea Bruschetta (amuse); Black Spaghetti with Rock Shrimp, Chorizo and Green Chilis; Mint Love Letters with Spicy Lamb Sausage; Duck Tortelli with “Sugo Finto”; Sweet Corn Crema; a bottle of "Terre de Pietra" Lunelli 2000; an espresso; also tried some of Warm Lamb's Tongue Vinaigrette with Hedgehogs and a 3-Minute Egg; Spaghettini with Spicy Budding Chives, Sweet Garlic and a One Pound Lobster; Pappardelle with Pork Ragu; Homemade Orecchiette with Sweet Sausage and Rapini
$76.50

I was hot and sweaty, my dress shirt sticking to my chest. My day at work had been exhausting and the city had replaced the 6 train tunnel with a Turkish bath. Then we stood in the front entrance of Babbo for ten minutes, as people kept squeezing past us, getting in and getting out. Waiters maneuvered around us with trays and the hostess had to keep nudging me of her way. It was not a good start to the night.

Then Alex, Vince, Brian and I took our seats upstairs and started looking over the menu. It was Alex and Brian’s first time there, Vince’s third, and my second, (see Mar. 20) but no one was immune from a watering mouth. All the possible permutations and combinations sent us reeling, and I could barely wait to revisit some of my old favorites. We debated, negotiated and compromised on who would split what dish, practically applying logarithms to the equation. When the dust settled, I was splitting the black spaghetti and the mint love letters with Brian, splitting the duck tortelli with everyone, and tasting a little of whatever was left. For the table, I also ordered a great $30 bottle from the incredibly diverse and lovingly selected list of Italian wines.

As our dishes started to come, I started to forget all about the stress and heat of the day. The black spaghetti, colored with squid ink, was perhaps even better than I remembered it. With chorizo, green chilis and shrimp, the interplay of the ingredients was staggering, each one adding a distinctive and essential element. This was and remained my favorite dish at Babbo, and more so, it's earned its place among some of my favorite dishes of all time. My other carryover, the mint love letters, was nearly as incredible, and just as worthy of adulation. The sharpness of the mint mixed with the zesty kick of the sausage are just another perfect pairing here.

The new dishes I tried couldn't displace the spaghetti or the love letters from the pantheon, but they were all standouts in their own right. The best was the lamb's tongue vinaigrette, which was distinguished by its bold seasoning. The spaghettini was the most beautiful, with a large lobster serving as its centerpiece. The pasta was as spicy as the more famous bucatini all'amatriciana, and while I prefer the latter's shape, this dish was another clear winner. I also really liked the orechiette and the pappardelle, although they weren't as exciting and they probably wouldn't be the courses to order on a first visit. Even the duck tortelli had so a terrific and creamy filling I barely minded that I couldn't taste the duck.

Finally, there was dessert, which again affirmed Gina DePalma's prowess in the pastry kitchen. I had the sweet corn crema with sugary zeppolis to scoop up the delicious sauce. The dish reminded me a lot of the beignets Adam and I shared at the Bar Room at the Modern (see May 29), but it was even more successful here. Creative but earthy, delicate but delicious, this dessert somehow managed to match the heights of the pastas, complementing and completing an amazing meal.

Finishing off my coffee, paying my check and saying good-bye to my friends, I walked back to my apartment to learn there was no power in the building. A girl on the steps handed me a candle and warned me it was disgustingly hot inside. I nodded and thanked her, not surprised at all. It was just that kind of day. But for three glorious hours, I was on another plane entirely, where the atmosphere was electric and the food was miraculous. 10/10

* The Amateur Gourmet and Clotide of Chocolate and Zucchini share their meal at Babbo

* Amazon.com's interview with Mario Batali

2005-07-25T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 25.

Special Feature -

Dessert World Tour - Trips to the dentist were a terror. Every appointment meant another meeting with the drill. By the end of my childhood, I had more metal in my mouth than a Southern rapper. My lapses in brushing were partly to blame, but it had even more to do with my love of sweets. No sugar was totally safe in my house. The freezer was the Bermuda Triangle when it came to pints of ice cream. Boxes of Ferrer Rocher vanished once the seal was snapped. I practically gargled with Yoo-Hoo.

It's no surprise though, as dessert is all about satisfying the pleasure principle. It's about invoking joy and ending a meal on a note of sweetness. Determined to give our blasé day at work a delicious conclusion, Dario and I set out on the Dessert World Tour, cavities and root canals be damned.

Cones - 272 Bleecker St., West Village
A cup of raspberry sorbet and mate gelato
$4.50

Our first stop was Cones, a gelato shop I had to revisit. It's excellent enough to include in my New York gelato trifecta, beside the wonders of Otto (see Apr. 24) and Il Laboratorio del Gelato (see Jan. 16). But unlike these Italian adversaries, Cones is manned by Argentinians and has a uniquely un-European aesthetic. Sweeter and closer in texture to ice cream than super-creamy gelato, I've yet to have a bad scoop. My two samples this time around were certainly no exception. The raspberry sorbet was intense and splendid, suggesting the fruit has as many facets as it has seeds. The strange but very complementary companion I'd chosen was mate, their take on the South American tea. It too was deep and strong, with just the right proportion of sugar and tea. On a sweltering summer night, it was an especially sweet start. 8/10

Rocco's Pastry Shop and Espresso Cafe - 243 Bleecker St., West Village
A cannoli, a cappuccino
$8

For our next stop, we didn't have to travel too far, with Rocco's located just a stroll down from Cones. Its window has always enticed me, with its tempting displays of pastries and cakes, so I welcomed the chance to taste its wares. The focus here was on the cannoli, which is by far the most praised item they serve. It also happened to be Dario's first sample of the Italian dessert. Luckily, we couldn't have picked a better place to introduce him to it. I'll go on record as saying this is the best cannoli I've ever had, even better than current king, Madonia Bakery on Arthur Avenue. The cheese filling was luxurious and sweet but not cloying. The pastry shell was crumbly and crunchy in all the right ways, adding a great contrasting dryness to the smooth, creamy cheese. The ends were also gemmed with bits of lime green nuts. Dario looked up at my empty plate as he took his introductory bite. "You inhaled that thing," he said. When the cannoli is this good, it's hard to eat it any other way. 9/10

Beard Papa's - 740 Broadway, East Village
A cream puff
$1.35

For eleventh grade gym, I had Mr. Sharkey for Polar Bear Running. It spanned from fall to winter and regardless of the temperature, we'd go running along the Hudson River. As we stretched at the start of the period, Sharkey encouraged us to do our best, to prove that we were "rough, tough cream puffs." I haven't really thought about the dessert much since then, but with last year's opening of Beard Papa's, the choux pastry shells and vanilla cream are prominently back on my mind.

A rapidly expanding franchise, with a fourth location in the city coming to Carmine Street, Beard Papa's may be the biggest dessert phenomenon to hit Manhattan since Krispy Kreme. I much prefer cream puffs to doughnuts though, and the ones here proved worthy of setting the standard. A big draw is the freshness of the product. The shells were being baked on a constant basis and the cream was injected inside when I ordered it. Then it was topped off with a sprinkle of powdered sugar and it was ready to go. From the first bite, when the sweet but not overpowering vanilla gushed forward, I wondered if this was the best dollar and change I've ever spent. I'd even keep running around the Hudson in the winter just to work off the calories. 8/10

La Petite Auberge - 116 Lexington Ave., Murray Hill
Half of a chocolate soufflé
$9

It was up to Dario what we’d sample on our last stop. Without a pause, he said, “Chocolate soufflé.” It’s a dish I’ve always enjoyed, but his level of fanaticism for it was inspiring. So we set off for La Petite Auberge, a sharply traditional French restaurant in the midst of Curry Hill that specializes in the buoyant dessert. They offer both chocolate and Grand Marnier versions, and they ask that you allow thirty minutes for the kitchen to prepare it. I called in our order in advance.

When we arrived, I wasn’t quite prepared for La Petite Auberge. It was a total throwback to the French restaurants of yore, and looked practically prehistoric against the younger standards of a Balthazar or an Artisanal. The crowd matched the vibe though, with nearly everyone in the room triple my age. And yet, the soufflé is so classic and established a dessert that it makes sense a place like this would feature it. It also makes sense a place like this, over its decades of operation, would master it.

The soufflé was indeed excellent, as evidenced by Dario’s repeated gasps of pleasure. Once he made sure a change of pants wasn’t in order, we continued to enjoy the baked chocolate dish. It was just firm enough around the perimeter, and wonderfully pliant at the center. It put most chocolate cakes to shame with its deep, rich flavor. Even a week later, Dario was reminiscing about it like most people recall their first love or a favorite summer. For me, it was even as good as that one visit I made to the dentist cavity-free. With all of these amazing and diverse desserts on my plate, that's probably the only time that'll happen. 8/10

* The Sandwich World Tour from July
* The Pizza World Tour from May
* The Dumpling World Tour from April

2005-07-24T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 24.

Special Feature -

Sandwich World Tour - Some people count Mahatma Gandhi or Mother Theresa among their heroes, but for me, it could only be John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich. He was the first to have the masterstroke vision of putting meat between two pieces of bread, and ever since then, the world has never recovered. And while some may argue that the light bulb or the telephone have been bigger advances, I say, I'd rather eat a hoagie in the dark not talking to anyone than calling friends with the lights on and being hungry. So to celebrate the two hundred forty-three years since the Earl's innovation, Vince and I set off on our third gastronomic survey, the Sandwich World Tour.

Eisenberg's Sandwich Shop - 174 5th Ave., Flatiron District
Half of a Turkey Pastrami
$4

Our first stop was Eisenberg's, an old-school Jewish luncheonette that's barely changed since its 1929 opening. The spinning stools at the counter are still there, the same New York standards are still on the menu, the service is still as friendly as I imagine it being three-quarters of a century ago. I'd heard the tuna melt was one of Eisenberg's specialities, but Vince, feeling squeamish about fish and cheese at eleven a.m., suggested the turkey pastrami. We split this instead, an enjoyable if not exciting order. The rye bread was grilled and crunchy, the turkey was standard deli turkey, and the Swiss cheese was tastily melted. It was simple and low-key, much like the place itself. I could've used some Russian dressing to give the sandwich more kick but all in all, a pleasant vintage-feeling start to the day. 6/10

Tony Luke's - 576 9th Ave., Midtown West
Half of a Roast Pork Italian, a Mug cream soda
$6.15

Next, we walked north to check out Tony Luke's, located out by the Port Authority and which, strangely enough, had the decor of a bus depot. Tony Luke's, a recent outpost of the popular Philly sandwich shop, is known for its cheesesteaks but I was more interested in its other star, the Roast Pork Italian. The sandwich was hefty so we split one again, but even half of it would make for a filling lunch. Loaded with a thick stack of pork strips, soft sauteed broccoli rabe, slices of sharp provolone and a generous pour of Italian dressing, the combination was a wonder. Even before finishing my portion, I knew I'd be craving another taste soon, especially after a late-night drinking session or during a Super Bowl party. Even with its remote location and ugly atmosphere, Tony Luke's Roast Pork Italian was well worth the hike. 8/10

5 Ninth - 5 9th Ave., Meatpacking District
Half of a cubano, half of a bahn mi, a Bloody Mary
$30

From the downscale settings of Eisenberg's and Tony Luke's, we traveled down to the decidedly trendier digs of 5 Ninth. An up-and-comer at the foot of the Meatpacking District, its brunch offerings of the cubano and the bahn mi sounded like an intriguing proposition. Would such cheap, casual sandwiches benefit from fancier ingredients and a high-profile kitchen's preparations? I was hopeful when we arrived, wowed by the restaurant's European facade of faded brick and trellises. When we sat out in the garden, I was less optimistic, worried by the usual set of trendsters with their oversized sunglasses and omnipresent cigarettes. Also a semi-bad sign was their Bloody Mary, which they touted as having a top secret recipe. Whatever the recipe was, they won't have to worry about me stealing it. My drink was just average.

It got worse with the arrival of our sandwiches. While they certainly looked attractive enough, they didn't taste any more interesting or creative than the real, ungentrified thing. And besides the gourmet ingredients being hard to detect, the sandwiches didn't even equal their more affordable competition. In the bahn mi, the mayo was watery and weak, and in the cubano, the pork was pretty flavorless. Both of them also used a bread that was tough to chew and not an improvement. The big difference wasn't taste then but price, $12 for a bahn mi that should cost $3 and $15 for a cubano that should cost $5. I won't be suckered again. 4/10

Caracas Arepas Bar - 91 E. 7th St., East Village
Arepa con Perico y Carne Mechada, Choriarepa, a Papelón con Limón ("a refreshing natural blend of sugar loaf and lime"), half of a Camburada (a banana milkshake with a touch of cinnamon)
$20.50

After trying versions of Jewish, Italian-American, Vietnamese and Cuban sandwiches, our last stop on the Tour was Venezueluan. I realized that I hadn't had an arepa all year, a slight I couldn't go without correcting. It also provided a chance to compare Caracas on 7th to the nearby Flor's Kitchen on 9th, where I had my first rapturous bite of the South American corncake. When we finally reached the East Village around 2:15, I encountered the first major difference. While I've never had to wait for a table at Flor's, getting two seats in the tiny Caracas required a twenty-five minute wait.

While we stood outside, Vince and I read over the menu. For a place so small, it was fairly immense with twenty proposed fillings for the arepas alone. Many of them, including the Cameflor with white cheese, mushrooms and leeks, piqued my curiousity. Soon, we got our table and ordered drinks, another exercise in ingenuity. I went with the oft-praised Papelón con Limón, a tangy and oddly sweet sugarcane juice spiked with lime juice. Vince had the similarly fun chicha, a rice-derived, cinnamon-sprinkled drink that was like a liquid rice pudding, minus the off-puttingly lumpy texture of the grain.

Sandwich-wise, I thought I'd made up my mind, but our waitress then brought over a list of brunch specials. This added another ten arepa opportunities, all but one of them featuring perico, a South American scrambled eggs dotted with red and green peppers. I decided to get one of these with shredded beef, and one with chorizo and cheddar. Because they also encourage you to customize, I added maduros, or fried yellow plantains, in the latter. The wait for our meal bordered on epic, but when we received our baskets with the hot, crunchy corn patties, it was immediately worth it. The choriarepa was great although I wish I'd substituted their white cheese for the shredded yellow cheddar. Even better though was the perico with beef, a novel, addicting, authentic brunch treat. I wolfed mine down, enjoying every bite. In the end, I slightly preferred Caracas to Flor's Kitchen. While it's more cramped and loud, there are many more varieties of fresher arepas to choose from. And if you do brave the waits for tables and food, you'll finally be rewarded with a sandwich fit for a hero. 8/10

2005-07-23T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 23.

Lunch -

L&B Spumoni Gardens - 2725 86th St., Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
Two squares, one square with mushrooms, a Sierra Mist, a large cone of rainbow spumoni, a watermelon ice
$12

At Denino’s, at the end of Pizza World Tour (see May 22), a man at another table had heard about Vince’s and my pizza-eating odyssey. He came over and started asking us about some of his favorites, comparing his top places to ours. It was a fun dialogue that found a lot of common territory, but I took special notice when he mentioned L&B Spumoni Gardens. L&B is one spot that frequently comes up in the eternal pizza debates, and it also happens to be one I’ve never visited. When I asked him more about it, he spoke highly of their squares. “Trust me on this one,” he said. “I’m fat. I know food.”

So trust him I did, deciding to devote a Saturday afternoon to a jaunt back out to Benhonhurst. Being that it was a pleasant summer day, I was also looking forward to the tri-color treat of spumoni. It took a long time to arrive, but when Vince and I got out of the car, I felt like we’d traveled back in time. L&B looks like it hasn’t changed much since the 50’s, an admirable relic when the neighborhood was still second-generation Italian. There was a pick-up window, picnic tables and a large outdoor tent, but we opted to eat inside, with the statues of cherubs adding to the ambiance of an old-school Italian restaurant.

The menu was filled with pastas and usual suspect antipasti, but I was here for the pizza. Taking the tip from the man at Denino’s, I started out with two squares. They were definitely tasty, with the bread being more noteworthy than the sauce or the minimal cheese. Medium-dark and crispy, the thick bread went beyond what you’d find at a neighborhood pizzeria. But overall, the squares still didn’t warrant the trip. They weren’t in the same exemplary league as a DiFara square (see May 22), which my friend Dario still brings up more than two months later. This difference was only underscored when I ordered another square with mushrooms. There was no mistaking it: these L&B funghi had just come out of a can.

But all was not lost. After the pizza, Vince and I ordered spumoni and sat outside. It was some of the best I’d had, and really made for an excellent summer dessert. All three flavors, pistachio, chocolate and vanilla, were worth getting. Sated but still eager to try more, I also opted for a watermelon ice, which was equally excellent. While I still prefer Ralph’s Ices in Port Richmond, L&B gracefully redeemed itself with both of its desserts. And while the tip from the man at Denino’s didn’t totally pan out, I’m glad we checked it out. Next time, we might have to pay a long overdue visit to Totonno’s, another spot he highly recommended. 7/10

* Slice NY visits L&B Spumoni Gardens in September 2004

* The Daily News gives L&B Spumoni Gardens two and a half stars in its massive five-borough pizza taste-off (DiFara and Franny's win with four stars)

Dinner -

Itzocan Bistro - 1575 Lexington Ave., Spanish Harlem
Pumpkin and Shrimp Soup with Chipotle Crema Fresca, half of the Wild Mushroom Huitlacoche Crepes with Brie and Poblano Crema Fresca, Pumpkin Seed-Crusted Red Snapper with Zucchini, Ibarra Chocolate Pear Tarte with Goat’s Milk Caramel Sauce; two glasses of sangria
$52
8/10

2005-07-22T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 22.

Ceviches and Pasta-Caviar

Escolar and Lobster

Codfish and Petit Fours

Dinner -

Le Bernardin - 155 W. 51st St., Midtown West
Lobster in lobster-coconut broth (Amuse); Chef's Tasting Menu: Fluke Course (Progressive Tasting of Marinated Fluke; Four Different Ceviches from Simple to Complex Combination); Caviar-Pasta course (Iranian Osetra Caviar on a Nest of Tagliolini, Quail Egg and Bacon Carbonara Sauce); Escolar Course (Hawaiian Escolar Slowly Poached in Extra Virgin Olive Oil; Petite Salad of Lettuce Hearts and Tomato Confit (Served Rare)); Lobster Course (Baked Lobster; Citrus-Mango Emulsion; Endive and Sheep's Milk Ricotta Gnocchi); Wild Salmon Course (Barely Cooked Salmon; Wasabi Pea Purée, Fava Beans, Asparagus in a Yuzu Butter); Codfish Course (Pan Roasted Codfish, Sautéed Baby Artichokes, Pistachio and Parmesan in a Sage and Garlic Perfumed Broth); "Egg" Course (Milk Chocolate Pot de Crème, Caramel Foam, Maple Syrup, Maldon Sea Salt); Pineapple-Coconut Course (Almond Pain de Gênes, Vanilla-Roasted Pineapple, Coconut Sorbet, Crushed Pistachio); a Ketel One martini dry with a twist; a third of a bottle of white Burgundy and a third of a bottle of Maconais; a cappuccino
$283

It was an odd moment. I was in my office copy-checking a document, when my friend Trevor stopped by.

“So I heard you went to Le Bernardin last night.”

“That’s right,” I replied, flagging a mistake.

“How was it?” We exchanged knowing smiles. We were talking about the world-famous French seafood restaurant that’s retained its four-star rating since its inception in 1986, meeting the highest standards set by four separate critics. How could it be anything other than amazing?

“It was amazing.”

“Obviously.”

“The service was exceptional. They were very professional without being overbearing. They were friendly while still being formal. I was actually surprised at how unstuffy it felt. And the décor was very nice too. I liked the wood panelings and all of the nautically themed paintings on the yellow and blue walls. Frank Bruni said in his review that it ‘has all the sex appeal of a first-class airport lounge.’ I didn’t get that sense at all.”

He nodded, considering the information. Stuffing the pages back into the box, I pulled out another stack of documents.

“What about the food?”

“Awesome. We got the Chef’s Tasting Menu, which is eight courses for $155. You want to see the photos?”

“Sure.”

I pulled up the images on my monitor and started to explain. “For the first course, I had to substitute the Fluke Ceviche Progession for the Tuna. Everyone raves about the Progression and it was even more incredible than I’d expected. After the first ceviche, which was delicately simple, they added a few more ingredients to each one. It was globetrotting in its influences, evoking Peru at its most elemental to Thailand at its most complex with the addition of coconut milk. It was easily my favorite course of the night.”

“What was your second favorite?” This was where the conversation took a turn for the weird.

“I don’t know really. Hmm…” I looked over the pictures and tried to pick a winner. “Umm… maybe the egg?” Trevor raised an eyebrow. My answer must've sounded half-hearted. I reviewed the photos again and tried to commit more definitively.

“Let’s see. The caviar with tagliolini was tasty and very decadent, but it struck me as kind of strange. The osetra seemed vaguely extraneous and the pasta was confusing in the context of French seafood. The Hawaiian escolar, or fatty white tuna, in the next course was prepared terrifically, bathed in an extra virgin olive oil, but the side was boring. A few stalks of lettuce and tomato confit? I got that it was trying to visually evoke a palm tree, but they could’ve done something more interesting. The lobster course and the wild salmon were both great, but I couldn’t detect any of the supposed accents. The lobster’s citrus-mango emulsion just tasted like orange butter. The salmon’s wasabi pea puree just tasted like pea puree. The yuzu butter on the asparagus just tasted like butter. I get that Ripert loves subtlety, but they were subtle to the point of nonexistence.”

Next I pulled up the picture of the codfish, shaking my head. “And this course I didn’t get at all. Vince and Pat were both raving about it, but it was lost on me. The cod was tender, but the chicken-bonito broth felt like a mismatched pairing for me. The pistachios were a nice touch though, giving it a little crunch. But this was easily my least favorite dish.”

“Huh. What about the desserts?” Trevor prompted. “Were those more successful?”

“Yeah. The desserts were stellar. The first one came in the shell of an egg, and it was a mix of milk chocolate, maple syrup, caramel and Maldon sea salt. It captured the ingenuity I hadn’t really encountered since the ceviche progression. It reminded of something WD-50 (see Apr. 2) might try. The main dessert was a great combination of roasted pineapple, coconut sorbet and an almond pastry. It was creative, thoughtful and elegant. The petit fours were standouts too.”

“That’s good at least. But you know, you sounded much enchanted by the food when you were describing Babbo (see Mar. 20), The Modern (see Apr. 16), Masa (see Feb. 2), Daniel, Per Se (see Jun. 4), Bouley, Danube (see Feb. 19), even Sripraphai (see Jul. 10, Feb. 5, Jan. 8) or Pearl Oyster Bar (see Jul. 20, Mar. 12).”

I hemmed, struggling to defend myself. He was essentially right, and yet my night at Le Bernardin was still exquisite. “Maybe I’m just jaded. I’m sure if it had been my first four-star experience, like it was for Pat, I would’ve been blown away too. But after going to so many restaurants and having so much to compare it to, I couldn’t help noticing some of the dishes’ flaws. It’s not that they weren’t great. They were all great. It’s just that they didn’t all hit the heights they should have. I wanted more grace notes. I wanted more mindblowing creations no one else could serve.”

“So what are you going to rate it? An eight or a nine?”

Again, I hesitated, thinking over the span of the night. “I’m still not sure. It could really go either way.” 9/10

2005-07-21T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 21.

Lunch -

Otafuku - 236 E. 9th St., East Village
Ika Okonomi Yaki (Unsweetened flat pancake with Okonomi sauce), Takoyaki (Unsweetened ball pancake with Takoyaki sauce)
$8

The streets of New York area are a nonstop cafeteria. From salted pretzels to roasted nuts, from souvlaki to dirty water dogs, we've got the standards covered. Thanks to portable purveyors like Daisy May's and Hallo Berlin, we also have options like pulled pork and bratwurst. Not to mention, of course, the pizza, gelato, tacos, arepas, gyros, dosas and so much more.

Now there's a new contender to the list of street fare. While Otafuku doesn't technically sell from a cart, its storefront is practically the size of one and there are no seats except for the one bench outside. The menu is also extremely specialized, featuring only three items. There's the yakisoba, fried soba noodles mixed with meat and vegetables, a dish I've had many times. Then, more excitingly, there are two kinds of pancakes. The takoyaki is ball-shaped, with the texture and color of a hush puppy, and the okonomi is flat, with the serrated edges of a cupcake wrapper. Eager to try both, I ordered Combination B and brought the plastic tin back to my apartment.

The takoyaki was terrific, with a great crispy exterior and a delicious filling of octopus tentacles and viscous octopus sauce. Surprisingly, it reminded me most of a corn fritter. And although there were a very reasonable six balls for $3, I liked them so much that they disappeared in about two minutes.

The okonomi, which literally means "as you like it" is cooked with the ingredients the customer picks. It can come with sweet corn, peppers and scallions, and with fillings like squid, pork, beef and shrimp. I also really liked the okonomi I got, with its tangy sauce, its coat of bonito flakes, and large chunks of squid. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that I felt compelled to keep eating it even after I realized I'd forgotten to tell the cook to leave out the scallions.

Of the two pancakes, I preferred the takoyaki, but either one would make a great, cheap and filling meal. With their offer of the $8 Combination though, there's really no reason to choose between them when you can have both. After all, on the streets of the city, with so many carts and so many cuisines, we already have so many tough choices to make. 8/10

2005-07-20T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 20.

Dinner -

Pearl Oyster Bar - 18 Cornelia St., West Village
Fried oysters, Jumbo lump crabcake, Lobster roll, a B.B. Burgerbrau pilsner
$52

I dream about few places in the U.S. as ardently as Maine. I’ve been there three times, twice with my parents on vacation and once with my friends as the last leg of a road trip. The beauty of the state’s vast greenness stayed with me and the more laidback approach to life is something I could use right about now. The lakes all seem lifted from postcards and the towns I’ve visited are quaint wonders, filled with little galleries and specialized museums.

But of course, it’s the food that left the deepest mark. The quality of seafood is undeniably fresh, with hefty, hard-shelled lobsters and sweet oyster bellies just pulled to shore that morning. I’ve yet to have a bad clam chowder up there, each one crammed with an embarrassment of rich mollusk meat. I’ve also had my share of excellent scallops there. Still dreaming of drawn butter, I’ve long meant to get back up the coast to don my lobster bib again. But too busy to take another vacation, I decided to do the next best thing and revisit Manhattan’s answer to Maine, Pearl Oyster Bar.

My friend Brian and I smartly got there at six-thirty, beating the crowds at the popular and cramped restaurant. We took two seats at the bar and kicked off the relaxing night with a German pilsner. Leaving work early and savoring a beer is easily one of life’s undisputed joys, and it was no different here. But once our appetizers arrived, it was obvious that I was in for more than just a placid Wednesday. I'd also be enjoying another deliriously good meal.

Splitting the jumbo lump crabcake that won me over last time (see Dinner, Mar. 12) and the fried oysters I was so eager to compare to Black Pearl’s (see Jul. 4) was an ideal way to go. The crabcake, blissfully overloaded with chunks of tender crab, was even better than I’d remembered. Brian said it took a minute to really appreciate it, because he was so used to eating crabcakes that substituted breading for seafood. (I didn’t care for the coleslaw, so I just ignored it.) As for the fried oysters, it was no contest whatsoever. While Black Pearl’s are certainly good, Pearl Oyster’s may be the best I’ve ever tried. Sweet and meaty, they came lightly fried in shells of tartar sauce. The fried exterior, instead of burying the oyster’s flavor, only added another excellent contrasting texture.

Next, Brian and I and about three-quarters of the restaurant opted for the lobster roll, Pearl’s deservedly signature dish. I’ve already written about my love for this dish, based only on my small sample of it from my last visit. This time, I had the entire roll to judge it, and the results were just as transcendent. The delicious pieces of lobster are on full display, but complemented by a light sauce of mostly mayo but also finely chopped celery, pepper and Kosher salt. With the grilled hot dog bun and a hill of crispy shoestring fries, this dish earns the relentless praises it receives.

Throughout my meal, eating at Pearl Oyster Bar only made me more eager to return to Maine. I longed to trade the traffic for the greenery, I wanted another taste of sleepy shacks frequented by a roster of regulars. I looked forward to swimming in pristine water in the summer and seeing small towns still digging their way out of monumental snowfalls in the winter. Those were all things I couldn’t get in the city. But for the first time, I wondered if maybe the lobster at Pearl was just as good as or even better than Portland's or Bar Harbour's. 9/10

* E-Gullet's Steven Shaw profiles chef Rebecca Charles for Elle magazine and includes her recipe for the lobster roll

* Chowhounds offer lobster roll alternatives to Pearl and Mary's Fish Camp

2005-07-19T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 19.

Dinner -

Philoxenia - 26-18 23rd Ave., Astoria, Queens
Taramosalata (roe dip), Feta cheese special, Spanakopitakia (spinach pies), Traditional Greek-style meatballs with garlic and cumin in tomato sauce, Greek yogurt with grapes and honey (complimentary), a glass of house red wine
$22

There are more Greeks living in Astoria than anywhere else outside of Greece. It’s a stunning statistic but it makes sense almost as soon as you step off the R train. The honeyed scent of baklava is redolent in the air. Tavernas and fish markets dot every street. Blue and white flags flag proudly in the wind. Strains of sweet, elongated words pore out of modest homes and family-run stores.

Basking in this atmosphere is the best preparation for Philoxenia, a warm, inviting restaurant occupying the lower level of a two-floor house. As Alex, Vince and I entered, the waiters happily greeted us, eager to project as much of the eponymous philoxenia, or hospitality, as they can. Even more excited to see us was owner-hostess-chef Dionysia Germani, whose thick accent and reverence for the food is immediately charming.

She tried to offer recommendations but it was soon clear she loves everything on the fairly traditional menu. Hedging our bets, the three of us decided to start by splitting three appetizers. Since Vince was there, the taramosalata, or roe dip, was a must. We also got the Feta cheese special and the spanakopitakia, or spinach pies, another given around my Greek-obsessed friend.

Starting out, the pale pink roe dip was a strange surprise. Namely, it didn’t taste much like roe, a plus for the fish egg-phobic Alex but a disappointment for me. I did like the lightness of the spread and the salty, tangy flavor of it, but it really should’ve been fishier. The Feta cheese was better, coming baked in aluminum foil and topped with peppers, olives and tomatoes. It smelled like a Supreme pizza, and the vegetables and spices added a distinctive and new flavor to the familiar cheese. Finally, the spinach pies, my favorite of the three, were flaky and delicious. They weren’t exciting or reinvented – just a very well-prepared version of a classic Greek appetizer.

For my entrée, I had the traditional meatballs, which came in a pizza-like tomato sauce. I enjoyed the spices in the meat particularly, and enjoyed the dish overall. Still, it didn’t wow me like I'd hoped and it wasn’t something I’d feel compelled to get again. I did enjoy the option of my $2.50 glass of the house red though, which was barely alcoholic but made the dinner more fun. I also appreciated the complimentary dessert of Greek yogurt with grapes and honey at the end, another thoughtful touch that made for a light and tasty finale.

Interestingly though, for all of Philoxenia’s emphasis on hominess, the service was oddly bad. Everyone was very friendly, but the mistakes were rife. I was first brought white wine instead of red. Our Feta cheese special had to be reordered. Vince received rice instead of French fries. His replacement French fries weren’t brought out until he'd already finished eating his chicken souvlaki. With only two or three other tables occupied at the time, the constant errors just seemed sloppy.

Still, it’s hard to hold something like that against a place as charming as Philoxenia. It’s so friendly and earnest that I couldn’t help but smile and enjoy. It tries so hard to please, I forgot at times I wasn’t eating in someone’s home. Not all of the food was amazing, but it was all well worth the price and the trip. But of course, around here, that's no surprise. In Astoria, warm greetings and food cooked with love are just the Greek way. 7/10

Robert Sietsema of the Village Voice finds Philoxenia charming in November 2004

2005-07-16T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 16.

Tia Pol and Patatas

Fava Bean Puree and Pork Loin

Jamón and Torta

Dinner -

Tia Pol - 205 10th Ave., Chelsea
Patatas bravas; fried chickpeas; fava bean puree; pork loin sandwich with piquillo and manchego; jamón serrano with artichoke and manchego; Bleu cheese croquettes; chorizo with chocolate; almond torta with ice cream and dulce de leche; two glasses of Cava
$44

Critics love referring to the sophomore slump. They throw the term around so lightly, it almost seems like a given. Novelists falling short of their meteoric debuts. Musicians failing to sell as many records the second time around. Restaurateurs squandering the goodwill of their flagship. In an age of deafening hype and Everest expectations, it’s harder and harder to create a sequel as well-received as the original.

Still, my inaugural visit to Tia Pol was so good I simply had to go back. Since my experience there (see Dinner, Apr. 3), I had been raving to friends about the best tapas in New York. I longed to have another taste of the patatas bravas or the clashing wonder of the chorizo and chocolate. Right away, I built up the restaurant to epic proportions (which is especially ironic since tapas bars are all about being informal and easygoing).

So my friend Steve and I met in far west Chelsea at seven, to beat the later Saturday rush. We sat in two of the tall chairs in the back of the room, caught up on our summers' progress and studied our laminated menus. Seeing some of my long-missed choices felt like being at a family reunion. “We have to start with the patatas and the chickpeas,” I said, making it more a declaration than a suggestion. In that first round, we also got a pork loin sandwich and a fava bean puree.

The patatas was still tangily terrific, with their drizzle of aioli, and the chickpeas were just as addictive a snack as before. Both went extremely well with my glass of Cava, a nice departure from my usual pick of sangria or a Spanish red. The fava bean puree and the pork loin sandwich were also both good, with the puree being the better of the two. A lime-green spread on a hunk of bread, it was salty, earthy and cheesy, making it a great plate to share over drinks. The pork loin sandwich which came with piquillo, a hot red pepper, and manchego was tasty but lacked the ingenuity of Tia Pol’s standouts. Also hurting both the puree and the pork was the bread, which was hard and took effort to chew. Both would have benefited from a more unique and fresher bread selection.

For our second round, we had artichoke and manchego wrapped in jamón serrano, Bleu cheese croquettes, and the chorizo and chocolate. Steve lamented his choice of the ham, and I had to agree with him on this one. It was way too salty and we literally had trouble locating the artichoke in the pink folds of the pork. But the croquettes were so magnificent they made up for the disappointment immediately. From the tender crunch of the thin fried outside to the gooey, warm cheese inside, this dish was a revelation. Even more intruigingly, the filling of the croquette changes every day, but I can’t imagine anything fitting better than the Bleu cheese. Finally, the chorizo and chocolate once again provided the spicy and the sweet, the oily and the smooth, in a definitive proof that opposites do attract.

After all of this food, Steve and I proceeded to dessert. We both had the almond torta, which came with vanilla ice cream and dulce de leche. Like the hazelnut cake I tried last time, it was delightfully subtle and far less sweet than other desserts. The arcs of dulce de leche added some caramel sugariness and the slightly melted ice cream gave the dry cake a needed moistness. All in all, it was the thoughtfulness and the confidence of the dish that made it work beautifully, like most of the tapas at Tia Pol. Although not everything was as near-perfect as my last visit, my second dinner still provided a great deal of pleasure. Even after I held it in such impossible esteem, Tia Pol not only avoided falling into the sophomore slump but proved it was still at the top of its class. 8/10

2005-07-15T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 15.

Dinner -

Spicy and Tasty - 39-07 Prince St., Flushing, Queens
Beef tendon in Red Chili oil, Dan Dan Noodles, Tea-smoked duck, a Budweiser
$28

Spicy and Tasty was stalking me. From newspapers to websites to blogs to reviews, it was appearing everywhere I looked. Even more impressively, every mention was a rave, often calling the restaurant the best spot for Szechwan in the city. After a while, I gave in to the unrelenting praise and had to see for myself. So I skipped out of work early and made the trek back to Flushing.

In a way, this was a make-or-break moment for me. I’d previously eaten at the much-lauded Grand Sichuan a number of times, and decided to give up on Szechwan. The food was indeed exciting, fiery and strange, but it was also too greasy and oily. The cuts of pork I got might be half fat and on some dishes, I thought the heat overwhelmed the subtler flavors. But if anything could win me back, I figured it’d be the top kitchen in northern Queens.

Arriving at Spicy and Tasty, I was pleasantly surprised to discover how nice it was. Casual but classy, it felt calm even though the tables were continuously full. After about fifteen minutes, I was escorted to a table in the back where I took a perfunctory read through the menu. Having read so much about other people’s experiences, I already knew what I wanted to try.

I started with their famous beef tendon in red chili sauce, which they refer to as “Beef Tender,” and an order of Dan Dan noodles. The strips of tendon were bizarre and lovely, unlike anything else I’ve had. I could compare it to uncooked bacon or soft jerky, but this was more gelatinous at the edges and far more exciting. By the time I got to the bottom of the large mound, my tongue went from tingling to numb. The Dan Dan noodles, which previously set my mouth on fire at Grand Sichuan, were milder here, emphasizing the taste of soy over spice. They were tasty though, and made for a notable contrast to the beef.

Next I had the tea-smoked duck, which is perhaps Spicy and Tasty’s most beloved dish. Along with the tea-smoked pork, it’s almost ubiquitously name-checked in reviews and write-ups. Interestingly though, the duck’s not hot at all, which goes to show that Szechwan is broader than just peppercorns and chilis. Smoked with black tea leaves, the duck was delectable, every morsel infused with flavor. The closest thing I could compare it to, strangely enough, is barbecued ribs, because the duck was cut into small pieces around the bones, which had to be eaten by hand. I couldn’t finish the huge portion on my own, but I ate as much as possible. With something this good and unique, it’s hard to stop.

Of course, Szechwan food being what it is, I still found my meal occasionally too oily and fatty. That’s the nature of the cooking though, and asking for anything else would be like lactose-free Italian. So now when I am looking for Chinese food that’s singularly spicy and tasty, I know where to head. Now, having tried a few of its standouts, I can unequivocally add my voice to the chorus of praise. Now I might just have to stalk Spicy and Tasty right back. 8/10

Eric Asimov of The New York Times loves the tea-smoked duck and compares it to barbecue

2005-07-13T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 13.

Special Feature -

A Day in a Year of Coffee - I was recently contacted by A Year In Coffee, a fun likeminded blog that documents all the cups of joe its writers drink in 365 days. (Right now, they're up to an impressive total of 574.) They asked me to write a Guest Cup for them and I was happy to contribute. Here's my take on my favorite spot, Cafe Pick Me Up at 145 Ave. A in the East Village.

2005-07-10T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 10.

Breakfast -

Kenka - 25 St. Mark's Pl., East Village
Spring rolls, Pork pancake, Crab omelette, Japanese pickles, House salad, Miso soup, Ramen soup, a Sapporo, a Coke
$22

Kenka translates to "brutal" or "fighting" in Japanese but really it should mean "carnival." From its bizarre mascot of a nippled mutant owl with glowing ruby eyes perching outside like a gargoyle to the swarms of people always amassed at the entrance waiting for seats to the quirky 100+ item menu that includes choices like bull testicles to the raucuous roar of the people sitting at the long wooden tables to the cotton candy machine diners throw their plastic cups of pink sugar into as they leave, this izikaya is a nonstop party every night. All that's missing is a Tom Waits soundtrack and waitresses that dress like characters from Hayao Miyazaki movies.

So I knew Kenka would be fun but I was less convinced that its outlandish idiosyncrasies would translate into outstanding food. Vince and I started simply with spring rolls, which were pretty good. The size of a toilet paper tube, they packed a nice crunch inside and out without being greasy. I washed down their fried shells with an extended gulp of cold Sapporo, which they serve here for an incredible $1.50 a glass.

Next we went weirder, trying what they call a pork pancake. It was fittingly offbeat, with a thin, crispy base slathered with barbecue sauce and topped with ground pork and dried bonito flakes. It's not something I could eat too often but I loved the wacky brazenness of it, both in concept and in taste. It's exactly the kind of food that befits an izikaya, tackling salty, meaty, sweet and original in one dish.

The offbeat adventure continued with a crab omelette, which was also quite tasty. Light and fluffy, with the salty interlude of seafood, it too stood out for its mix of comfort and creativity. While it wouldn't be uncommon in Japan, the omelette with crab isn't something I've encountered in New York before, not even in other izikayas.

Munching on some briny Japanese pickles while we waited for our main dishes, I watched the NYU students around us yelling to each other. I took in the red faces of sake-bombers and the dishwasher's worth of drained beerglasses that had piled up on more ambitious tables. Waitresses were always moving through the aisles, laughing to each other, somehow keeping up with the hectic rhyhtm of small plate dining. For them, it was just another night at the carnival.

My ramen soup arrived and I wove strands of curly noodles around my chopsticks. The firm, flavorful noodles were another winner, more so than the just-average broth they were swimming in. Starting to fill up, I decided to skip the soup and focus on fishing out the noodles, which still made for a satisfying meal. Less satisfying and in fact, the only real disappointment I encountered was my Coke, which tasted more watered down than a Meg Ryan romantic comedy.

Kenka is exactly the kind of place I would've loved if I'd been a college student in New York. For ten to twenty bucks, you can get a lot of unique food and a wild, loud atmosphere that's far closer to Tokyo than Gotham. Perhaps best of all though, you get that aforementioned cup of sugar at the end of your meal. You get to throw it into the cotton candy machine, wind a stick around the perimeter of its inner ring and walk out with a bright pink cloud of sticky fluff. Like a trip to the carnival, it's not necessary but it's oh so sweet. 7/10

Turning Japanese: An article from The Villager on the St. Mark's boom in Japanese food

Lunch -

Viet-Nam Bahn Mi So 1 - 369 Broome St., Nolita
Classic bahn mi, fresh sugarcane juice
$7
7/10

Dinner -

Sripraphai - 64-13 39th Ave., Woodside, Queens
Fried Watercress Salad with Chicken, Shrimp and Squid; Saute Drunken Noodles with Pork; Sweet Sausage with Cucumber, Chili and Lime; Fried Fishcakes; String Beans with Shrimp in Spicy Sauce; half a bottle of Chiang Rai lychee wine
$33

A good restaurant can be measured by the number of wry smiles it curls on the edges of diners’ lips. A great restaurant can be detected by wider grins and intermittent nodding that seems to say, “Yes, this is just what I was hoping for.” But an amazing restaurant, those few spots occupying some wholly other realm, can be observed by closed eyes, expressions of Zen-like serenity and a determined shaking of the head that loosely translates to “No, this can’t be this good. No, I don’t want this dish to end. No, it will never be this good again.” So how does my dinner at Sripraphai rate on this scale? So good it could’ve induced whiplash.

Every dish was a wonder. It was no surprise that the fried watercress salad and drunken noodles from previous visits (see Dinner, Feb. 5 and Dinner, Jan. 8) were exceptional, but that all five orders were amazing was a very welcome revelation. Even better, they not only stood confidently on their own, with individual layers of incredible flavors and spices, but they worked together beautifully as well. The multifaceted kaffir lime tang and fishiness of the fried fish cakes complemented and contrasted the grace note of sweetness in the sweet sausage. The lightness of our lychee wine extinguished the delicious heat of the sauce coating the shrimp. The crumbly texture of the watercress was worlds apart from the fiery stalks of beans but they both confirmed Sripraphai’s masterful touch with vegetables.

The atmosphere was quite pleasant too, as Vince and I sat in patio chairs in their recently opened outdoor garden. With the humidity dropping through the course of the meal, the leisurely pace of our feast and the al fresco dining made for an experience that felt periodically European. But anytime I forgot where I was, I scooped a little more sauce onto my coconut rice and felt the heat relight the tip of my tongue. I had more of the delectably crunchy watercress or the incredible wide noodles with ground pork. I piled more of anything left onto my plate, assured it would be a marvel, and set my head shaking in blissful disbelief all over again. 10/10

2005-07-09T03:01:00.000-04:00

Jul 9.

Special Feature -

The Grape Escape - Let's face it: wine is intimidating. Between the vintages, vineyards and varietals, it's a serious subject for sensitive palates. Even more than with food, there seems to be an endlessly expanding number of options. And perhaps, most prohibitively, the price of bottles can range anywhere from cheap entrée to college education. Determined to add to our oenophilic educations though, Vince and I ventured into the Grape Escape, a tannin-drenched sequel to May's Vintage Bar Crawl (see May 6.)

Veritas - 5 E. 20th St., Gramercy Park

Our first stop was Veritas, where Scott Bryan's New American cuisine has been earning attention for six years now. Even more attention-grabbing is the wine list, a sprawling, encyclopedic document that can be purchased for a hefty $70. Its cellar also stocks over 100,000 bottles of 3,000 varieties, all lovingly documented and categorized. The wines-by-the-glass list was of course easier to choose from, with a constant rotation of about twelve choices. I went with E. Pira & Figli – Dolcetto d’Alba ‘Chiara Boschis’ – Piedmont, Italy '03 ($9), a satisfying full-bodied red that they also sold for $29 a bottle. It had a richness and a depth characteristic of Italian reds, which explains why they're such a crowdpleaser.

Veritas however didn't seem to be as much of one. Admittedly, we were there at six on a Saturday, but the small, overly minimalist dining room was almost entirely empty. The few patrons there were all well over sixty, giving the atmosphere a nursing home feel. It does make sense since Veritas is a more conservative and classic restaurant than many of its up-and-coming competitors. Another reason for the lag in business may be the arrival of Cru, a newer three-star restaurant also famed for its formidable wine list that just happened to be our next stop.

Cru - 24 5th Ave., Central Village

What a difference eleven streets make. Although it felt just as stuffy and formal, Cru was packed and bubbling with energy when we turned up. We sat at the bar, perusing the more generous offerings by the glass. At that point, we both decided to take advantages of their 3 oz. tastings rather than the 6 0z. glasses to try more. I started with the Champalou Vouvray Brut NV – Loire, France ($5), a very refreshing sparkling wine that cleansed my palate from the heavier red. It would make a nice opening drink before a big meal, like a liquid amuse bouche. Next, I went with a 3 oz. taste of Rose de Loire, Chateau Soucherie – Loire, France '04 a mild and muted rosé that had a fragrance of roses in its bouquet. I enjoyed this wine too for its florid flavor, which was vastly differently from the two previous wines I'd had.

Cru didn't seem like the kind of restaurant I would eat at, with the clientele mostly double my age. But I really enjoyed my experience at the bar and talking to Ken the bartender. He was clearly knowledgeable but not pedantic, and his pours pushed the limits of three ounces. Our time at Cru and Veritas also created a nice contrast between the upscale and older fine dining establishments we'd hit so far and the more fun, younger winebars we were about to visit.

Bar Veloce - 175 2nd Ave., East Village

Next we visited Bar Veloce, a sleek white sliver of a bar. The crowd here (and even with only ten people, it felt crowded) was far more eclectic, ranging from mid-20s yuppies to bald, tattooed lesbians. It seemed like it could be a cool scene though I didn't like the bartender here as much. He was efficient but he looked angry and preoccupied, pacing the cramped aisle behind the bar like a scowling bulldog.

In addition to their collection of sakes and Italian wines, Veloce also served a menu of panini and antipasti. They looked appetizing but I stuck with wine, ordering a Gravina Botromagno - Puglia '03 ($7). It was autumnal, dry and crisp with just a hint of foregone sweetness. It's a wine that could be paired with a fish like cod. It could also make a nice assertive offering for a wine and cheese party or, in this case, serve as an interesting fourth glass on the third stop of a wine crawl.

In Vino - 215 E. 4th St., East Village

Finally, we reached In Vino at nine when it was in full swing as a lively East Village enoteca. All the tables were taken but luckily, we claimed the last two seats at the bar. We talked to a girl who did press for Bloomberg and was running a half-marathon in the Bronx the next morning. We finished with Passito di Pantelleria - Minardi, Sicily ($10), a dark-burgundy brown dessert wine that reminded me of lots of other dessert wines I've had.

The primary flavor was raisin with hints of similar fruits like prunes and dates. The bartenders were too busy keeping everyone's drinks full but we had a lot to talk about with the girl and a sweet wine to savor. I realized that, for all of its classifications, regions, years and grapes, wine is something that should be enjoyed more than analyzed. As I finished my fifth glass, tipsy and happy, it was clear that, past all of its highbrow pretensions, it's really just another one of life's simple pleasures.

2005-07-09T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 9.

Lunch -

World Tong Seafood Restaurant - 6202 18th Av., Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
Vegetable-stuffed fried bean curd skin, pork-stuffed fried dough, fish and seaweed balls, shrimp-stuffed eggplant, cheung fun (wide white noodles), shrimp cheung fun, shrimp and vegetable dumplings, siu mai, fried fish, coconut custard squares, pistachio cream pastry, mango custard fish
$27

I might as well move to Hong Kong. Last Saturday dim sum (see Jul. 2) , this Saturday dim sum. But I'm nothing if not resilient and after my semi-disappointing excursion to Gum Fung, I decided to give it another go. This time, instead of Queens, the destination would be Brooklyn, where the burgeoning Asian presences in neighborhoods like Sunset Park get less attention but are doing just as much to change those communities.

Heading southeast to Bensonhurst, a few avenues from where I lived until the ripe age of three-and-a-half, Vince and I paid a visit to World Tong. From my wisps of recollection, I remember Bensonhurst being predominantly Italian, with the stench of fish markets and the aroma of cannolis and cream-laden pastries ripe in the air. The Italian influence was still there but seemingly not as strong, as immigrants from other cultures moved in.

World Tong was a case in point. Although only a fourth of the size of the usually monstrous banquet halls, the room was still lively and continuously packed with Asians of all ages. All the way up to dessert, Vince and I were the only non-Asians in the restaurant. It seems completely natural now but ten years ago, a dim sum feast would have been more of an anomaly than an opportunity. Of course, it also helps that World Tong is so well-regarded, frequently cited as Brooklyn's best and even as another contender for New York's best.

After a five minute wait, a harried host seated us at a banquet table with a Chinese family. A constant flow of women were circulating with carts and almost immediately, we were pointing, nodding and doing whatever else we could to bridge the language barrier. Here, the women seemed friendlier and less aggressive, as if they knew their assortments of dumplings, meats and seafood was good enough to speak for themselves.

If that's the case, they were by and large right. Not only did they serve up very good versions of the classics (the shrimp-stuffed eggplant embarrassed Gum Fung's), World Tong was most impressive in its more novel and creative offerings. From the pork-stuffed fried dough, which looked like tuna maki, to the fish and seaweed balls, vaguely reminiscent of matzoh balls, I had dishes I'd never seen let alone tried. It was nice to see a dim sum place, such a refuge for tradition and comfort, branch out in subtle but interesting directions.

The desserts, while still not incredible, also benefitted from the higher level of creativity. Along with the boring standards, I found a mango custard in the shape of a fish. For some reason, I found this infinitely charming, and since then, I've declared that I'll only eat desserts in the shape of seafood. (These should help me with that mission.)

Still, as good as options like the shrimp cheung fun or vegetable-stuffed bean curd proved to be, I also had my usual complaints. A lot of the fried food was too greasy and heavy and the shrimp and meat were too heavily salted. Worse, some servings on the same plate were more seasoned than others. I realize dim sum isn't a meal that emphasizes delicate flavors or cautious preparations, but World Tong is good enough to be better in these regards. But even with these flavor flaws, my lunch was easily my favorite dim sum experience yet. It demonstrated even if one meal is a little underwhelming, there's another one just waiting to impress you. Next stop: Hong Kong. 7/10

2005-07-07T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 7.

Dinner -

i-Shebeen Madiba - 195 DeKalb Ave., Fort Greene, Brooklyn
Salmon cake topped with caviar, Prawns Peri-Peri, Chicken Breyani, Mom's Tipsy Tart, a ginger beer, Rooibos tea
$42

There are probably tens of thousands of Chinese restaurants in New York. Thai, Indian and Mexican restaurants of varying quality seem to speckle every neighborhood too. But when it comes to African food, the options are still quite limited. I've already dipped my injera in berbere-sauced Tibs Wat at the handful of Ethopian restaurants that made their way downtown and poured Maggi on grilled snapper and couscous at the Senegalese La Marmitte in Harlem. Enjoying all of these experiences, I was excited to visit Vince's pick of Madiba, New York's one and only South African offering.

Located in Fort Greene, a west Brooklyn neighborhood known for its large Caribbean and African populations, Madiba turned out to be surprisingly big and bustling. It was decorated with loads of nationalistic kitsch, from a sprawling display of the flag to grinning portraits of Nelson Mandela. (The restaurant's name itself refers to the former President and means "Son of Africa and Father of the Nation.") In another context, all of the decorations might have seemed tacky or gimmicky, but here, they seemed like a genuine source of pride.

The menu too built on this theme, parsing parts of South African culture and including the lyrics to the national anthem. The wide use of asterisks denoted products that were native to South Africa and from my restricted knowledge, the food seemed faithful to its origin.

I started with the salmon cake, a variation on crabcake that worked just as well with the fish. Containing red and green peppers and onions and topped with an anthill of caviar, the main flavor was still the salmon, which was light and pink inside. Overall, I enjoyed the cake although I'd probably order something else next time. Even though my appetizer was well made, it failed to excite.

Luckily, the main courses were more intriguing. Vince and I split the Prawns Peri-Peri, which were glossed with the tangy eponymous sauce South African cuisine is known for. It gave the large pieces of seafood some distinction and a welcome spice, although they could have used more of it, as the peri-peri taste only came through on top. The prawns, grilled to just the right level of char, and the sides of salad and rice made this a solid dish though.

The second main we split was the chicken breyani, a well-seasoned rice and lentil stew. Quirkily, it also came with two chunks of banana and half of a boiled egg. It reminded me of other traditions, but of everything we had, it seemed the most uniquely African. The stew was filling with lots of chicken and we had no trouble finishing it. Still, like the salmon cake, it satisfied but didn't exactly wow. It was pretty good rather than amazing, and it isn't something I would see myself craving a week from now.

The best course I had came at the end. Called Mom's Tipsy Tart, this dessert filled with dates and nuts and surrounded by a brandy sauce was an effortless standout. Besides being delicious and very light, it was exotic and new, reinventing familiar flavors by combining them. The pleasantly alcoholic syrup seemed destined for the dates, and the addition of ice cream was only one more terrific texture and taste among many.

In the end, Madiba proved to be a worthwhile experience, with its large, inviting space and welcoming waiters. Even without the South African musicians that play on select nights, the mood at the shebeen was still fun and convivial. As it got later, more people came in to fill up the room and the patio outside. Many of them were clearly regulars, frequently meeting here for a meal or to have drinks. It was nice to see, that in a city of so many overlapping possibilities, that there was still one restaurant in this community that was one of a kind. 7/10

2005-07-06T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 6.

Dinner -

Himalayan Yak - 72-20 Roosevelt Ave., Jackson Heights
Goat Sekuwa, Nepali Dal-Bhat, Chili Chicken, a Tingmo
$15

Now I know how de Gama felt as the waves of a new coast crashed against his hull. Now I know what raced through Magellan’s mind as he broached unknown territory. Okay, maybe not, but I did feel a rush of excitement as Vince and I stepped off the 7 train. We’d decided to have a random adventure, setting off for Jackson Heights to explore this culinary crossroads. A haven for cheap Mexican, Indian and Asian food, this Queens neighborhood offers an almost intimidating bounty of ethnic options. At first, we were thinking tacos, which became vindaloo as we walked away from the subway. Heading north on Roosevelt Avenue though, we saw a choice we’d never considered: Tibetan/Nepali. Named Himalayan Yak, we glimpsed at the restaurant’s menu, marveling at so many unfamiliar options like the Khasi Ko Giddi and Jibro Ko Bhutuwa (goat brain and ox tongue) entrée. Right then, our decision was clear.

Deciding on what to order became the next challenge though. Through the descriptions, the food seemed to resemble both Indian and Chinese cooking but there were also examples that clearly didn’t fit either influence. (Take the dessert Bhatsa Markhu, explained to be “[h]and made pasta lightly rolled in roasted barley, sugar, butter & grated cheese.”) Still, after some careful thought and consulting with our attentive waiter, we had put together what seemed like a formidable cross-section of tastes.

To kick off the meal, Vince and I split Goat Sekuwa, which was grilled and spicy. The soft level of heat was offbeat and original, and I had trouble identifying some of the spices being used. (I could definitely detect onions and chilis in the recipe though.) While I liked this appetizer, especially for the novelty of the spicing, the meat could've been better. Certain pieces were too tough or too fatty, a common misstep when it comes to goat.

Our next course, the Dal-Bhat, also came from the Nepali side of the menu. It was a sampler of some of Himalayan Yak’s vegetarian selections, a prime opportunity for the cooks to show off their scope. The plate came with lentil soup, mustard greens, a potato-cauliflower curry, and potato and black eyed pea stew. We also got two tingmos, steamed rolls from Tibet that were fist-sized and lacquered with egg yolk. Everything here was wonderful and remarkably different. The greens came in a very light clear sauce that gave them just a little extra moistness and flavor. The curry was heavier with more attention-grabbing elements though it too contributed a real complexity. The stew similar to the curry was hearty and warming, and though it lacked the curry’s spicing, it still packed a delicious taste. The lentil soup was perhaps the simplest component but it was a nice touch. Pouring a spoonful over the rice was yet another way to make ordinary ingredients feel new. I enjoyed so many of the flavors that I pulled off strips of dough from my tingmo to scoop up leftover sauces from the platter.

To finish, we went with the Chili Chicken, which the Yak lists as one of its specialties. It’s a distinction this entrée merits, with its standout preparation. For one, the generous serving of white meat chicken was tender and tasty. It became even better in its spicy sauce, which had a hint of sweetness. The dish also emphasized fresh vegetables, mixing in red onions, peppers, jalapenos, and scallions. It was here that I was reminded most of Chinese food, but the clean and subtle preparation here far overshadowed the contents of any takeout container.

At the end of the meal, the owner came out and introduced himself. (As the only white people in the restaurant for most of our meal, and clearly the only bloggers, we must’ve stood out.) He told us that Himalayan Yak had only been open for three months and that he hoped we’d enjoyed our meals. We assured him sincerely that we had. He said he hoped nothing had been too spicy, a thread our waiter had also doted on. Apparently, they were concerned we couldn’t have handled more heat, a common worry for non-Asian customers. This only intrigued me more, as I immediately wanted to see what our dishes would've tasted like at their natural intensity. Whatever the result would've been, our adventure that night proved quite a success. Inspired by this expedition, I'd love to keep exploring the wonders of the Himalayan Yak, Jackson Heights more generally, and New York even more broadly. With so many parts of the world so exhaustively mapped and analyzed, it’s heartening to find out there’s a universe of uncharted food for us still to explore. 8/10

This post was part of The Delicious Life's Dine and Dish 3: The Freshman. Check out all of the other entries in Sarah's Delicious writeup of the event.

2005-07-04T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 4.

Lunch -

Black Pearl - 14 Ave. A, East Village
Ipswich fried clams, Lobster roll, two Killian's
$56

In the city, where real estate is a religion, restaurateurs have to get creative just to get a space. One of the strangest examples of this I’ve seen is the recent opening of Black Pearl, which occupies the back of a dive bar named Julep. I’d been to Julep, a no-pretense dive bar complete with pool table and glowing Bud Light sign, a few times before and the idea of running a restaurant in there seemed like a real challenge. But when I learned the items in questions were clams, oysters and lobster, I started to reconsider. From my experiences of eating in Maine, where the goal is to keep it as casual as possible, a lobster shack could actually be the perfect fit for Julep’s laidback demeanor.

At four o’clock, I took a seat at the still mostly deserted bar and checked out the menu. I was surprised by its ambitious breadth (haddock ceviche, mussels bangkok, and organic mesclun salad), but its stars were still the standards. Like nearly everyone else I observed during my meal, I stuck to Black Pearl’s two most-praised dishes, the fried clams and the lobster roll. And because a waitress was nowhere in sight, I just walked up to the back window, where chefs were garnishing appetizers, and ordered there.

Back at the bar, I got a Killian’s on draft (a big reason why I love coming to Julep) and chatted with the very friendly bartender. She was charming and easygoing, and talking to her instantly lightened my mood. The steady flow of classic hits playing did the trick too. Then my plates arrived and I was thankful that all I’d had that day was a yogurt. Or as the bartender put it, “Wow, that’s a mountain of food.” In addition to tower of clams and the bun-sized roll, each one came with fries, a pickle, peppered cole slaw and lettuce. Naturally, I proved up to the Kobayashi-sized task.

As I began to eat, everything fell into place. “Moondance” came on the jukebox, my fingers started tapping the buoyant rhythm on the rim of my beautifully red beer glass, a woman three seats down asked me how my fried clams were, I told her they were great and bridged the space between us at the bar to give her a sample. The mood was festive and the seafood was fresh. It seemed like the perfect way to kick off a celebration for the Fourth of July.

And indeed, the Ipswich clam bellies were pretty terrific. Faithfully evoking New England in the summer, they had a sweetness and a meatiness that testified this was the real deal. I also liked the thin and crunchy fries, which seemed to disappear from my plates even though I had so many. The lobster roll, Black Pearl’s biggest seller by far, was also quite good, with lots of unadulterated claw and tail meat stuffed in a grilled hot dog bun. Still, comparing the roll to Pearl Oyster Bar’s, I had to prefer the latter. Black Pearl’s preparation was so basic that it verged on nonexistent. I couldn’t detect any butter or mayo or even any sign of a vegetable – three things I’m ordinarily not a big fan of, but after tasting the revelatory possibilities of Pearl Oyster Bar’s, this lobster roll lacked in comparison.

More woefully lacking though, and what really ended up hurting my meal, was the service. As great and attentive as my bartender was, she couldn’t help me, because Julep and Black Pearl are two separate businesses. Thus, it was up to the two lost-looking waitresses (one of whom had just started the hour I arrived) to look after a clientele growing in waves every fifteen minutes. My seat at the bar may have invited some neglect, but the staff was so overextended and unprepared that it seemed to make little difference. After getting my food and watching the waitress run off and not return, I had to hunt down my own bottle of ketchup. I waited and waited for my plates to be cleared, even after it was quite apparent I was finished. I waited even longer for my check and then finally gave up waiting to pay by getting up to flag down a waitress. If that was the scene at ten to five, I can only imagine the chaos at eight.

I can only hope that the staff becomes more efficient or that Black Pearl moves into its own space, where there can be a centralized dining area and there won’t be any confusion between bargoers and diners. Still, the food is certainly notable and when I didn’t have to deal with ordering or paying, I had a very fun experience. It would’ve been even better if I’d arrived an hour later to take advantage of Julep’s Happy Hour from five to eight. With the lure of two-for-one drink specials, I could’ve looked past the faults of a restaurant inhabiting a bar. But I can't help thinking, if I'd just had a little more magic with my lobster roll and a lot better service, Black Pearl really could've set off fireworks. 7/10

Gothamist's Review of Black Pearl from June 2005
Nina Lalli's roundup of New York City lobster rolls from The Village Voice

2005-07-03T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 3.

Lunch -

Risotteria - 270 Bleecker St., West Village
Porcini, portabello and shiitake arborio risotto; Lauren's Blue Ribbon iced tea
$20

If I were being exiled to a deserted island and had to choose between taking a toothbrush and a pot of risotto with me, I would probably choose the toothbrush. But only after hours of deliberating and plenty of pacing, vacillating and sweating. More concisely put, I love risotto. So when I learned there was a restaurant specializing in the Italian dish, I knew I’d have to pay it a visit. Following a whim on Sunday, I walked crosstown along Bleecker to finally check out Risotteria.

The small restaurant struck me as quintessentially West Village, which is to say clean, slighty hippie-ish, and health conscious. It also proudly boasted its gluten-free status, making it a prime destination for celiacs. (According to the Celiac Disease Foundation, one in 133 Americans has celiac syndrome and can’t eat gluten. Who knew?) To accommodate, its menu featured pizzas, salads and panini all made without flour, but I was far more focused on the thirty-six varieties of risotto available. Even nicer, they were divided into three categories, arborio (“creamy and butter-like”), vialone nano (“very delicate and meat-free”), carnaroli (“creamy and chewy”), helping every risotto fan match their orders to their preferences.

My decision was an obvious one when I saw the three mushroom arborio risotto. (Mushrooms are one of the things I love more than risotto and would probably opt to bring a pot of chanterelles to a deserted island, cavities be damned.) My dish was overloaded with chunks of portabellos, shiitakes and porcinis, and the rice was cooked, as the description suggested, to a creamy consistency. It was a good-sized portion and I enjoyed all of the flavors. My waiter offered to shave some fresh Parmesan on top as well, which added another delicious element. Generally, I do prefer my risottos a little drier, as I found this one to contain too much liquid, making the rice soggy. Still, it was a solid preparation and I would happily come back to try another variety.

I was also impressed by my iced tea, which came unsweetened. The waiter provided a sugar syrup for me to tailor the drink to my taste, a thoughtful move that ensured my tea would turn out just right. It was a minor detail but it seemed to underscore Risotteria’s larger commitment to getting the small stuff right. With its personable service, fresh quality ingredients and great-tasting food, Risotteria may not be desert island good, but for the isle of Manhattan, it’s worth checking out. 7/10

A gluten-free review from Celiac Chicks from August 2004

2005-07-02T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jul. 2.

Gum Fung and Dumplings

Squid and Seaweed and Clams and Shrimp

Cheung Fun and Jell-O

Lunch -

Gum Fung - 13628 39th Ave, Flushing, Queens
Har gow (Shrimp dumplings), Sui my (pork dumplings), Vegetable dumplings, Seafood dumpling in soup, Squid with seaweed salad, Salt-baked shrimp, Clams in brown sauce, Fried dough cheung fun, Shrimp-stuffed eggplant, Nor my gai (Chicken-stuffed rice wrapped in a lotus leaf), Fried shrimp rolls, tri-colored Jell-O, peanut-filled glutin balls, a Tsingtao
$28

I like to pretend I’m a snob. If one of my friends invites me to Brooklyn, I might roll my eyes and say, “Has something happened to all the other boroughs?” If the destination is Queens, I might decline with, “Maybe after I’ve eaten at every place in Manhattan twice.” And I can’t even write what I say when Staten Island is suggested.

But the truth is I love heading out to the outer boroughs. It feels like a mini-adventure, always introducing me to some community worlds apart from the East Village. More importantly, the food is usually better and more authentic due to cheaper rents, more diverse ethnic neighborhoods and newer influxes of immigrants.

On Saturday morning, I caught the 7 train to its last stop. I was meeting Manny and his friend Seth in Flushing to check out Gum Fung, which is reputedly Queens’ best dim sum. By extension, this may mean New York’s best. The three of us convened at a glaringly early 11:45 to see if its reputation was deserved.

From first appearances, the main dining room reminded me a lot of spots in the city such as Golden Unicorn. Situated in a massive space, it resembled a hotel banquet room, gaudily decorated with golds and reds. Old Chinese women patrolled the floor, maneuvering their carts of dumplings and fried chicken feet up and down the wide aisles between tables.

The women were peddling their offerings like they made a ten-dollar commission from every sale. They would hold bamboo steamers an inch above our table, saying “You want. You want,” a declaration rather than a question. Even when our banquette was overloaded with food, they kept coming with snails and with fried rice, with pork buns and with strips of beef. When we turned down a dish, insisting no, we really didn’t want it, they would flash us a look like we had just impregnated their daughters. It's a classic part of the dim sum experience and I loved it.

The food unfortunately was more hit or miss. Most of it fell into the category of good but not great and more surprisingly, little of what we had stood out from the fare you’d find in Manhattan’s Chinatown. All the dumplings we tried were tastily filled, but they had been sitting in the steamers too long, making their skins stick to the base of the pots. The squid with seaweed salad was good enough although I noticed that none of us was rushing to finish it. Manny rightly dismissed the rubbery clams we got as subpar and I was the only one who bothered to pick at the large portion we received. I did enjoy the salt-baked shrimps, with their heads and skins left intact. (At one point, we got to watch a cook drag a net through a giant aquarium to refresh his supply of shrimp.) The eggplant stuffed with shrimp was also a step above average and we all enjoyed the chicken-stuffed rice stewed in lotus leaves. My favorite item though was the cheung fun, which had fried dough wrapped in a white noodle. It was something I’d never tried and I really enjoyed the mix of textures here. It was even stranger and better dipped in the hoisin sauce that came with it.

Nonetheless, no matter what we tried, we all ended up underwhelmed. Back on the 7, Seth, getting his Ph.D. in comp lit, waxed rhapsodic about the healthier and better dumplings at Dim Sum Go Go (see Dinner, Mar. 19). It was one of the first times I’d heard someone go to an ethnic outer borough outpost and still come away preferring the Manhattan version. But he was right. Dim Sum Go Go served much cleaner and often more interesting food. Even for people who prefer the full dim sum experience, Golden Unicorn proved itself comparable to Gum Fung. Best of all, with each of these much closer options, I could sleep in and keep my snobbery intact. 6/10

2005-06-30T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jun 30.

Special Feature -

Half A Year In Food - It's six months into this young blog's life and it's been quite an experience. I've met some excellent people and had some very interesting dialogues. I've learned a lot more about the dining experience by writing about it. But perhaps best of all, I've had the opportunity to have some amazing meals. Whether it was dollar dumplings or bank account-clearing extravaganzas, I've really enjoyed sharing my meals of this half-year. I'm also looking forward to what's in store for the next six months, but first here's a look at the best thus far:

Best New Restaurant (over $50 meal)
1) Per Se
2) The Modern
3) Masa
4) Devi
5) Cacio e Pepe

Best New Restaurant (under $50 meal)
1) Una Pizza Napoletana
2) Hummus Place
3) Mercadito
4) Franny’s
5) Klong

Best Appetizer (over $50 meal)
1) Oysters and Pearls (Per Se)
2) Uni risotto with black truffles (Masa)
3) O-toro Tartare with Iranian osetra caviar (Masa)
4) Foie Gras Terrine Marbled with Roasted Artichokes and Green Peppercorns (The Modern)
5) Waltz of Appetizers (Kumamoto Oyster with Apple Mint Gelee, Foie Gras Terrine with Crisp Porcini, Japanese Yellowtail with Wasabi Tobiko, Crisp Portuguese Sardine) (Danube)

Best Appetizer (under $50 meal)
1) Steamed pork and crab tiny buns (New Green Bo)
2) Shrimp Pakoras (Tangra Masala)
3) Venison and Chestnut Terrine (Craft)
4) Roti Canai (Overseas Asian)
5) Herring Sampler (Aquavit)

Best Entrée (over $50 meal)
1) Black Spaghetti with Rock Shrimp, Chorizo and Black Chilis (Babbo)
2) Roasted Maine Lobster in a "Folly of Herbs" with Asparagus and Salsify (The Modern)
3) Mint Love Letters with Spicy Lamb Sausage (Babbo)
4) Homemade nettle gnocchi tossed with tomato comfit, rosemary and buffalo mozzarella (Cacio e Pepe)
5) Chorizo-Crusted Chatham Cod with White Cocoan Bean Puree and Harissa Oil (The Modern)

Best Entrée (under $50 meal)
1) Pan Roasted Sea Scallops (Pearl Oyster Bar)
2) Banana Walnut Pancakes (Clinton St. Baking Company)
3) Mushroom-stuffed Veal with Porcini Risotto (Assenzio)
4) Roasted Atlantic Salmon with Soba Noodle, Soy Beans, Shiitake Mushrooms, Soy-Wasabi Vinaigrette (Bistro St. Marks)
5) Lobster Congee (Congee Village)

Best Dessert (over $50 meal)
1) "Coffee and Doughnuts" (Per Se)
2) "Snickers Bar" (Per Se)
3) Austrian Chocolate Hazelnut Souffle with Chocolate and Vanilla Ice Creams and Apple Sorbet (Danube)
4) Milk chocolate-hazelnut parfait, orange reduction (WD-50)
5) Cantaloupe Mousse with a Glass of Port (Cacio e Pepe)

Best Dessert (under $50 meal)
1) Goat's Milk Ricotta, Rose-Rosemary, and Meyer Lemon with Blackberry Gelato (Otto)
2) Dulce de Leche (Itzocan Cafe)
3) Almond Cookie Ice Cream (Chinatown Ice Cream Factory)
4) White Chocolate Mousse with Fresh Strawberries and Strawberry Granité (Bouley)
5) Banana Tarte Tatin (Craft)

Best Soup (a surprisingly very hotly contested category)
1) Butternut squash shrimp bisque with saffron (Itzocan Cafe)
2) Hot and Sour Soup (Tangra Masala)
3) Matzo Ball Soup (2nd Ave. Deli)
4) Celery Root Soup with Maine Diver Scallops, Black Trumpet Mushrooms and Chervil (Hearth)
5) Seafood Soup (Rancha la Cascada)

Best Salad
1) Fried Watercress Salad w/ Chicken, Shrimp and Squid (Sripraphai)
2) Octopus Salad with Spicy Lemon Dressing (Tab Tos)
3) Roasted beet salad (Babbo)
4) Hearts of Palm salad (Per Se)
5) Arugala, pear and gorgonzola salad (Fornino)

Best Pizza
1) Una Pizza Napoletana
2) Franny’s
3) DiFara
4) Denino’s
5) Nick’s

Best Cocktail
1) Mango-Passion Mojito (The Modern)
2) Per Se Cocktail (Per Se)
3) Monkey Business (El Avión)
4) Danube Cocktail (Danube)
5) Coming Up Roses (The Bar Room at the Modern)

Best Sandwich
1) Sesame bagel with lox, tomato and cream cheese (Russ and Daughters)
2) Classic Vietnamese Sandwich (Nicky's Vietnamese Sandwiches)
3) Pastrami sandwich on rye (Katz’s Deli)
4) Corned beef sandwich on rye (2nd Ave. Deli)
5) Pastrami spiced turkey sandwich on French bread with Edam cheese, sprouts, cucumbers and house dressing (Take It Away)

Best Day of Eating
1) May 22 - Pizza World Tour
2) Jan. 30 - Three Meals Under $30
3) Apr. 3 - From Jewish to Spanish
4) Apr. 23 - Dumpling World Tour
5) Jan. 8 - Asian Excursion

Best Service
1) Babbo
2) Per Se
3) Pó
4) WD-50
5) Itzocan Café

And finally, here is a list of my favorite 40 meals and my favorite dish at each place.

1) Per Se - Oysters and Pearls
2) Masa - Uni risotto
3) The Modern - Roasted Maine Lobster in a "Folly of Herbs" with Asparagus and Salsify
4) Babbo - Black Spaghetti with Rock Shrimp, Chorizo and Black Chilis
5) Una Pizza Napoletana - Margherita Pizza
6) Craft - Venison and Chestnut Terrine
7) Itzocan Café - Dulce de Leche
8) Danube - Maine Day Boat Lobster with Sunchoke, Mango, Hon-Shimeji Mushrooms and a Saffron Curry Broth
9) Sripraphai - Fried Watercress Salad w/ Chicken, Shrimp and Squid
10) Tia Pol - Patatas Bravas
11) Devi - Tandoor Grilled Lamb Chops with pear chutney and curry leaf potatoes
12) Pearl Oyster Bar - Pan Roasted Sea Scallops
13) Tangra Masala - Hot and Sour Soup
14) Russ and Daughters - Sesame bagel with lox, tomato and cream cheese
15) Franny’s - Tomato and Mozzarella with House-Cured Garlic Sausage Pizza
16) Hummus Place - Hummus Tahini
17) Khushie - Chicken Kali Mirch
18) DiFara - Plain square
19) Denino’s - Sausage and mushroom pizza
20) Pó - Tortelloni with Ricotta and Ramps in a White Butter Truffle Sauce
21) Cacio e Pepe - Homemade nettle gnocchi tossed with tomato comfit, rosemary and buffalo mozzarella
22) Nicky’s Vietnamese Sandwiches - Classic Vietnamese Sandwich
23) Congee Village - Lobster Congee
24) Shimizu - O-Toro sushi
25) WD-50 - Slow poached egg, parmesan broth, tomato
26) Al Di La - Malfatti
27) Rose Water - Kevin's Farm Grilled Chicken With Mustard Greens, Falafel, and Roasted Pumpkin Seed Sauce
28) Aquavit - Herring Sampler
29) Assenzio - Mozzarella-stuffed Veal with Porcini Mushroom Risotto
30) New Green Bo - Steamed pork and crab tiny buns
31) Mercadito - Shrimp Tacos
32) Taverna Kyclades - Roe dip
33) Otto - Goat's Milk Ricotta, Rose-Rosemary, and Meyer Lemon with Blackberry Gelato
34) 2nd Ave. Deli - Matzoh Ball Soup
35) Nougatine - Slow-Baked Salmon with Pad Thai
36) Overseas Asian Restaurant - Roti Canai
37) Kuma Inn - Edamame in Thai-Chili Lime Oil
38) Shake Shack - Double Shack Burger
39) Nick’s Pizza - White pie with Spinach and Prosciutto
40) Klong - Kee Mao Noodles

2005-06-25T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jun. 25.

Dinner -

Cacio e Pepe - 182 2nd Ave., East Village
Capesante con pancetta su crema di finocchi e olio di tartufo (Bacon-wrapped scallops served over a fennel purée and a touch of truffle oil); Spaghetti alla gricia con scaglie di tartufo nero (Spaghetti tossed with sautéed guanciale, pecorino cheese and shaved black truffle); Gnocchi di ortica con pomodoro comfit, rosmarina e mozzarella di bufala (Homemade nettle gnocchi tossed with tomato comfit, rosemary and buffalo mozzarella); Homemade cantaloupe mousse with a glass of port, half of a bottle of Sangiovese 2003
$71.50

It’s the classic foodblogger’s dilemma: to blog or not to blog. I was going on a first date and I didn’t want the camera flashes to interrupt the mood. I didn’t want to push away her fork, saying the first shot was blurry, I need to take another one, or to scribble furtively in my notebook as we decided what to order. In short, I chose to forgo all the usual annoyances my friends have learned to endure when eating with me.

Her request was “Italian or Asian” and I was happy to comply. I had been awaiting a reason to revisit Cacio e Pepe, one of my favorite discoveries from last year. It’s a Roman trattoria that seems ideal for a second meeting. It’s lit by candles but still casual. The food is serious but not intimidating. The vibe is both relaxing and relaxed. My main reason for wanting to return was purely selfish though: I had to retry the nettle gnocchi that floored me last time.

Arriving at around 8:30, the restaurant was about three-quarters full. (They don’t take reservations for parties under six so I was a little concerned.) We had our choice of sitting inside or outside but were lured to stay in by the humming AC. Our waitress came by our table and rushed through the specials. Admittedly, I wasn’t really listening, knowing I’d be getting the gnocchi and trying to come up with good conversation starters.

Because she knew my gastronomic ways, we also decided to split appetizers and pastas. First came the bacon-wrapped scallops, which were excellent. Prepared with a fennel puree, the scallops were light and very artfully seasoned. The flavors of the seafood shone through but the earthiness of the herb and the saltiness of the pork complemented them in just the right proportion. My one complaint is the dish was too expensive, $11.95 for three bacon-wrapped mollusks.

Next we split a spaghetti with guanciale and truffles. I liked everything in this dish, especially the guanciale, which is the dried meat of the hog’s jowls. But I found the truffle flavor too dominating and the pasta too oily. It was still tasty, but it seems that there are stronger options to select. One obvious choice is the namesake cacio e pepe that Vince had last time. Peppery and cheesy, the pasta is scooped out of a giant block of Pecorino. If I had to do it again, I would’ve chosen it instead.

For the entrees, she had the salmon whereas I got the much-anticipated nettle gnocchi. I had been building it up since last October, but thankfully, it met the hype. The olive green gnocchi was softly firm, with a delightful and unique flavor. The chunks of mozzarella, the tomato comfit and the sprigs of rosemary were perfect companions, adding balancing richness and textures to the mix. But even more than the red, white and green color scheme, the harmonious blend of the ingredients and the simplicity of the dish were great testaments to Italy’s splendors.

Finally, it was time for dessert. More than most Italian restaurants, Cacio e Pepe’s list leans toward the unique and offbeat. Last time, I got to sample their green tomato strudel and this time around, I ordered the cantaloupe mousse. Even better, it came with a glass of port. The mousse was delicious, really highlighting the freshness and mildness of the fruit. The port cleverly supplied the requisite sweetness for the dessert. This was another winner.

As we finished our desserts and launched into yet another topic, I realized what a great time I’d had. The conversation had seemed to flow effortlessly and the food had been fairly wonderful. As we wandered back into the heat, tipsy on Tuscan wine, I knew that I would have to write about this dinner. Some things are too good to keep to yourself, and Cacio e Pepe is certainly one of them. 8/10

The Village Voice review from October 2004

2005-06-24T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jun. 24.

Dinner -

Devi - 8 E. 18th St., Union Square
Cashew Roll (amuse), Manchurian Cauliflower, Tandoor Grilled Jamison Farm Lamb Chops with Pear Chutney and Curry Leaf Potatoes, Mango Cheesecake, a Palindrome (OP Aquavit, fresh pear cider, essence of ginger, Poire Williams, served up with a Bosc pear slice soaked in Navan vanilla cognac), two glasses of a Millbrook Cabernet
$75

Some things are victims of their own success. Just compare Russell Crowe circa-L.A. Confidential to his vase-wielding days now. Look at Williamsburg, whose surge in popularity produced skyrocketing Manhattan-level rents. Consider Tom DeLay, whose shady dealings seem like a symptom of ruling party hubris. And I would add to that list New York’s Restaurant Week, which, in its thirteenth year, seems more like an institution than an innovation.

Many restaurants, seeing the draw of prix-fixe menus, have already incorporated them into their daily offerings. Some of the top restaurants have dropped out, able to fill up their dining rooms without discounts. Others have scaled back their selections to the boring and cheap, crafting pared down dishes specifically for the two week run. Too often, diners miss out on the cuisine that makes the restaurant noteworthy to begin with. (see Apr. 11).

But whatever hesitations I had after my Restaurant Week lunch at Gotham (see Jun. 22) were nullified by my dinner at Devi. The incredible value this fledging restaurant (your choice of any appetizer, entrée and dessert from the regular menu for $35) seemed staggering compared to the number-crunching approach of comparable places. Considering that Devi has been a big hit since its opening in September and is already earning accolades as the best upscale Indian in the city, that’s an act of generosity worth a lot of praise.

I already had a sense that Devi would be a destination. I very much enjoyed the tasting menu at Amma, when chefs Hemant Mathur and Suvir Saran were there. Striking out on their own now, they’ve only expanded their ambitions with a much larger, two-floor space to match. Walking in on Friday night, I was immediately wowed by the atmosphere, which felt elegant and quietly ornate. Vince, his parents and I were seated downstairs in the back by a very friendly and forgiving host (although we'd called, we were still an hour late for a prime time reservation). Similarly, our waiter was friendly and service overall was polished and easygoing. I appreciated that the waiter freely made recommendations from a menu he clearly knew very well.

Still, even with the great deal, attractive décor and able service, the food eclipsed everything. We all started with a complimentary cashew roll, a small, nutty amuse that was simple but delicious. (Again, I have to reiterate, when have you ever heard of getting an amuse for a Restaurant Week dinner!) The Manchurian cauliflower I had as my appetizer was even better, the garlicky red sauce topping the cauliflower blossoms bursting with flavor. It was tangy and complex and addictive and incredibly tasty, relying on the same Sino-Indian influence as Tangra Masala (see Jun. 12, Mar. 26). If my mother had this dish at her disposal, I wouldn’t have resisted eating my vegetables nearly as much.

Yet even the cauliflower couldn’t compete with the lamb chops (regularly a $29 entrée!). Supple and intensely seasoned, it was no surprise that the lamb is one of Devi’s most praised creations. Unique among lamb dishes, it completely fulfilled the mission of upscale Indian, respecting Eastern traditions and ingredients while integrating some Western techniques and inspirations. (Tellingly, Mathur used to work at Diwan Grill, which fuses Indian cooking with French and American.)

Vince, already a veteran of Devi, insisted the four of us pass around our orders and try a little of everything. Everything I sampled was excellent, from Mary’s idly upma to Joe’s pista chicken. When we reached dessert though, there was no need to exchange plates. All of us went with the mango cheesecake, the star dessert at Devi. This too was attractively plated and wonderful tasting, a creative ending engineered by pastry chef Surbhi Sahni.

With every course as fantastic as it was, I would have been more than happy to pay full price for my meal. But that Devi instead gave diners a break and that chef Mathur frequently circulated the room chatting with grateful patrons showed how this restaurant stands apart. The experience not only restored my faith in Restaurant Week-- it also proved that a success can remain as humble but self-assured and as magnanimous but magnificient as Devi. 9/10

2005-06-22T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jun. 22.

Lunch -

Gotham Bar and Grill - 12 E. 12th St., Union Square
Sweet Corn Puree with Braised Leeks and Grilled Shrimps; Roast Skate Wing with Lemon Crushed Potatoes, Pipérade and Saffron-Mussel Jus; Chocolate Cake served warm with Cinnamon Buttermilk Ice Cream; a glass of 2003 Muscadet "Clos de la Sénsigerie," Chables, Loire Valley France
$36

I don’t cook. It’s largely because I spend an infinitesimal amount of time at home, am too interested in the New York dining scene, and don’t own any pots or pans. But it’s also because I don’t think I have the gift chefs have. Even if I round up every ingredient in a recipe and follow every step to the letter, my final product will lack soul, that essential and ecstatic verve that elevates food to art.

When I visited Gotham Bar and Grill, it had the same problem. It’s assembled the ingredients for a fine fine dining experience, but can’t quite combine them into something spectacular. The room, with its very high ceilings and sleek grey design, should be beautiful but it’s also so vast and anonymous that I felt lost in some fashionable cafeteria. Our waiter was friendly enough but he also seemed disappointed when he realized Pat and I would be ordering from the Restaurant Week menu. He also appeared tired and for one stretch, disappeared for too long. Unfortunately, the problem of quality ingredients and average outputs also extended to the lunch.

Pat and I both started with the soup, a course which changes daily here. Today was not a good day. The sweet corn puree was way too strong and tasted like being punched in the face by an ear of corn. The leeks were a welcome addition but the two shrimp sunk to the bottom tasted more of the grill than the shrimp. They also didn’t add much to the soup, more diversion than anything else.

My entrée, the skate, was better but only because it stuck to the basics. The fish was cooked well but still seemed boring. The saffron-mussel jus didn’t help much. The slight tang in the potatoes was a nice touch though, giving the ordinarily mundane mash a surprising twist. All in all, the skate was the definition of average.

Finally came the chocolate cake, the best course of the afternoon. Again not culinary outstanding, here the simple preparation paid off with lots of flavor. The cake was delightfully soft, leaning toward the texture of mousse. The cinnamon ice cream that came with it was an inspired pairing. The dessert was the one thing that hinted at chef Alfred Portale’s reputed genius, that je ne sais quoi that I think I lack in the kitchen. Unfortunately, Gotham’s Restaurant Week menu was largely missing it as well. 5/10

2005-06-18T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jun 18.

Kuma Inn and Edamame and Shrimp

Pork and Shumai

Sausage and Bass

Dinner -

Kuma Inn - 113 Ludlow St., 2nd Floor, Lower East Side
Edamame in Thai-chili lime oil; Drunken shrimp with sake and kalamansi; Pork Loin; Wasabe Pork Shumai, Vegetarian Summer Rolls with Thai basil, bean sprouts, carrots and chayote; Sauteed Chinese sausage in Thai chili sauce; Bass in ginger sauce; Flight of sakes (kaori, kaishu, chiyomusubi)
$47

It seems everyone wins with small plates. Diners get to try a far wider variety of tastes, breaking out of the stodgy routine of appetizer-entrée-dessert. Restaurateurs can pad their profits as people lose track of their mounting bills. Even the atmosphere usually benefits, buoyed by the free-flowing drinks. Some of my favorite restaurants, like Tia Pol (see Dinner, Apr. 3) and Otto (see Apr. 24), subscribe to the theory of small plates and pull it off masterfully. I was hoping Kuma Inn in the Lower East Side could do as well.

Pat and I went to find out on a muggy Saturday night. Located on the second floor of a quieter stretch of Ludlow, Kuma Inn is a Filipino tapas restaurant that incorporates many pan-Asian influences. It’s softly lit but plays Depeche Mode and Spoon, simultaneously intimate and casual. It reminded me of Decibel (see Mar. 4) if Decibel were clean and chill and had tables spaced widely apart.

First things first, we started with the sake list. Pat and I chose the nice option of a flight, which offered three glasses of different chilled sakes for $15. Coming with kaori, kaishu and chiyomusubi, the flight was a welcome extension of the sampling mentality. They were all pretty good, and contrasted with each other in pleasant but subtle ways.

To accompany the alcohol, Pat ordered a serving of edamame without looking at the menu. So when we each popped open our first soybean pods, we noticed something special. Bathed in a Thai chili lime oil, these beans went from bland to suddenly exciting. I found myself sucking on the pod skins just to get a little more flavor. We were dipping relatively dry husks on top into the sauce below. It was such a simple yet inspired touch of fusion, but it foretold the level of thoughtful care and light but bold flavors to come.

Our first dishes, the shrimp and the pork loin, were both prime example of this. Nothing exotic, they were classic preparations made new by their potent sauces. King Phojanakong’s kitchen also cooked very well, producing a delicate and tender shrimp enlivened by kalamansi juice and a grilled pork with just the right texture.

Next came a plate of Chinese sausage, the wasabe shumai and the summer rolls. I continually went back to the plate of sausage, intrigued by it because I’d never had it. In another context, I would’ve almost thought it was kielbasa or a thick Russian salami, but the distinctly Eastern green chili sauce reclaimed its Asian identity. The shumai, which can be found almost anywhere, still impressed me here. It really packed a sinus-clearing punch of heat and the skins on the dumplings were noteworthily tasty. The summer rolls were the one item that wasn’t improved or heightened. They were the same clear-dough rolls you’d find anywhere, which is still pretty good.

To finish, we had bass, once again distinguished by its winningly gentle ginger sauce. The fish was again cooked expertly, easily yielding to our eager forks. We hadn’t planned to order another course, but everything else had been so good, it only stoked our appetites. And of course that was the beauty of small plates. We could keep ordering dishes to split until we were sated. We could keep getting the small, narrow glasses of sake until we were tipsy. At Kuma Inn, with so many promising choices and so many unexpectedly vibrant renditions, it’s just a wonder we stopped at the bass. 8/10

2005-06-12T03:00:00.000-04:00

Jun 12.

Dinner -

Tangra Masala - 87-09 Grand Ave., Elmhurst, Queens
Hot and sour soup, chicken pakoras, shrimp pakoras, Chili goat (dry), Tangra Masala fish (with gravy)
$23

There’s always that concern. You rave about it to your friends, you use the megaphone of the internets to shout its praises, you even find yourself monumentalizing it in your head. Then you go back for a second taste and find out how wrong you were. The novelty of the experience fooled you. The outer borough address gave it a cachet of cool. Your critical judgment was temporarily malfunctioning.

As Vince and I hiked out to Elmhurst after a Mets game, this was my fleeting concern about Tangra Masala. But then I reminded myself of the spicy soul of their hot and sour soup, the fried craggy crunch of their pakoras, the sweet cilantro enlivening the Manchurian shrimp. My first visit (see Mar. 26) was one of my best meals of the year so far and I felt confident that Tangra would do it again.

Armed with bodega Sapporos, we arrived and took the last table left, the lone island of white faces in an ocean of Indians. Both times so far, the Indian-style Chinese restaurant has almost exclusively been packed with Indian people, not necessarily a promise of quality but certainly a good sign of it. Vince and I both ordered my beloved hot and sour soup and we split two orders of pakoras, one chicken, one shrimp. Branching out from the Manchurian preparation, we tried their other two saucings, getting the chili goat dry and the Tangra Masala fish with gravy.

From the first bite, I confirmed that my worry was all for naught. Tangra Masala’s soup was just as tangily beautiful as before and the shrimp pakoras may have even outdone the chicken. The chili goat was complexly spicy without burying the multitude of subtler flavors. At first glance, the fish coated in a bright orange sauce resembled Sweet and Sour Chicken, but the taste was anything but takeout. It was sharp but not overpowering, sweet but not saccharine. It was a taste so singular that’s hard to describe and probably even harder to replicate. But somehow, in its second round, Tangra Masala managed to remain just as excellent as ever. 9/10

Dessert -

Serependipity 3 - 225 E. 60th St., Upper East Side
Frrrozen Hot Chocolate
$10

Do you enjoy Tiffany lamps and obscenely long lines? Are you thrilled by anonymous service and a dessert with as much depth as a sheet of paper? Do you take it as a good sign when a restaurant's entire clientele consists of twelve-year-old girls and tourists? Will you go anywhere people tell you just have to go? If so, please put down your name. We'll get back to you in about two-and-a-half hours.

It was clear from the outset that Serendipity 3 wasn't designed for me. My knowledge of the Britney Spears catalogue is embarrassingly nonexistent. The last season of The Real World I could stand to watch was Seattle. I'm far more likely to read Daily Kos than Daily Candy. Nonetheless, dessert is dessert and naively, I reasoned that the famous Frrrozen Hot Chocolate had to be pretty amazing to gain such acclaim.

Suffice it to say that it's the Paris Hilton of desserts: needlessly rich and famous solely for being famous. Not inherently awful, it's still not nearly as special as it believes. Basically, it's just a giant cup of icy hot chocolate and whipped cream. No more, no less. If a regular-sized glass of hot chocolate in a less tacky setting doesn't do it for you, then by all means, start lining up now. If you enjoy the sensation of sugar shock and sweets with no sign of artistry in sight, feel free to enjoy. But for me, this is right up there with George W. Bush, Magnolia Bakery and Ben Affleck as popular phenomena that completely baffle me. 2/10

New York Magazine picks Serendipity 3 as Most Overrated

2005-06-11T15:00:00.000-04:00

Jun. 11.

Dinner -

Bonita - 338 Bedford Ave., Williamsburg, Brooklyn
Chips and Pico de Gallo, Lime soup, Fish tacos, Half of a pitcher of White Wine Margarita, a Dos Equis
$33
7/10