New York is a pizza town, but it's also a burger town, which is great because I'm a burger guy; click here and here for more on my burger adventures. I'm also a list guy, so it was fun reading this list of Alan Richman's Five Favorite Burgers in New York City. They are, in no particular order, burgers from Shake Shack, Big Nick's, Blue Smoke, Burger Joint at Le Parker Meridien, and Peter Luger. I've had the Shack burger, which was almost as good as a burger from a true paragon of fast-food, California's In-N-Out, but not any of the others. (I did eat a steak dinner at Peter Luger many years ago, but I obviously have to return for the burger.)
Let's see how quickly I can go through Richman's list, shall we?
Showing posts with label restaurant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label restaurant. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Single in the city
I read once that New York is a great place to go if you're single, because they're so many other single people, but when you've been married for almost four years like I have, it's hard to know what that feels like. Well, except when Sarah jets off to Milan for a week. Then it sort of feels like I'm single again, but for one fact: When I was single, I never lived alone. I lived with a couple of guys in a decrepit, unsafe building that was torn down the month after we moved out. Then I moved with a bunch of guys into a townhouse in which we staged tournaments of the poker and Halo variety, and occasionally slept (that is, when we weren't trying in vain to deactivate a housemate's car alarm in a torrential rainstorm at 4:00 AM).
So I don't quite understand what it means to be really single; I've never lived alone. But this week, with Sarah in Italy again, I decided to see what it feels like being single in New York. Naturally, I started by going to a bar.
A couple I knew invited me to hang out at 230 Fifth, a rooftop bar, on Sunday night, the night Sarah left. It was perfect! I thought I'd arrive two hours late, chat for a bit with friends I hadn't seen in a while, and drink a couple of beers. Then I'd go home and congratulate myself for being social and convivial. And the best part was that the day after was Memorial Day, a national holiday.
I tried calling and texting the people who were supposed to be there, but no one was answering their phone. Must be so noisy that they can't hear, I thought.
It's a good thing I bothered to wear a button-down shirt and nice shoes, because when I arrived at the place at 11:00 PM, there was a sign at the door ordering me to "dress to impress" or something like that. Eight bouncers stood at the door. Okay, maybe there weren't eight, but there were at least three, which still seems to me like a lot. Obviously, this was a classy joint. They checked my ID and waved me through, and I got in an elevator with a yuppie and a hulk of a man who -- surprise -- was another bouncer. "Couple of marines threw a bottle of water off the roof," the hulk said, shaking his head. It was Fleet Week in the city, so it didn't seem out of the ordinary that a bunch of military men might have gotten frisky at a club. "The guys downstairs said it sounded like a garbage bag hitting the sidewalk."
"I thought you guys only used plastic bottles up there," I said.
"We do," the hulk said, looking at me like a pitbull looks at a nugget of dry dog food. "You think a plastic bottle can't kill a man from twenty stories up?"
And with that, the door slid open. I followed the yuppie -- who obviously knew where he was going -- up a flight of stairs, through a small crowd waiting to use the bathrooms, and out onto the roof, into a crowd of beautiful people.
Here is why I don't normally go to places like rooftop bars in Manhattan: Half the people seemed to be checking out the other half, which is exactly what you do in bars when you're single. But I wasn't single; I was merely pretending! I wasn't looking to pick anyone up. I wasn't even there to meet new people. So it was a little annoying being on the receiving end of four hundred pairs of judgmental eyes as I snaked through the crowd trying to locate the couple I knew and failing miserably. Why wasn't anyone answering his or her phone?
Here's another reason why I don't do the rooftop bar thing: A quarter of the people were wearing red bathrobes, which are apparently handed out to patrons to stave off the chilly air. Even the guys were wearing red bathrobes. I couldn't think of a less manly thing.
I decided that since I was already there, I'd get a drink at the bar and wait around to see if my friends showed up. Big mistake. My Sapphire and tonic cost $13. The bartender was generous with the Sapphire, but this was rooftop robbery served in a plastic cup.
There were some nice things about the place. The view was impressive, especially since the Empire State Building, just a few blocks away, was lit up spectacularly in red, white and blue for Memorial Weekend. The place was spacious and comfortable and well designed, which is boring in theory but not in practice. It would've been a great place to hang out for a few hours if you were with friends. But alone and married, I was feeling like 98-pound nerd at a pickup game in Rucker Park.
I took a swig of my drink and called my friend one more time. He finally answered and told me that he and his wife had made a last-minute trip to Indiana because his sister was having a baby. "Great," I said. "Is anyone else going to be here?"
"I don't know," he said. I imagined him at a hospital in Fort Wayne. He would not be wearing a red bathrobe. "AW and JC are supposed to be there. Sorry we didn't tell you that we wouldn't be there. It was a last-minute trip."
AW and JC were two guys I didn't know that well, but I tried calling AW's number anyway and got nothing but voicemail. That's it, I told myself as I downed my drink, I'm leaving.
My attempt at living it up single-style had completely flopped. I took the elevator down, left through the back entrance, and proceeded to walk in the opposite direction of home for four blocks before I realized that I was going the wrong way. It was almost midnight. I needed to pick myself up from my sour mood. So, naturally, I went to a restaurant and ate dinner alone.
Believe it or not, this was kind of a happy ending to my night. While I consider it slightly sad to dine solo, there's also something romantic about doing it, and only the most secure people can truly enjoy it without the benefit of a distraction, such as a book. Location has everything to do with it, so I picked a 24-hour French cafe called L'Express on Park Avenue. The gentle arches and lazy ceiling fans made me feel like I was in Morocco, but the bottle-festooned bar was straight out of a Manet painting. I ordered a prosciutto omelet and briefly considered asking the chef to hold the scallions, but thought better of it.
I was the only solo diner in the place who wasn't drinking an alcoholic beverage.
But the omelet was superb, the accompanying fries and salad were good, and I decided to forgo ketchup to keep the experience as authentic as possible. This must be what it's like to live the life of a single artist in Paris, I thought. I was Toulouse-Lautrec. I was Picasso. I was Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge.
Then I paid for my authentic French experience with a portrait of Andrew Jackson.
So I don't quite understand what it means to be really single; I've never lived alone. But this week, with Sarah in Italy again, I decided to see what it feels like being single in New York. Naturally, I started by going to a bar.
A couple I knew invited me to hang out at 230 Fifth, a rooftop bar, on Sunday night, the night Sarah left. It was perfect! I thought I'd arrive two hours late, chat for a bit with friends I hadn't seen in a while, and drink a couple of beers. Then I'd go home and congratulate myself for being social and convivial. And the best part was that the day after was Memorial Day, a national holiday.
I tried calling and texting the people who were supposed to be there, but no one was answering their phone. Must be so noisy that they can't hear, I thought.
It's a good thing I bothered to wear a button-down shirt and nice shoes, because when I arrived at the place at 11:00 PM, there was a sign at the door ordering me to "dress to impress" or something like that. Eight bouncers stood at the door. Okay, maybe there weren't eight, but there were at least three, which still seems to me like a lot. Obviously, this was a classy joint. They checked my ID and waved me through, and I got in an elevator with a yuppie and a hulk of a man who -- surprise -- was another bouncer. "Couple of marines threw a bottle of water off the roof," the hulk said, shaking his head. It was Fleet Week in the city, so it didn't seem out of the ordinary that a bunch of military men might have gotten frisky at a club. "The guys downstairs said it sounded like a garbage bag hitting the sidewalk."
"I thought you guys only used plastic bottles up there," I said.
"We do," the hulk said, looking at me like a pitbull looks at a nugget of dry dog food. "You think a plastic bottle can't kill a man from twenty stories up?"
And with that, the door slid open. I followed the yuppie -- who obviously knew where he was going -- up a flight of stairs, through a small crowd waiting to use the bathrooms, and out onto the roof, into a crowd of beautiful people.
Here is why I don't normally go to places like rooftop bars in Manhattan: Half the people seemed to be checking out the other half, which is exactly what you do in bars when you're single. But I wasn't single; I was merely pretending! I wasn't looking to pick anyone up. I wasn't even there to meet new people. So it was a little annoying being on the receiving end of four hundred pairs of judgmental eyes as I snaked through the crowd trying to locate the couple I knew and failing miserably. Why wasn't anyone answering his or her phone?
Here's another reason why I don't do the rooftop bar thing: A quarter of the people were wearing red bathrobes, which are apparently handed out to patrons to stave off the chilly air. Even the guys were wearing red bathrobes. I couldn't think of a less manly thing.
I decided that since I was already there, I'd get a drink at the bar and wait around to see if my friends showed up. Big mistake. My Sapphire and tonic cost $13. The bartender was generous with the Sapphire, but this was rooftop robbery served in a plastic cup.
There were some nice things about the place. The view was impressive, especially since the Empire State Building, just a few blocks away, was lit up spectacularly in red, white and blue for Memorial Weekend. The place was spacious and comfortable and well designed, which is boring in theory but not in practice. It would've been a great place to hang out for a few hours if you were with friends. But alone and married, I was feeling like 98-pound nerd at a pickup game in Rucker Park.
I took a swig of my drink and called my friend one more time. He finally answered and told me that he and his wife had made a last-minute trip to Indiana because his sister was having a baby. "Great," I said. "Is anyone else going to be here?"
"I don't know," he said. I imagined him at a hospital in Fort Wayne. He would not be wearing a red bathrobe. "AW and JC are supposed to be there. Sorry we didn't tell you that we wouldn't be there. It was a last-minute trip."
AW and JC were two guys I didn't know that well, but I tried calling AW's number anyway and got nothing but voicemail. That's it, I told myself as I downed my drink, I'm leaving.
My attempt at living it up single-style had completely flopped. I took the elevator down, left through the back entrance, and proceeded to walk in the opposite direction of home for four blocks before I realized that I was going the wrong way. It was almost midnight. I needed to pick myself up from my sour mood. So, naturally, I went to a restaurant and ate dinner alone.
Believe it or not, this was kind of a happy ending to my night. While I consider it slightly sad to dine solo, there's also something romantic about doing it, and only the most secure people can truly enjoy it without the benefit of a distraction, such as a book. Location has everything to do with it, so I picked a 24-hour French cafe called L'Express on Park Avenue. The gentle arches and lazy ceiling fans made me feel like I was in Morocco, but the bottle-festooned bar was straight out of a Manet painting. I ordered a prosciutto omelet and briefly considered asking the chef to hold the scallions, but thought better of it.
I was the only solo diner in the place who wasn't drinking an alcoholic beverage.
But the omelet was superb, the accompanying fries and salad were good, and I decided to forgo ketchup to keep the experience as authentic as possible. This must be what it's like to live the life of a single artist in Paris, I thought. I was Toulouse-Lautrec. I was Picasso. I was Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge.
Then I paid for my authentic French experience with a portrait of Andrew Jackson.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Taco swell
Man I love Mexican food, and that's a problem. It's a problem because there are no good-n-cheap Mexican places in New York, and especially not in lower Manhattan. In Los Angeles, it seemed like you could get two-dollar fish tacos anywhere, and they'd be good.
This is the part where I'm supposed to say: "So you can imagine my joy when I discovered two-dollar fish tacos available just down the street in NoLIta." Alas, I cannot say such a thing. The next best thing is to report that I've been enjoying the food at Pinche Taqueria, a new-ish Mexican hole-in-the-wall just a block away from my apartment.
The weirdest thing about Pinche Taqueria is it seems to be run by people who skipped elementary math in kindergarten. A co-worker of mine, the first person I know who ate there, reported that when the cashier rang him up for three tacos, she charged him $14, much more than the $10 that it should have cost. When he pointed out the discrepancy, she just shrugged her shoulders as if to say that it was $14 because the cash register said so in bright green LCD numbers, no question about it.
Tonight, when I ordered a carne asada burrito, one fish taco, and a cup of horchata, I should have been charged a little over $14. Instead, the guy running the register quoted me $26.18.
"Wait a minute," I protested, credit card in hand. "I ordered a burrito for $6.95, a fish taco for $3.75 and horchata for $2.75." Even with sales tax, $26.18 was an obvious mistake.
"I must have added your order to the previous customer's order," the hoodie-clothed guy said. He re-entered my items and everything came out fine, but he never apologized, and never gave me the slightest confidence that he wouldn't make the same mistake with a customer less alert than me. It was such a glaring error that I'm sure he wasn't trying to rip me off on purpose, but the fact that this has happened more than once is worrying. If they're careless with their accounting, what else might they be careless about?
Still, the food is great. I wish I could describe the quality of the breaded mahi mahi in the taco tonight, but it was so good that I ate the whole thing in three bites, so I have no idea, really. The burrito was good as well, though the beef was very dry and needed more sauce; it's a good thing I took the two free containers of green salsa I was offered. The burrito also came with corn salsa chips, which I've always enjoyed eating with the rest of the food instead of as an appetizer.
If you love spicy Mexican food like I do, you'll need to order a horchata, which, at Pinche Taqueira, is made with organic rice milk, cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar. Nothing washes down better.
The best things I've had are the breakfast burritos. I really wanted one tonight (preferably with chorizo sausage and scrambled eggs) but when I asked if they were still serving them, the hoodie guy had to turn to his kitchen staff and ask. They said no. It was 7:00 PM. Evidently, unlike at IHOP, breakfast is not served around the clock here.
This is the part where I'm supposed to say: "So you can imagine my joy when I discovered two-dollar fish tacos available just down the street in NoLIta." Alas, I cannot say such a thing. The next best thing is to report that I've been enjoying the food at Pinche Taqueria, a new-ish Mexican hole-in-the-wall just a block away from my apartment.
The weirdest thing about Pinche Taqueria is it seems to be run by people who skipped elementary math in kindergarten. A co-worker of mine, the first person I know who ate there, reported that when the cashier rang him up for three tacos, she charged him $14, much more than the $10 that it should have cost. When he pointed out the discrepancy, she just shrugged her shoulders as if to say that it was $14 because the cash register said so in bright green LCD numbers, no question about it.
Tonight, when I ordered a carne asada burrito, one fish taco, and a cup of horchata, I should have been charged a little over $14. Instead, the guy running the register quoted me $26.18.
"Wait a minute," I protested, credit card in hand. "I ordered a burrito for $6.95, a fish taco for $3.75 and horchata for $2.75." Even with sales tax, $26.18 was an obvious mistake.
"I must have added your order to the previous customer's order," the hoodie-clothed guy said. He re-entered my items and everything came out fine, but he never apologized, and never gave me the slightest confidence that he wouldn't make the same mistake with a customer less alert than me. It was such a glaring error that I'm sure he wasn't trying to rip me off on purpose, but the fact that this has happened more than once is worrying. If they're careless with their accounting, what else might they be careless about?
Still, the food is great. I wish I could describe the quality of the breaded mahi mahi in the taco tonight, but it was so good that I ate the whole thing in three bites, so I have no idea, really. The burrito was good as well, though the beef was very dry and needed more sauce; it's a good thing I took the two free containers of green salsa I was offered. The burrito also came with corn salsa chips, which I've always enjoyed eating with the rest of the food instead of as an appetizer.
If you love spicy Mexican food like I do, you'll need to order a horchata, which, at Pinche Taqueira, is made with organic rice milk, cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar. Nothing washes down better.
The best things I've had are the breakfast burritos. I really wanted one tonight (preferably with chorizo sausage and scrambled eggs) but when I asked if they were still serving them, the hoodie guy had to turn to his kitchen staff and ask. They said no. It was 7:00 PM. Evidently, unlike at IHOP, breakfast is not served around the clock here.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
One thing I thought I'd never do
I thought I'd never do this: Eat those White Castle burgers from the freezer section of the supermarket.
But living in New York will change a guy. Listen, I love White Castle. When I lived in New Jersey, there was a White Castle two miles down the road. At 2:00 in the morning, when you're hungry as all get-up after a night of playing Halo, White Castle is the greatest thing in the world. When I was in college, I routinely got a sack of ten cheeseburgers (plus fries, plus Coke) and ate it in one sitting. Usually I washed it all down with Tabasco. But I never, ever thought I'd stoop so low as to buy a box of frozen sliders.
So what drove me to it? Well, it all started with a Saturday night party at the Bowery Hotel. And then a few drinks were involved, including, uh, tequila shots that someone else bought for us. And then there's the need to soak up that alcohol with something really greasy and salty. So wifey suggests we go to the deli and get Hot Pockets. But then I see something that looks about a hundred times better than Hot Pockets:
[Okay, I know that we should have just gone to White Castle and gotten fresh-made sliders, but the closest WC was 36 blocks away. Plus, on the entire island of Manhattan, there are only three WC franchises, according to the website.]
So I bought a box, took it home, and nuked them. And then we ate. They were -- much like deep-fried Twinkies -- absolutely delicious and disgusting at the same time.
Some notes about the burgers:
But living in New York will change a guy. Listen, I love White Castle. When I lived in New Jersey, there was a White Castle two miles down the road. At 2:00 in the morning, when you're hungry as all get-up after a night of playing Halo, White Castle is the greatest thing in the world. When I was in college, I routinely got a sack of ten cheeseburgers (plus fries, plus Coke) and ate it in one sitting. Usually I washed it all down with Tabasco. But I never, ever thought I'd stoop so low as to buy a box of frozen sliders.
So what drove me to it? Well, it all started with a Saturday night party at the Bowery Hotel. And then a few drinks were involved, including, uh, tequila shots that someone else bought for us. And then there's the need to soak up that alcohol with something really greasy and salty. So wifey suggests we go to the deli and get Hot Pockets. But then I see something that looks about a hundred times better than Hot Pockets:
[Okay, I know that we should have just gone to White Castle and gotten fresh-made sliders, but the closest WC was 36 blocks away. Plus, on the entire island of Manhattan, there are only three WC franchises, according to the website.]So I bought a box, took it home, and nuked them. And then we ate. They were -- much like deep-fried Twinkies -- absolutely delicious and disgusting at the same time.
Some notes about the burgers:- They came out of the box in plastic-wrapped packages of two. I don't know why they didn't just package all six of them in one plastic wrapper. Who eats only two White Castle burgers at a time?
- They had only the meat patty, cheese and onions between the buns. No ketchup like the fresh-made ones do. I added my own.
- They tasted exactly like they're supposed to.
- They reminded me of this.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
A hamburger today
You may or may not care to know that I ate three cheeseburgers in the span of two days last weekend. I couldn't help myself, really. The bad part was that two of the three were eaten at popular fast food joints not known for their gourmet standards. The good part was that they were delicious.
As much as I like a good hamburger, I'm somewhat befuddled by the New York restaurant trend of serving a pricey burger. I'm not even talking about Chef Daniel Boulud's $29 DB Burger (stuffed with short ribs and foie gras). Today came news of an $81 kobe beef burger at the Old Homestead steakhouse. I bet they don't call it the Recession Special. Gothamist reports that it does come with homemade ketchup and, uh, tater-tots. Because nothing says "I'm eating the most expensive burger in New York" like a side of tater-tots.
As a point of reference, the most expensive burger I ate last weekend was the always excellent Nolita House cheeseburger, served on brioche with boursin herb cheese and fries. The damage? $12, plus tax.
As much as I like a good hamburger, I'm somewhat befuddled by the New York restaurant trend of serving a pricey burger. I'm not even talking about Chef Daniel Boulud's $29 DB Burger (stuffed with short ribs and foie gras). Today came news of an $81 kobe beef burger at the Old Homestead steakhouse. I bet they don't call it the Recession Special. Gothamist reports that it does come with homemade ketchup and, uh, tater-tots. Because nothing says "I'm eating the most expensive burger in New York" like a side of tater-tots.
As a point of reference, the most expensive burger I ate last weekend was the always excellent Nolita House cheeseburger, served on brioche with boursin herb cheese and fries. The damage? $12, plus tax.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Saturday adventures
I got sick this weekend, a consequence of having to wait in the 26-degree January air for ninety minutes just to get a table at Prune on Saturday. (That's 26 degrees Fahrenheit, you Centigraders!) I was crabby in the cold to begin with, but when we finally got in, the food and fruit juice blend (Meyer lemon, lime, orange and grapefruit) went a long way toward brightening my spirits. I remained in a good mood until that evening, when my body decided to develop a cough and fever. So, no church on Sunday. No blogging on Sunday either.
But if I had blogged on Sunday, I would have written a list of things I saw while out walking on Saturday. Here it is:
But if I had blogged on Sunday, I would have written a list of things I saw while out walking on Saturday. Here it is:
- A one-eyed Pekingese on 1st Street. Pekingese dogs are funny-looking enough, but being monocular makes them downright creepy.
- Three small breadfruit floating in a basin of water, at the Essex Street Market. I didn't even know what they were until I asked the Spanish-speaking fruit vendors.
- A chunk of the most beautiful piece of Kobe beef I'd ever seen, in a glass case at the butcher. Also, I saw a chunk of jamón ibérico (Spanish cured ham) at the cheesemonger. Ibérico had been banned from sale in the United States until just last month, so it was the first time I'd seen it. At $99 a pound, I couldn't afford it.
- And also, this was at the discount candy store:
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Any way you slice it
Before there was a Pizza Hut in my Malaysian hometown, my mom used to make a homemade version of pizza, which was basically a deep-dish pie filled to the gills with mushrooms, peppers and tomatoes, and baked in a Pyrex plate. I'd have a hard time finding anything like that in New York City, where the most popular style of pizza is one with a thin, chewy crust, a rich tomato sauce, plenty of mozzarella, and no toppings. I have a slice of New York-style pizza once a week, on average (I live just around the block from the first Ray's Pizzeria in New York, and only two blocks from Lombardi's, the nation's first pizzeria). But come visit me in the City and I'll take you to Luzzo's, my favorite Neapolitan pizza joint in Manhattan. We'll order one quattro stagioni and one arugola. And we'll be happier than coals in a brick oven.
Any New Yorker knows that it's hard to find good New York-style pizza outside of the City. My experience has been the farther you travel away from Northeast, the worse the pizza gets. But what do I know? Brush up on the twenty regional pizza styles in the United States by reading this article.
Any New Yorker knows that it's hard to find good New York-style pizza outside of the City. My experience has been the farther you travel away from Northeast, the worse the pizza gets. But what do I know? Brush up on the twenty regional pizza styles in the United States by reading this article.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
I've got mail
Every now and then, I get a Valpak in the mail -- you know, one of those envelopes stuffed with coupons and ads for services that I will never need or want. I got one today. On the front, there's an ad for CSI:NY, featuring Gary Sinise's smirking mug, and a sweepstakes promotion: "You could win a trip to New York City." I'm not even going to try entering. No one ever wins these things anyway.
Some examples of what's in the envelope: Introducing Dial-4-Limo. American Laser Centers: Hair Removal and Skin Rejuvenation. Enjoy Great Pizza at a Great Price. Free Groceries! Save Up To 20% Off Our Computer & Manual Business Checks! Why Settle for Cable?
And then, a true gem among the recycling fodder: Free Dinner Entrée - Buy one dinner entrée, get 2nd one free. It's a coupon for one of our favorite restaurants, Mottsu, the Japanese place across the street. The only thing I don't understand is why they'd bother putting the acute accent over the letter "e" in the word "entrée" and not write a grammatically correct promotional line.
Some examples of what's in the envelope: Introducing Dial-4-Limo. American Laser Centers: Hair Removal and Skin Rejuvenation. Enjoy Great Pizza at a Great Price. Free Groceries! Save Up To 20% Off Our Computer & Manual Business Checks! Why Settle for Cable?
And then, a true gem among the recycling fodder: Free Dinner Entrée - Buy one dinner entrée, get 2nd one free. It's a coupon for one of our favorite restaurants, Mottsu, the Japanese place across the street. The only thing I don't understand is why they'd bother putting the acute accent over the letter "e" in the word "entrée" and not write a grammatically correct promotional line.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Playing catch-up
Whaddaya know -- it's been three months since I started this blog, so I'm already a quarter of the way through my final year in New York City. Since I haven't written in a while (due to a confluence of factors as varied as cold weather, professional sports, and long work hours), here's a rundown of what's been happening in the last two weeks, starting with the most recent.
Friday, November 2: It's amazing how you can ignore certain things that are right under your nose. There's a restaurant just down the street from our apartment called The Kitchen Club, a cozy-looking corner joint that always looked a little too old and stuffy for our liking. But Sarah (who I'll begin to referring to as Sarah the Wife, unless she tells me not to) went there a couple of weeks ago and loved it! So we went back this Friday and everything was delicious, especially the duck-and-ginger dumpling appetizer. Unlike virtually every restaurant I've been to, the food at the Kitchen Club is under-seasoned, which delighted me to no end. One of my pet peeves is over-salted food, which I complained about in my entry on Babbo.
Tuesday and Wednesday, October 30-31: Halloween in New York is wild. For example, on my way to work on Wednesday, I walked by a woman dressed as a squid, talking nonchalantly to her friend, who was dressed in plainclothes. By then, I'd sort of had enough with Halloween, because the night before, the company had our annual Halloween Party, which, among other things, is an excuse to get drunk on a weeknight and then partake in what is simultaneously the best and the worst cultural activity in modern society: karaoke. But before things devolved so, I and four co-workers had to judge the group costume contest. Let's just say that the winning team beat out all others by sheer audacity and humor, in an NC-17 kind of way.
Thursday, October 25: I attended Black Ball 2007, a fundraising event held annually to honor people who've done significant work to battle AIDS and its effects in Africa. The only reason I got to go was because Anomaly does pro bono design and promotional work for Keep A Child Alive, the organizer of the event. I was not, unfortunately, one of the select few offered a seat at the $10,000-a-plate table, eating Korean spare-ribs just a few feet away from the likes of Bono, Gwen Stefani and Jay-Z. Most of us from the company were banished to the upstairs cocktail area, where we watched Alicia Keys duet with Sheryl Crow on stage, and reduced the open bar to their last bottle of vodka. But the real thrill was listening to Bono's speech, during which he imagined a world where a person's survival isn't dependent on where he is born. After five minutes listening to the guy, I understood his ability to sway rulers and rockers, policy-makers and proletariat: there is no discernible pretense in him.
Postscript: On the same night I was serenaded by Alicia Keys, Sarah the Wife bumped into celebrity chef Bobby Flay at a book signing, which explains why I now have a signed copy of Mesa Grill Cookbook. This was one ridiculous night.
Thursday, October 25: I had a long conversation with a cab driver. For the duration of my trip, which was between Madison Square Garden and my apartment at the corner of Mott and Houston, his meter refused to work, a consequence of those newfangled GPS systems that cabbies are now required to install. The broken meter was of no concern to me -- I'm well familiar with the route and his estimation of the fare was exactly what I'd had in mind. We chatted about the cabbie strike, and then about where he was from (El Salvador) and whether or not it was still lucrative to drive a cab in New York (it is decidedly not, due to higher maintenance and gas prices and stagnant ridership). He was the second cabbie I'd spoken to in two weeks who was seriously thinking about leaving New York and returning to his native country, which made me sort of sad. I tipped him extra.
Friday, November 2: It's amazing how you can ignore certain things that are right under your nose. There's a restaurant just down the street from our apartment called The Kitchen Club, a cozy-looking corner joint that always looked a little too old and stuffy for our liking. But Sarah (who I'll begin to referring to as Sarah the Wife, unless she tells me not to) went there a couple of weeks ago and loved it! So we went back this Friday and everything was delicious, especially the duck-and-ginger dumpling appetizer. Unlike virtually every restaurant I've been to, the food at the Kitchen Club is under-seasoned, which delighted me to no end. One of my pet peeves is over-salted food, which I complained about in my entry on Babbo.
Tuesday and Wednesday, October 30-31: Halloween in New York is wild. For example, on my way to work on Wednesday, I walked by a woman dressed as a squid, talking nonchalantly to her friend, who was dressed in plainclothes. By then, I'd sort of had enough with Halloween, because the night before, the company had our annual Halloween Party, which, among other things, is an excuse to get drunk on a weeknight and then partake in what is simultaneously the best and the worst cultural activity in modern society: karaoke. But before things devolved so, I and four co-workers had to judge the group costume contest. Let's just say that the winning team beat out all others by sheer audacity and humor, in an NC-17 kind of way.
Thursday, October 25: I attended Black Ball 2007, a fundraising event held annually to honor people who've done significant work to battle AIDS and its effects in Africa. The only reason I got to go was because Anomaly does pro bono design and promotional work for Keep A Child Alive, the organizer of the event. I was not, unfortunately, one of the select few offered a seat at the $10,000-a-plate table, eating Korean spare-ribs just a few feet away from the likes of Bono, Gwen Stefani and Jay-Z. Most of us from the company were banished to the upstairs cocktail area, where we watched Alicia Keys duet with Sheryl Crow on stage, and reduced the open bar to their last bottle of vodka. But the real thrill was listening to Bono's speech, during which he imagined a world where a person's survival isn't dependent on where he is born. After five minutes listening to the guy, I understood his ability to sway rulers and rockers, policy-makers and proletariat: there is no discernible pretense in him.
Postscript: On the same night I was serenaded by Alicia Keys, Sarah the Wife bumped into celebrity chef Bobby Flay at a book signing, which explains why I now have a signed copy of Mesa Grill Cookbook. This was one ridiculous night.
Thursday, October 25: I had a long conversation with a cab driver. For the duration of my trip, which was between Madison Square Garden and my apartment at the corner of Mott and Houston, his meter refused to work, a consequence of those newfangled GPS systems that cabbies are now required to install. The broken meter was of no concern to me -- I'm well familiar with the route and his estimation of the fare was exactly what I'd had in mind. We chatted about the cabbie strike, and then about where he was from (El Salvador) and whether or not it was still lucrative to drive a cab in New York (it is decidedly not, due to higher maintenance and gas prices and stagnant ridership). He was the second cabbie I'd spoken to in two weeks who was seriously thinking about leaving New York and returning to his native country, which made me sort of sad. I tipped him extra.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Molto buono: a dinner at Babbo
On September 18th, 2004, Sarah and I were married. To celebrate our third anniversary tonight -- and fulfill a long-time culinary goal -- we dined at Babbo, Mario Batali's first New York restaurant and one of Gourmet Magazine's 50 Best Restaurants in America. I know I insisted in this post two weeks ago that we don't often eat at places run by celebrity chefs, yet there we were tonight, feasting on Batali's outrageously delicious Italian dishes: a three-minute egg broken over warm lamb's tongue; marinated sardines with caramelized fennel and lobster oil; gnocchi in a veritable stew of oxtail and tomatoes; lamb chops and mint leaves nestled on a summery lemon yogurt sauce.
We can't keep this up for much longer, for both the expanding waistline of doom and the incredible shrinking bank account will soon stretch us to uncomfortable limits. But it's impossible to think of eventualities when, in the immediacy of celebration and the breaking of bread that accompanies it, you partake in all the riches of God's creation artfully arranged on a ceramic dish. I'm not saying we had a religious experience at Babbo -- a few things detracted from the otherwise excellent meal, including slow service and some over-seasoning. But, man, oh man, food like that makes you believe you can do anything. Like eat lamb's tongue.
We can't keep this up for much longer, for both the expanding waistline of doom and the incredible shrinking bank account will soon stretch us to uncomfortable limits. But it's impossible to think of eventualities when, in the immediacy of celebration and the breaking of bread that accompanies it, you partake in all the riches of God's creation artfully arranged on a ceramic dish. I'm not saying we had a religious experience at Babbo -- a few things detracted from the otherwise excellent meal, including slow service and some over-seasoning. But, man, oh man, food like that makes you believe you can do anything. Like eat lamb's tongue.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Savvy at Savoy
Tonight, on a whim, we had dinner at Savoy. I'm not going to review the restaurant per se, for that would be redundant. Savoy has been a SoHo mainstay since the mid-90s, and although it was our first time there, it looked like each of our fellow diners was well familiar with the place. I will say that we had a very enjoyable meal of grilled lamb and slow-roasted sockeye salmon, and by skipping appetizers and wine and by sharing one dessert, we avoided breaking the bank as well. That one dessert, by the way, was killer: white chocolate bread pudding with berry sorbet. Phenomenal.
I requested a table in the upstairs dining room, which I knew of by reputation. It turned out to be an intimate space, furnished in a comfortable, rustic way.
We found out that on October 9, Savoy will be hosting something called Nose to Tail Dining, with an English chef named Fergus Henderson. More than likely, the dinner service will make use of every part of an animal, according to Henderson's philosophy and practice of using oft-discarded cuts of meat in cooking. This made me think of The Far Side, a comic strip by Gary Larson that once illustrated the point. In the strip, a group of cavemen are systematically tearing apart the carcass of a woolly mammoth and carrying the pieces off, except for the tail, which lies severed on the ground. A crotchety old grandfather caveman standing nearby points indignantly at the tail and yells, "In my day, we used every goldang part of the mammoth!"
I requested a table in the upstairs dining room, which I knew of by reputation. It turned out to be an intimate space, furnished in a comfortable, rustic way.
We found out that on October 9, Savoy will be hosting something called Nose to Tail Dining, with an English chef named Fergus Henderson. More than likely, the dinner service will make use of every part of an animal, according to Henderson's philosophy and practice of using oft-discarded cuts of meat in cooking. This made me think of The Far Side, a comic strip by Gary Larson that once illustrated the point. In the strip, a group of cavemen are systematically tearing apart the carcass of a woolly mammoth and carrying the pieces off, except for the tail, which lies severed on the ground. A crotchety old grandfather caveman standing nearby points indignantly at the tail and yells, "In my day, we used every goldang part of the mammoth!"
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Shiso fine: a dinner at Perilla
If you read this post I wrote a few weeks back, you'll know that I have a great fondness for shiso leaves, which, until just a few minutes ago, I'd forgotten is also called perilla. By coincidence, Sarah and I had dinner at the new restaurant Perilla last night, and I'm happy to say that it quite made up for my "oyster letdown" I wrote about in my previous post.
Perilla, at this point in time, is still only famous for one thing: its executive chef is Harold Dieterle III, winner of the first season of Top Chef. We don't often go to restaurants run by celebrity chefs, which can be pricey, pretentious establishments with good if not great food to match. But Perilla, situated in the West Village, turned out to be neither pretentious nor exorbitantly pricey (entrées, but for one exception, top out under $30).
We didn't have a reservation, so when we arrived at 8:00 PM on a Saturday evening, we were told that there would be a one-hour wait for a table for two. We left our name and spent the next half-hour wandering around the Village, which tends to resemble any given Main Street in any given College Town, USA on a Saturday night during the school year (except in the Village there are way more stores with names like Birthday Suit and Pink Pussycat Boutique). At one point, we browsed through CDs at a dingy record store called Disc-o-Rama, but the smell of reefer was giving Sarah a headache (I think it had more to do with the fact that she was hungry). We left, but not before I noticed that even here, amidst the ganja haze, there was a section with Christian music. I mean, they had the album Shout to the Lord, which came out when Hillsong was still part of Integrity Music, back in 1996! You can't even find that in a Christian bookstore in Tennessee nowadays.
We went back to Perilla at 8:30 and decided to have a drink at the bar while waiting for our table. The bartender, a friendly and accommodating young lass, let us try three different wines before making our selections (Sarah ordered the crisp and well-chilled Grüner Veltliner, I the earthy Montepulciano in anticipation of eating red meat). I don't remember when restaurants began to chill their red wines -- perhaps they've always done it -- but I love that they do.
Finally, at 8:50, we were ushered into the dining room and seated. Here's the thing about the menu at Perilla: at first glance, the list of entrées doesn't knock you out. Nothing seems particularly original or extravagant; it's all pretty basic, and all quite American. There's the requisite strip steak, roasted sea bass, roasted chicken, grilled lamb loin, sautéed skate wing, etc. There is a roasted duckling, uncommon, to be sure, but who hasn't had duck before? At that point, I said to myself that everything had better taste really good. I mean, knockout good. If you're going to serve basics, serve them right.
Here's what we ordered:
Appetizers
The spicy duck meatballs were standout. The result is that Sarah now likes eating duck, a surprising and welcome development. The ravioli was also good, coming with white and green asparagus (not listed on the menu) and a wonderfully refreshing citrus flavor, even if the peas were slightly undercooked. The risotto was uncanny -- it was richly flavored with butter and parmesan cheese, yet didn't taste or feel heavy. The steak was much the same -- cooked to a perfect medium-rare temperature, with even the last bite as good as the first, and topped with a whole red onion. The only off-note was the bacon bits served under the steak; too indulgent and overpowering. When I order steak, I want to taste the flesh of a cow, not the skin of a smoked porker.
For the first time in perhaps years, Sarah and I wanted the exact same dessert item, so we shared the excellent fig and plum crisp, a fantastic concoction with too little ice cream and more plums than figs.
As for the decor, Sarah didn't particularly care for the mod chandelier that hung over my head, but the restaurant is tastefully and sparely decorated, and expertly straddles the line between cozy and contemporary, especially the bar area. The tables for two in the back, where we were seated, are quite close together, which made it easy to see what your neighbors had ordered. The dating couple next to us, enamored by the ravioli on our table, asked more than once what we were eating. They later admitted that they were skipping dessert entirely and living vicariously through us, too full of steak and duckling and wine.
I understood completely.
More about Perilla:
Perilla Restaurant - Official website
Frank Bruni's New York Times review
The New Yorker review
Time Out NY review
Perilla, at this point in time, is still only famous for one thing: its executive chef is Harold Dieterle III, winner of the first season of Top Chef. We don't often go to restaurants run by celebrity chefs, which can be pricey, pretentious establishments with good if not great food to match. But Perilla, situated in the West Village, turned out to be neither pretentious nor exorbitantly pricey (entrées, but for one exception, top out under $30).
We didn't have a reservation, so when we arrived at 8:00 PM on a Saturday evening, we were told that there would be a one-hour wait for a table for two. We left our name and spent the next half-hour wandering around the Village, which tends to resemble any given Main Street in any given College Town, USA on a Saturday night during the school year (except in the Village there are way more stores with names like Birthday Suit and Pink Pussycat Boutique). At one point, we browsed through CDs at a dingy record store called Disc-o-Rama, but the smell of reefer was giving Sarah a headache (I think it had more to do with the fact that she was hungry). We left, but not before I noticed that even here, amidst the ganja haze, there was a section with Christian music. I mean, they had the album Shout to the Lord, which came out when Hillsong was still part of Integrity Music, back in 1996! You can't even find that in a Christian bookstore in Tennessee nowadays.
We went back to Perilla at 8:30 and decided to have a drink at the bar while waiting for our table. The bartender, a friendly and accommodating young lass, let us try three different wines before making our selections (Sarah ordered the crisp and well-chilled Grüner Veltliner, I the earthy Montepulciano in anticipation of eating red meat). I don't remember when restaurants began to chill their red wines -- perhaps they've always done it -- but I love that they do.
Finally, at 8:50, we were ushered into the dining room and seated. Here's the thing about the menu at Perilla: at first glance, the list of entrées doesn't knock you out. Nothing seems particularly original or extravagant; it's all pretty basic, and all quite American. There's the requisite strip steak, roasted sea bass, roasted chicken, grilled lamb loin, sautéed skate wing, etc. There is a roasted duckling, uncommon, to be sure, but who hasn't had duck before? At that point, I said to myself that everything had better taste really good. I mean, knockout good. If you're going to serve basics, serve them right.
Here's what we ordered:
Appetizers
- Spicy Duck Meatballs, with Okinawa yam gnocchi, water spinach, and a raw quail egg
- Crispy Rock Shrimp Salad, with baby mizuna, piquillo peppers, and a mushroom soy vinaigrette
- Summer Truffle Ravioli, with sheep's milk ricotta, and forest mushrooms and peas
- Grilled Angus Strip Steak, with escarole, bacon and a sweet onion-horseradish sauce
- Faro Risotto (side dish), with an artichoke confit, parmesan and chili-grape salad
- Black Mission Fig and Plum Crisp, with Tahitian vanilla bean ice cream and spiced streusel
The spicy duck meatballs were standout. The result is that Sarah now likes eating duck, a surprising and welcome development. The ravioli was also good, coming with white and green asparagus (not listed on the menu) and a wonderfully refreshing citrus flavor, even if the peas were slightly undercooked. The risotto was uncanny -- it was richly flavored with butter and parmesan cheese, yet didn't taste or feel heavy. The steak was much the same -- cooked to a perfect medium-rare temperature, with even the last bite as good as the first, and topped with a whole red onion. The only off-note was the bacon bits served under the steak; too indulgent and overpowering. When I order steak, I want to taste the flesh of a cow, not the skin of a smoked porker.
For the first time in perhaps years, Sarah and I wanted the exact same dessert item, so we shared the excellent fig and plum crisp, a fantastic concoction with too little ice cream and more plums than figs.
As for the decor, Sarah didn't particularly care for the mod chandelier that hung over my head, but the restaurant is tastefully and sparely decorated, and expertly straddles the line between cozy and contemporary, especially the bar area. The tables for two in the back, where we were seated, are quite close together, which made it easy to see what your neighbors had ordered. The dating couple next to us, enamored by the ravioli on our table, asked more than once what we were eating. They later admitted that they were skipping dessert entirely and living vicariously through us, too full of steak and duckling and wine.I understood completely.
More about Perilla:
Perilla Restaurant - Official website
Frank Bruni's New York Times review
The New Yorker review
Time Out NY review
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
The 'roo morgue
I don't intend to turn One Year in New York City into a food blog, but to write about living in NYC without writing about food as often as possible is unjust and irresponsible. And so, fresh on the heels of yesterday's post, I find myself reminiscing about the most memorable meals I've ever had, and realize that I've had a fair share of them right here in New York.
I think it's rare for people to remember particular meals based on the food alone, unless, of course, the food was so astoundingly good that it didn't matter what the occasion was. For example, if I think hard enough, I can remember every meal I had on my trip Maui, Hawaii, last year. But that has more to do with the fact that I can remember virtually everything else about my trip. Based on the quality and originality of the food alone, the most memorable Hawaiian meal was the mixed plate I had in Lahaina, a combination of disparate dishes spanning three continents of influence. It wasn't much more than street food, but really, isn't that the best kind of food?
I remember gustatory delights from other travels as well. You won't believe this, but I had one of the best Hawaiian pizzas I've ever tasted in (of all places) Canberra, Australia, in 1997. The most decadent meal I've had was at the Park Lane Hotel in London (at least I think it was there, for aside from the grandeur of the food, I remember little else owing to my host's insistence that I empty the wine bottle). And the best lobster meal I've had by far was in the great state of Rhode Island, where, at a seaside shanty, I feasted on two succulent crustaceans and heaps of coleslaw, butter and french fries for $22.
But what about New York? What of the freshly grated wasabi at Megu, the toro at Koi, the simple garlic french fries at Barmarché, the herbed butter and strip steak at Schiller's, the chocolate bread pudding at Café Colonial, the grass-fed filet mignon and wild asparagus at Craftsteak, or the chicken adobo at Cendrillon? There just isn't enough time, and the scope of this post is too narrow to accommodate the story behind every memorable meal. Plus, as the title of this post indicates, what I really wanted to write about is my new favorite meat in the world: kangaroo.
Some of you will already be aware of my affection for 'roo meat. If you're adventurous enough to try it, and you do so at an establishment that knows how to prepare it properly, you'll be rewarded with a depth of earthy flavor unknown in 90% of steakhouses out there. I'm talking about eating the meat of animals that bounce across the landscape like dropped balls, to quote Bill Bryson. You can't get that kind of flavor from a sluggish, mooing, grain-chewing beast.
Of course, in order to try kangaroo, you might start at one of the several Australian restaurants in the City, of which the most highly regarded at the moment is Eight Mile Creek, a dimly lit place recalling a cramped old English pub (the real pub is in the basement, where you can get your lager on while watching Aussie rules matches). Eight Mile Creek has decent kangaroo -- I ordered the "kanga skewers," a satisfying if slightly unrefined appetizer. The best kangaroo in New York, however, is at Public (although it may be a special menu item, since I can no longer find it on their online menu). Juicy, full of character, and joyfully tender, Public's 'roo steak remains one of the most memorable meals I've had in New York.
By the way, I've learned that there's 'roo on the menu at Knife + Fork as well. If I go, I promise to take pictures.
I think it's rare for people to remember particular meals based on the food alone, unless, of course, the food was so astoundingly good that it didn't matter what the occasion was. For example, if I think hard enough, I can remember every meal I had on my trip Maui, Hawaii, last year. But that has more to do with the fact that I can remember virtually everything else about my trip. Based on the quality and originality of the food alone, the most memorable Hawaiian meal was the mixed plate I had in Lahaina, a combination of disparate dishes spanning three continents of influence. It wasn't much more than street food, but really, isn't that the best kind of food?
I remember gustatory delights from other travels as well. You won't believe this, but I had one of the best Hawaiian pizzas I've ever tasted in (of all places) Canberra, Australia, in 1997. The most decadent meal I've had was at the Park Lane Hotel in London (at least I think it was there, for aside from the grandeur of the food, I remember little else owing to my host's insistence that I empty the wine bottle). And the best lobster meal I've had by far was in the great state of Rhode Island, where, at a seaside shanty, I feasted on two succulent crustaceans and heaps of coleslaw, butter and french fries for $22.
But what about New York? What of the freshly grated wasabi at Megu, the toro at Koi, the simple garlic french fries at Barmarché, the herbed butter and strip steak at Schiller's, the chocolate bread pudding at Café Colonial, the grass-fed filet mignon and wild asparagus at Craftsteak, or the chicken adobo at Cendrillon? There just isn't enough time, and the scope of this post is too narrow to accommodate the story behind every memorable meal. Plus, as the title of this post indicates, what I really wanted to write about is my new favorite meat in the world: kangaroo.
Some of you will already be aware of my affection for 'roo meat. If you're adventurous enough to try it, and you do so at an establishment that knows how to prepare it properly, you'll be rewarded with a depth of earthy flavor unknown in 90% of steakhouses out there. I'm talking about eating the meat of animals that bounce across the landscape like dropped balls, to quote Bill Bryson. You can't get that kind of flavor from a sluggish, mooing, grain-chewing beast.
Of course, in order to try kangaroo, you might start at one of the several Australian restaurants in the City, of which the most highly regarded at the moment is Eight Mile Creek, a dimly lit place recalling a cramped old English pub (the real pub is in the basement, where you can get your lager on while watching Aussie rules matches). Eight Mile Creek has decent kangaroo -- I ordered the "kanga skewers," a satisfying if slightly unrefined appetizer. The best kangaroo in New York, however, is at Public (although it may be a special menu item, since I can no longer find it on their online menu). Juicy, full of character, and joyfully tender, Public's 'roo steak remains one of the most memorable meals I've had in New York.
By the way, I've learned that there's 'roo on the menu at Knife + Fork as well. If I go, I promise to take pictures.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Gastronomic proportions
I'm going to post a link to one of the best food articles I've read in my entire life. But first, a preamble.
Living in New York to a one-year countdown is like visiting New York with an enlightened tourist's agenda: you have too many things to do and not enough time to do them all. In our case, our adventurous appetites might never get around to finding satisfaction at any number of restaurants in the City in which we aspire to dine. Here's the problem: between Sarah and myself, we like food from virtually every corner of the world. If, for example, neither of us liked French food, we could just eliminate every café, boulangerie, pattiserie and restaurant from our mental lists. But we can't, because even though Sarah is not particularly fond of French cuisine, I love it, especially anything with fromage de chèvre or beurre demi-sel in it. I drool already.
The problem is compounded by the fact that several of the restaurants we would like to visit are -- how shall I put this delicately? -- stupidly expensive. Not that we don't think they are worth it. On the contrary, we have no problem spending money on a fastidiously prepared meal, made from hard-to-acquire ingredients. There are people who spend as much on a new cellphone, or a car payment, or a watch. But it does mean that these restaurant visits are very few and far between; special occasions, if you will.
But.
But, sometimes you read a food article that makes you want to empty the checking account, jump in a cab, and head over to a restaurant where you just might have the best meal in your life, and where that in itself is the special occasion. That's because the article contains these words: [It is] the most expensive restaurant in the country, if not the world. It is also the best sushi restaurant in the country, if not the world. But it's not a story about a restaurant. It's a story about food. I read this article a couple of months ago, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since.
Please read the whole story, all ten delightful pages of it. At the very, very least, you'll be a more knowledgeable member of civilized society.
If You Knew Sushi [Vanity Fair]
Living in New York to a one-year countdown is like visiting New York with an enlightened tourist's agenda: you have too many things to do and not enough time to do them all. In our case, our adventurous appetites might never get around to finding satisfaction at any number of restaurants in the City in which we aspire to dine. Here's the problem: between Sarah and myself, we like food from virtually every corner of the world. If, for example, neither of us liked French food, we could just eliminate every café, boulangerie, pattiserie and restaurant from our mental lists. But we can't, because even though Sarah is not particularly fond of French cuisine, I love it, especially anything with fromage de chèvre or beurre demi-sel in it. I drool already.
The problem is compounded by the fact that several of the restaurants we would like to visit are -- how shall I put this delicately? -- stupidly expensive. Not that we don't think they are worth it. On the contrary, we have no problem spending money on a fastidiously prepared meal, made from hard-to-acquire ingredients. There are people who spend as much on a new cellphone, or a car payment, or a watch. But it does mean that these restaurant visits are very few and far between; special occasions, if you will.
But.
But, sometimes you read a food article that makes you want to empty the checking account, jump in a cab, and head over to a restaurant where you just might have the best meal in your life, and where that in itself is the special occasion. That's because the article contains these words: [It is] the most expensive restaurant in the country, if not the world. It is also the best sushi restaurant in the country, if not the world. But it's not a story about a restaurant. It's a story about food. I read this article a couple of months ago, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since.
Please read the whole story, all ten delightful pages of it. At the very, very least, you'll be a more knowledgeable member of civilized society.
If You Knew Sushi [Vanity Fair]
Friday, August 10, 2007
Eat at Joe's
Tonight we had dinner at Joe's Shanghai, a Chinatown mainstay on Pell Street known for their xiao long bao, or soup dumplings. It was crowded as usual, and since they don't take reservations, we had to wait outside for a while and eavesdrop on other people's conversations (which would have been more fun if the people standing closest to us weren't all speaking Russian).
Once we got in, we barely needed to look at the menu -- Sarah always orders the jellyfish, and I always order the dumplings. Everything was predictably yummy.
On the walk home, we were stopped on the street by three women dressed for a Friday night out. "Do you know where I can find Double Happiness?" one of them asked us. We were doubly sad to tell her that we didn't know.
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