The Taste Land

Restaurant 74: Tempo Doeloe (Amsterdam, The Netherlands)

2005-12-18T11:27:00.000-05:00

RESTAURANT: Tempo Doeloe
LOCATION: Utrechtsestraat 75 Amsterdam, The Netherlands
DATE: September 17, 2005
FOOD: Nasi Koening - Indonesian festive dinner with yellow rice and the following dishes: Sajoer Lodeh, Ajam Opor, Ora Arie, Daging Semoor, Paksoy, Godon Dari Sapi, Sambal Goreng Beans, Sambel Goreng Oedang, Sambel Goreng Tempeh, Oerapan, Ajam Roedjak, Sateh Ajam
BEVERAGE: Bentang (Indonesian Beer)
PRICE: 32 Euros

Thai is known for the fiery intensity of its sauces. Chinese Dim Sum is a kaleidoscopic view into the cuisine’s diversity of small plates. Indian shares the heat of Thai, but its spiciness is more upfront, its bread, rice, and meat combinations with a distinctly contrasting heat to that of Bangkok. Vietnamese food is lighter, often based around soups and noodles; Malaysian is a conglomeration of exotic sensations. Then there’s Pakistani, Afghani, the stewed meats of Himalayan and Tibetan, not to mention the beautiful simplicity of Japanese. Asian cuisine presents seemingly endless possibilities, few, if any, which when prepared in authentic style could ever bore a diner.

And then there’s Indonesian. Though uncommon in the United States, the Netherlands, especially Amsterdam, has embraced rice tables and gado gado with the famous Dutch open-mindedness. For every canal in the city, there appears an Indonesian restaurant to match. The question is which restaurant is the best.

Tempo Doeloe has accrued a reputation as one of (if not the) premier destination for the art of Indonesian. Situated in a posh street in the city center, the restaurant’s name means “Old Days” and to enter, patrons must ring a bill before the hostess grants them admittance. The effect of this procedure is less pretentious than one might expect and shows more about the seriousness with which the restaurant prepares their dishes. Walking into Tempo Doeloe is like stepping into a culinary sanctuary – while the ambience is courteous and inviting, chefs prepare and waiters serve meals with a disciplined attention to detail.

While the menu offers both appetizers and entrees a la carte, it’s the tasting menus, specifically the rice tables that are Tempo Doeloe’s most popular options. The full rice table consists of over 20 petite dishes, while there are also two smaller and less expensive meat and vegetarian tables. The large one contained five beef dishes, making the nine-course meat table more appealing to me.

Tempo Doeloe took the foundations Tanjung San had laid and did to them what Frank Gehry’s brilliance did for Minnesota’s architectural scene – namely expanded it and caused the basic to flourish. From the night’s initial bite to its cessation, every flavor was enhanced, every course offering insight into new worlds. This started with prawn and rice crackers, Indonesian snacks which Tempo Doeloe easily could have overlooked without sacrificing the pleasure built by the entire meal. But the two types of crackers exploded with crunch and the refusal to submit to the mundane. The rice was a cross between gourmet potato chips and rice cakes, while the prawn crackers dazzled with their oyster cracker like thickness and traces of shrimp.

A chicken skewer in peanut sauce announced the opening of the meal in full. The peanut sauce was astonishingly singular, a true feat considering how many version of peanut sauce are available. It had the hue of rich chocolate and a similar viscosity. It coated the tongue with a marvelous blend of sweetness and the natural salty cream of peanut butter. The sauce was close to a nut gravy and for it alone, Tempo Doeloe is a master restaurant.

The rijstaffel then descended in all earnest, including a notable pot of baby shrimp in red pepper broth. Holders contained cabbage, cucumber, and tomato courses which though distinct in their own right, were linked b y the heavy application of vinegar in their sauces. A chicken dish illustrated the milder side of green curry, the aromatic tang of cilantro mixed with meat in a dynamic fusion. A pork dish mirrored Himalayan Yak’s stewed goat. It was a personal Indonesian buffet, mounds of yellow rice with friend and green onions serving as the starchy platform for the spectrum of flavors. Even the toasted coconut, mixed with peanuts, was above and beyond the ordinary.

With such successes, Tempo Doeloe might seem a culinary utopia. Yet for all its triumphs, its lone failure was also a huge cause for complaint. The spice levels at Tempo Doeloe purportedly attain Gobi desert temperatures, yet for all the hype, none of the dishes in the rice tables exhibited anything more than the mere building blocks of concentrated heat, a true disappointment I must say. Thus, a meal bordering on the sublime, was unable to take the final step. Tempo Doeloe was a fantastic experience, the rice table a breadth of new marvelous tastes. But with the spice levels turned down to low, an essential ingredient of Indonesian cuisine went missing. However, the lack couldn’t strip the meal of its otherwise delicious combinations, and for that, Tempo Doeloe was worth every Euro.

RATING: 8.0/10

Restaurant 73: Vlaam Frites (Amsterdam, The Netherlands)

2005-12-18T10:58:00.000-05:00

RESTAURANT: Vlaam Frites
LOCATION: Amsterdam, The Netherlands
DATE: September 16, 2005
FOOD: Fries with Green Peppercorn Mayo
PRICE: 2.50 Euros

It’s extraordinary that the Dutch people are so thin considering the fried food cornucopia that is part of their culture. However, they do have junk food down to a science. Fries with one of a myriad of dipping sauces are available all over Amsterdam. Though mayo and curry ketchup are the standard flavors, green peppercorn mayo was an interesting alternative. It tasted like steak au poivre in liquid form. Peppery, but not spicy, it would have been better if the taste of pepper was stronger and that of the mayo more subdued. As for the fries themselves, crunchy but flavorless, a small order killed any desire to eat fries for countless days to come.

RATING: 3.0/10

Restaurant 72: Tanjung San (Amsterdam, The Netherlands)

2005-12-17T12:35:00.000-05:00

RESTAURANT: Tanjung San
LOCATION: Amstelveensaweg 156, Amsterdam, The Netherlands
DATE: September 16, 2005
FOOD: Rice Menu with Curried Lamb, Coconut Relish, Pickled Vegetables, Sliced Cucumber, Spiced Green Beans, Soy Sauce Tofu; Sambal Goreng Telor (Egg in Tomato Sauce); Krupuk Crackers
BEVERAGE: Tap Water
PRICE: 10.50 Euros

It is commonly known that the Netherlands resides below sea level. The canals and windmills may make nice postcards, but they serve the more important purpose of preventing the nation from sinking into the North Sea. However, with the onslaught of rain battering Amsterdam the night of September 16, it seemed only Noah’s Ark could keep the city from drowning.

Danny and I had spent nearly an hour and a half searching for a vegan restaurant with three euro dinners. When we finally found the place, the owners politely informed us it was only open three days a week. Thursday wasn’t one of them. Dejected and hungry, Tanjung San appeared like a wet mirage up the street.

Indonesian food and Amsterdam are as synonymous as the city and coffee shops, but only the former will reduce one’s appetite. Neither of us had tried the cuisine previously but Tanjung proved a memorable introduction. We both ordered combination rice plates and the flavors ran as wild as a naked toddler on a Slip ‘n Slide. The meal started with the wafery crunch of Krupuk crackers, delectably puffy and hinted with tangy shrimp. My main plate was suffused with food. The green curry lamb was exotically spiced but not hot, the curry integrated deliciously into the chunks of meat. The toasted coconut added a cascade of sweetness to the proceedings and a bite of meat, coconut, cucumber and rice was enough to convince me Indonesian food needs to become as ubiquitous in America as Chinese take-out and our disinterest in Arena League Football.

The green beans and red peppers raised the heat of the meal, but in a very composed manner. It wasn’t a light your mouth on fire after one bite heat, but a gradual, almost sexual build. Cold tofu in soy sauce was more chicken than vegan, meaty and substantial. A separate order of hard-boiled eggs in a tomato sauce with the consistency of sweet-n-sour sauce highlighted a link to Chinese, but showed how Indonesian goes off in a more complex direction. The tomato sauce was all things at once, sweet, spicy, almost like a thin jelly. But most importantly, it tasted sensational.

Usually first impressions are marred by awkwardness and noticeable silences. In my initial encounter with Indonesian cuisine, there was no room for quiet, every forkful referencing other Asian cuisines while maintaining a uniqueness all its own. The new acquaintance had left me enamored. Enough so in fact, that Tanjung San became the warm-up act for the premiere Indonesian restaurant in Amsterdam. Two days later I was to experience Templo Doeloe.

RATING: 7.4/10

Europe 3: A Taste of The Netherlands

2005-12-09T13:25:00.000-05:00

Clockwise from top left: The Falcon windmill in Leiden; St. Xaiver church in Amsterdam; One of Amsterdam's countless canals; Delft china

Spice bread and Stroopwaffels

A TASTE OF THE NETHERLANDS

PLACES AND DATES: Rotterdam – September 13, 2005;
Amsterdam – September 14-17, 2005

DAY TRIPS: Leiden – September 15, 2005: Leiden is like a Dutch Oxford. A quaint and pretty town about thirty minutes outside of Amsterdam by train, Leiden is home to multiple universities and close to 20,000 students. The town’s bakeries present a wealth of enticing options, even a multi-grain croissant. The Van Delk (meaning Falcon) is a fully restored windmill open for tours. It costs just 2.50 Euros and gives a reaonsable history of the functionality and utility of windmills in Dutch culture. But the town’s system of canals are the main draw, less crowded than Amsterdam, and surrounded by a mix of Dutch and English architecture. A half-day visit is a great way to gain a sense of how the non-coffee house Dutch live.

Delft – September 16, 2005: You can see the two factories where Delft china is still made. Every piece if made by hand during and the process is amazingly laborious.

HOSTELS: Rotterdam – Stayokay Hostel

Amsterdam – Flying Pig Palace – Cheap bar with a nightly happy hour, free internet and breakfast and a surprisingly reasonable noise level.

SITES: Rotterdam – Erasmus Bridge is an incredible sight and a symbol of Rotterdam’s prestige as the world’s largest port.

MUST SEE IN AMSTERDAM: Anne Frank House; St. Xavier Church – Interior is an astonishing piece of Baroque art at its pinnacle; the interior includes gilded statues, kaleidoscopic stained glass and an altar that is a testament to how faith can instigate great art; Albert Cuyp Market – Everything is for sale here. Fabrics to incense, to authentic Dutch cuisine (herring broodjes, stroopwafels) along with fresh fruit and veggies, cosmetics and pharmaceutical products. It’s a vibrant strip of Dutch life with the beautiful drowsy branches of willows overhanging the street and children galore.

FOOD: Rotterdam – Incredible mix of African and Asian cuisines

Amsterdam – Indonesian cuisine (reviews to come); Stroopwafels – Sweeter than a Halloween candy bag, these paper thin waffles come in hefty sacks and are filled with a layer of either caramel, honey, or butter syrup. Delicious in small quantities but addictive enough to cause consumption of an entire bag, ending inevitably in stomach aches and a desire to swear off all sweets forever more; Spice breads – Rather flat tasting. Heavily flavored with cinnamon and nutmeg, the bread is too dense, feels like a brick, and would be well-served by nuts or dried fruits to break up the thickness. Beware, those aren’t nuts on the top of the bread, they’re pieces of rock sugar.

Restaurant 71: Maoz (Amsterdam, The Netherlands)

2005-12-09T13:02:00.000-05:00

RESTAURANT: Maoz
LOCATION: Five Locations Throughout Amsterdam
DATE: September 14, 2005
FOOD: Falafel with unlimited salad bar
BEVERAGE: None
PRICE: 3.50 Euros

When it comes to the art of the cheap eat, perhaps no food better satisfies both stomach and wallet than falafel. The idea of frying ground chick peas is simple enough but a successful falafel rests on the spices used in the process. In New York, Alfanoose has perfected the recipe. But in Amsterdam, we were dealing with uncharted territory.

We had discovered the Maoz chain while in Madrid and been delighted by the backpacker friendly price and unlimited, free salad bar. As Amsterdam is the home of the chain, we decided to give it another go, as it’s hard to beat a 3.50 Euro dinner.

Five large pieces of falafel, prepared just moments before, crowded into the cushy envelope of a whole wheat pita. The falafel had the crunchy exterior all good falafel should have. While the predominant spice was parsley, there was still enough variety of flavors to keep the falafel interesting. Maoz’s falafel might not be on par with Ataturk’s regime, but it’s far better than the Ottoman Empire’s final triad of hapless pashas. What makes Maoz so appealing is the salad bar. Nothing is spectacular, but my love of olives and beets found satiation. The carrot and tabouleh salads were delicious and the butter pickles, downright outstanding. Combine that with sauces ranging from yogurt dill to tahini to hot sauce, and Maoz was a fantastic break from our normal pork based diet. The only US location is in Philadelphia and if I ever have the misfortune to find myself in the city of brotherly love and the last place Eagles, I might have to chow down on some falafel instead of a cheesesteak.

RATING: 6.3/10

Restaurant 70: Le Dix Vins (Paris, France)

2005-12-08T00:55:00.000-05:00

Clockwise from top left: Dix Vins in Paris; Avocado Terrine; Lavender French Toast; Grilled Tuna

RESTAURANT: Le Dix Vins
LOCATION: 57, rue Falguiere, Paris, France
DATE: September 12, 2005
FOOD: Terrine d’avocats aux herbes; Steack de thon et la crème aux poivrons doux; Lavender French toast
BEVERAGE: Water
PRICE: 26.40 Euros

It was like dining in a cliché. Dinner at a Bistro in Paris – what more could a foreign tourist crave? The Eiffel Tower at night? Already seen it. Timeless works of art? Already examined courtesy of the d’Orsay and Pompidou. So what was left of the stereotypical Parisian experiences other than bistro fare?

So the first of our four great meals was upon us (one for each month we would travel). With meals in Amsterdam, Rome, and Barcelona still to come, Dix Vins, voted as the best bistro with a menu under 30 Euros by a leading Parisian food magazine, heralded a break form the cheese and meat sandwich diet we’d been surviving on for weeks on end. For once, we’d throw expenses to the wind and indulge in Dix Vins’s 24 Euro, three course menu.

Located in Montparnase, south of the Latin Quarter on the city’s Left Bank, Dix Vins interior exhibited the same simplicity French bistro cuisine is known for. There was a small wine bar and a scattering of baskets and paintings on the walls. Nothing flashy, nothing to indicate this was one of the city’s most affordable gastronomical pleasures.

The menu was written on a chalkboard. Five selections, including three terrines, pate and a vegetable flan for the appetizers, while the main courses consisted of three varieties of steak and a grilled tuna. Dessert was a choice of a lemon tart, chocolate mousse, or lavender French toast. Aside from the beef dishes, the menu was thoroughly appealing and I would have been happy ordering anything.

I started with a terrine of avocado and herbs. While not a bad decision, Danny’s peppery house pate and the beautiful vegetable flan would surely have both been better choices. The avocado terrine was like a refined guacamole. Nicely matched with quarter sized tomato chunks, the avocado was pert and tender, hinted with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. And though the medley of herbs crowning the terrine blended mild parsley with the more forceful bliss of fresh cilantro, in the end, the terrine was too simple for its own good. More robust spicing, from the basic pepper and salt it lacked, would have helped make the dish something greater than ordinary. As it was, there was nothing remarkable, nothing to suggest the heights of French cuisine.

By appearances alone, the tuna entrée promised better results. The steak was thin, seared to the appetizing off-white color of grilled chicken. Accompanied by potatoes au gratin and a sea of red pepper cream sauce, the plate barely made it to the table before my fork sliced into the fish. For the most part, my excitement was justified by the taste. The cream sauce was magical, lighter than lobster bisque but sharing that soup’s velvety richness. And the potatoes were by far the pinnacle of the meal’s savory courses. Firm, yet in the same instant miraculously pliant, the potatoes dazzled, along with the creamy cheese coating them. The slices were as smooth and mouthwatering as fondue. I especially appreciate the bold pairing of fish and potatoes, a combination I’d only seen once before at King Louis' in St. Louis. Yet the tuna itself was a tad dry and stringy, the result of overcooking. The course had come so close, but like reading Moliere in translation, there were just some elements that would never be perfect. Again, I had to add pepper and salt, something I’m not in the habit of doing. Thus, while I respect the fundamental simplicity of bistro fare, it shouldn’t give a chef carte blanche to dramatically under-season.

Only with dessert did Dix Vins finally present a taste both distinctly French and universally spectacular. In the lavender French toast, everything worked. The bread consisted of two thick baguette slices, grilled so the ends had an attractive char, while the interior retained a cushy chew. This wasn’t your IHOP French toast and they were far superior to even Wylie Dufresne’s French toast dessert at WD-50. Resplendent syrup was sprinkled over the bread, like a superior French honey. Full lavender seeds added an unusual flavor that was less about sweetness than about the garnering the same satisfaction one gets from the smell of fresh flowers. All in all, the dessert was exactly what I’d hoped the entire dinner would be.

If I lived in Paris, I’m certain Dix Vins would be a favored haunt of mine, the ideal restaurant when gourmet is too much and grab and go too little. The menu changes daily and no doubt, I’d have many a memorable meal. But strictly on my one visit, the restaurant was far from perfection. There were promises everywhere but to be truly satisfying, a meal must have more than unfulfilled potential.

RATING: 7.0/10

Just Desserts 16: Berthillion (Paris, France)

2005-12-06T14:46:00.000-05:00

RESTAURANT: Berthillion
LOCATION: 31 Rue St. Louis En L’ile, Paris, France
DATE: September 18, 2005
ICE CREAM: Cone with a scoop of fig and a scoop of honey nougat; mini chocolate fondue; cup with scoop of hazelnut and a scoop of tiramisu, topped with Chantilly crème
PRICE: 7.60 Euros

Notre Dame Cathedral and its centuries of significance tower in the background. Pont Neuf, inspiration for Renoir and impressionists galore, is a ten minute walk west. Yet on the Rue St. Louis En L’ile, a line has formed. It isn’t history the crowds have come to see, but rather ice cream they’re longing to taste.

Located on the island in the Seine directly east of Notre Dame, Berthillion Ice Cream has made a name for itself, gaining in Napoleon like prominence with the publication of each new tourist guidebook. Yet ,despite the prestige, the scoopers still smile, the prices remain reasonable, and the product itself, is sinfully scrumptious.

The fig sorbet was as sweet and juicy as the fruit, bits of seed furthering the illusion one was enjoying the freshly picked and not the freshly creamed. However, the honey nougat, like Baklava cream in a cone, literally caused me pause, so subtle was its sweetness, so multi-faceted its flavors. The honey and cream played a boisterous game of cat and mouse, each taste emerging and then re-emerging as the ice cream melted on my tongue.

But once tasted, a solitary cone wouldn’t suffice. On my second go-round, the tiramisu proved the French do understand Italian, tiny chocolate morsels strewn throughout an ice cream bursting with rum and cocoa flavorings. The hazelnut was too straightforward and slightly disappointing, the only ice cream of the afternoon that wasn’t ebulliently original. However, the mantel of Chantilly cream adorning the cup’s two scoops more than made up for the hazelnut’s failings. This was the way all whipped cream should be, airy and deceptively vanilla, sugared, but not sweet. One last indulgence was the mini-chocolate fondue, a near perfect dark chocolate replica of the Modern’s spectacular chocolate soufflé. The cake was pure chocolate, pure, rich, and intense, chocolate for chocolate’s sake. Nothing interfered with the chocolate’s statement. It mirrored Berthillion’s achievement. The crowd’s may flock and the traveler’s handbooks advise, but in the end, none of those things overshadow the greatness of the desserts.

RATING: 8.7/10

Restaurant 69: Ti Jos (Paris, France)

2005-11-22T14:19:00.000-05:00

Clockwise from top left: Ti Jos; The crepe walnut and honey; A piece of art from the Pompidou; The Arc at night.

RESTAURANT: Ti Jos
LOCATION: Rue Delambre, 14e, Paris, France
DATE: September 9, 2005
FOOD: Split a Galette Champignons, Jambon, Fromage; Crepes Miel, Noux (Honey and Walnut)
DRINK: Tap Water
PRICE: 9.00 Euros

Ah, but what would Paris be without its food? Perhaps romantic, perhaps historic, but certainly less satisfying in a very immediate way. It’s the cuisine that puts us in France and the food that puts France in us. Without the patisseries and cafes, the baguettes and chocolate, Paris would be less than what it is and for this, we’d all suffer from the loss.

But, fortunately, the French culinary tradition is alive and well. And while nouveaux American cuisine has bogarted much from its European ally and cross-pollinated it with other world flavors like Mendel and his flowers, the taste of authenticity and un-tampered with classic French cuisine still can defrost even the worst of transatlantic tensions. What food better exemplifies French cooking than the crepe? Ti Jos, a creperie and cider restaurant, excels at making traditions relevant. The crepes are created by a woman advanced in age but also in culinary skill, and who by all appearances, could very well pass for Whistler’s mother. The clientele are locals, a well-needed respite from the discordant American voices heard ubiquitously all over the city.

But the crepes, the crepes are the thing themselves. Street vendors may sell more common, inexpensive versions, but to sample the real deal, Ti Jos is the place. The menu is divided into galletes and crepes, the gallettes consisting of a buckwheat base and filled with savory items like beef, cheeses, and ham, whereas the crepes are all sweetness, all the time.

We began by splitting a ham, cheese, and mushroom galette, and while the ham was nowhere to be seen (Whistler’s mom has a lot on her mind), the galette was still densely rich and brilliantly smooth. The mild coat of gruyere cheese enhanced the smoky aspects of the sautéed, though still firm mushrooms. Nothing was overcooked and all blended together seamlessly in a galette, that though grain based was nonetheless effortlessly light.

For dessert, there was no splitting. My honey and walnut crepe was a commendable dessert, though it would have worked nicely for a petit dejeuner as well. The walnuts came whole, topping the honey glaze of the crepe. The honey was effectively sweet without being birthday cake saccharine. However, the crepe itself, slightly chewy, thoroughly moist and in all ways outstanding, proved why Ti Jos was a local favorite. Everything about the meal was successful (save the forgotten ham) and the next time Bush and Chirac clash over the former’s refusal to recognize global warming or the lack of WMD, perhaps a plate of Ti Jos’ crepes, Whistler’s mother included, will serve to reach the cowboy in a place reason can not.

RATING: 8.2/10

Rise and Shine 3: Artisan Boulanger Patisserie (Nice, France)

2005-11-22T14:06:00.000-05:00

Clockwise from top left: The Bakery; The wonders therein; Nice's train station; A fountain near the waterfront

BAKERY: Artisan Boulanger Patisserie
LOCATION: Corner of Rue Dalpozzo and Rue de la Buffa, Nice, France
DATE: September 4, 2005
PASTRIES: Croissant filled with vanilla crème; Pain au Chocolate
PRICE: 2.05 Euros

An overnight train from Bordeaux to Nice leaves every night at 9:39 pm. It arrives in Nice the next morning at 7:55, an hour too early to check into most hostels. What to do in the void while your room is readied? You’re in France and it’s breakfast – is the answer really all that difficult to guess?

Pastries line the store windows and interior display cases of this artisan bakery, just minutes from Nice’s Rue de Anglais and scenic waterfront. And while croissants might not be the best food for sculpting an ideal beach bod, they sure a tasty way to chunk up.

The vanilla crème filled croissant, dusted in a layer of powdered sugar, was the essence of France. The pastry possessed of a feathery flakiness and that distinct, thoroughly buttery moistness inside. The crème filling was amazingly light, the breakfast equivalent of a Dan Brown novel. The pain au chocolate, shaped like a raisin croissant but with the substitution of life’s ultimate hedonistic splurge, French chocolate, was another deft exhibition of this bakery’s prowess. The pastry was as creamy as egg yolk, but with the density of marzipan. After a near sleepless night spent fitfully turning alongside babbling children and a surprisingly docile dog, there was no better way to start the day than by playing Nice at one of the city’s best bakeries.

RATING: 7.3/10

Europe 2: A Taste of France

2005-11-21T13:07:00.000-05:00

Clockwise from top left: Bordeaux's San Michelle Cathedral; Canale, the local rum based specialty of Bordeaux - an amazing dessert; The Japanese Garden in Monaco; Changing of the guard in front of Monaco's Palace.

A Taste of France (and Monaco)

CITIES AND DATES: Bordeaux – September 1-3, 2005;
Nice – September 4-6, 2005;
Lyon – September 7-8, 2005;
Paris – September 9-13, 2005;
Avignon – November 9-10, 2005;
BREADS: Clawed Toasted Sesame; Sunflower and Corn Baguette;
PASTRIES: Drop (Vanilla Liquer Crème, Chocolate Chips, Almonds); Pistachio and Sour Cherry Cornbread
DESSERTS: Canale – rum pudding dessert, specialty of Bordeaux;
FRUITS: Red Plum Apples
HOSTELS: Bordeaux – Hotel Studio
Nice – Hostel Meyerbeer Beach
Lyon – Hotel Stars in Bron: Awful – like a cruise ship run aground, this sea themed hotel was dirty, cramped and most importantly, nearly an hour by tram Lyon’s center.
Paris – Hotel des Olympiades in Montmarte: The dingy, Bohemian hotels of Parisian yesteryear still exist. Rooms are shabby, with worn carpet and tattered, mismatched bedspreads. There is a single toilet and shower on each floor. The hotel fits the Moulin Rouge past of Montmarte, the take it as it comes, communal, no frills style evokes lonely writers laboring over their passion in the solitude of sweaty rooms.
GROCERY STORES AND MARKETS: Bordeaux – Auchan: Huge, amazingly cheap and inspirational. A testament of France’s ubiquitous love of food.
Lyon – Des Halles: the city’s largest indoor market was as haute cuisine as a market can get. Unfortunately, this also meant the prices were quite haute as well.
CATHEDRALS: Bordeaux – Basilique San Michelle and San Andre: San Michelle is a study in Catholic anachronism. While the church design and its most valued relics date from as early as the 15th century, the stained glass windows are fascinatingly modern. After the bombings of WWII destroyed the original windows, local artists created a new series of stained glass for the Basilica in the 1950s. Their design mixes cubist elements, reminiscent of Picasso, while still portraying classical and Biblical scenes. The amalgam of stylistics serves to capture not only the history of God, but the cathedral’s own story as well.
RANDOM: Bordeaux has great benches along the Rue Clemenceau in case you arrive so late that your hostel is already closed and end up having to sleep on a park bench. Good times.
Nice – Drinking champagne along the boardwalk late at night.
SITES: Paris – Musee d’ Orsay: The Louvre may have the Mona Lisa, but the Orsay has everything else. I fyou can resists the temptation to re-enact the scene in Godard’s “The Outsiders” when the threesome run though the Louvre in under ten minutes, the Orsay will provide smaller crowds and more stunning art. The museum itself is art, illuminated throughout on its perch on the Seine’s left bank. Time is a central focus of the Orsay’s design, with clocks modeled on art nouveau styles and train station inspirations overlaid on the museum’s windows. But the collection is the true astonishment, pieces by Van Gogh, Manet, Pisarro, Seurrat, Rousseau, and an extensive display of Monet’s life work. The Orsay is five floors of the premier French and Western European sculpture, paintings, and furniture from the last 200 years. It may not have the Louvre’s reputation, but perhaps that’s for the best. Plus, there’s discounted admission if you’re 18-25;
The Pompidou: Amazing – Based around large, ideological themes and not chronology, the collection was our favorite in Paris. Free guided tours in English on Saturdays at 3 pm; Art Market near the Rue des Martyrs in Montmarte; Notre Dame (of course, need I mention the Eiffel Tower); Tuilleries.
DAY TRIP: From Nice: Monaco – The epitome of wealth, privilege and luxury, Monaco’s rococo buildings practically rise right out of the sea. The views are mesmerizing, the streets remarkably clean, and the concentration of tourists, overwhelming. But the trip is worth it for the sight of the Palace’s white-suited guards to the surreal cliff and beach vistas. The Japanese Garden is a welcome and needed reprieve amidst the cities dense crowds. Though tiny, it’s a beautiful and serene greenspace.
BARS: Nice – Chez Wayne: Overpriced and like a “Girls Gone Wild Video” gone even wrong. The drinks cost too much, the seating is shabby, and the photos of girls revealing their chests seem less exotic than pathetic.
ODDS AND ENDS: Great public transport systems in both Bordeaux and Lyon, mainly utilizing the tram, but in Lyon, there is also an underground metro.

Restaurant 68: La Barraca (Valencia, Spain)

2005-11-19T13:44:00.000-05:00

Clockwise from top left: La Barraca; The Seafood Paella; One of El Greco's many masterpieces; The pigeons love the statue more than the toursits;

RESTAURANT: La Barraca
LOCATION: Las Arenas, near the beach, Valencia, Spain
DATE: August 29, 2005
FOOD: Seafood Paella
BEVERAGE: None
PRICE: 9.20 Euros

Olive oil, rice, and one huge skillet and you’ve got yourself a meal. Valencia is the birthplace of paella, that expand in your stomach like a blowfish, combine whatever ingredients you have lying around the kitchen, meal with machismo enough for Hemingway, rice experience. Served in an iron skillet only slightly smaller than the country of Luxembourg, paella is meant to be a communal feast, an entrée for an entire table to share.

La Barraca, located on a strip of Valencia’s beach front with as many Paella restaurants as the Conquistadores had infectious diseases, is more casual than many of its rivals, plastic outdoor furniture in place of the table clothes and hardwood chairs next door. But the paella is just as authentic as at the neighboring restaurants. After 30 minutes of anxious anticipation, the paella is brought tableside. The seafood variety had excellent mussels and decadently tender calamari. However, the prawns were stringy and the shrimp, flavorless. The saffron colored rice had been beautifully penetrated by the olive oil bath and possessed a buttery, melt-in-your-mouth quality. The rice attached to the sides of the pan developed a crispy char which had the succulent consistency of roasted garlic. While La Barraca’s paella might not thrust Valencia into the realm of elite world food cities, it certainty does its city proud.

RATING: 6.8/10

Restaurant 67: Bar Pilar (Valencia, Spain)

2005-11-19T02:04:00.000-05:00

Clockwise from top left: The buckets on Bar Pilar's floor; Mussels in tomato broth; The cheapest wine Spain had to over - a liter box for 45 cents!; Afternoon in Valencia.

RESTAURANT: Bar Pilar
LOCATION: Calle Moro Zeit 13, Valencia, Spain
DATE: August 30, 2005
FOOD: Split the following: Mussels with Tomato Broth; Patatas Bravas; Black Pudding and Lomo Boccadilo; Ham Omelette Boccadillo
BEVERAGE: Glass of Marista Vino
PRICE: 8.25 Euros

The night before joining in Europe’s largest food fight seemed the appropriate time to try a restaurant where throwing food wasn’t only acceptable, it was downright encouraged. Bar Pilar’s reputation as an inexpensive but dependable tapas place frequented by locals came from the reliable Lonely Planet, Europe on a Shoestring, guidebook. Bar Pilar fit the description perfectly. Waited on by a kindly, middle aged man, who was most likely the owner, our meal was as low key as Bar Pilar’s simple, black and white tile décor. Danny and I decided to split an order of patatas bravas, two boccadillos (Spanish sandwiches) and the mussels for which Bar Pilar is known.

While throwing hundreds of tomatoes the next day at Tomatina 2005 was childishly addictive, the fact that the mussel shells we threw into buckets on Bar Pilar’s floor couldn’t be thrown back with harmful velocity gave the meal an advantage over its festive food competition. The mussels had a pleasant chew and the tomato broth served alongside gave a nice, salty gloss to the dish. While the patatas bravas couldn’t match those of Tia Pol, the dual layering of saucing, with heavy mayonnaise on top and pepper broth beneath, caused the crispy fried taters to have a surprising degree of complexity. However, both sandwiches were forgettable at best, unappetizing at worse, the omelette too oily, the black pudding like onion and mystery meat gruel and placed in bread that was noticeable for its American grocery store deficiencies, especially when compared to the other great breads we’d had in Spain. Thus, while Bar Pilar may have given our arms a warm up for Tomatina, it should have been the sandwiches and not the mussel shells that were tossed by the wayside.

RATING: 4.5/10

Restaurant 66: Al-Andalus (Granada, Spain)

2005-11-18T17:57:00.000-05:00

Clockwise from top left: Al-Andalus; The extraordinary chicken schwarma is wrapped up tight in the burrito like pita; A ceiling relief at the Alhambra; The famed courtyard and fountain at the Alhambra.

RESTAURANT: Al-Andalus
LOCATION: Calle de Elvira, Granada, Spain
DATE: August 25, 2005
FOOD: Chicken Schwarma
BEVERAGE: None
PRICE: 3.50 Euros

Street food in America usually consists of little better than hot dogs boiled in a murky, deformed liquid with a distant relation to water. Or there’s also over-sized, cardboard tasting pretzels. While the hot dogs would gain a certain cache if every vendor dressed in the same pirate outfit Ignatius Reilly wears in A Confederacy of Dunces, the character’s penchant for stuffing cats into the bun warmers would probably cause hot dogs to be even further from accepted health standards than they already are. In Europe, no costuming is necessary. Instead of hot dogs, there’s doner kebab and schwarma, much tastier alternatives to the States’ processed wieners.

In Granada, located in the Plaza Cuchillos directly across the hill that leads to the Alhambra, Al-Andalus takes schwarma street food to a new level of flavor. While the shredded, fatty strips of spit cooked chicken are familiarly pleasant to any gyro fan, it was the combination of the stuffed pita’s other elements which made Al-Andalus great. Inside the grilled pita (composed almost like a burrito), crunchy carrots and lettuce were a delicious compliment to the greasy meat. But it was the thick, ricotta cheese like yogurt saucing, wildly spiced and complex, which elevated the pita to monumental heights. And at just 3.50 Euros, it would be hard to imagine any reason, even old Ignatius himself, live and in person, to ever crave a hot dog again.

RATING: 7.6/10

Just Desserts 15: Horno San Onofre (Madrid, Spain)

2005-11-18T13:56:00.000-05:00

Clockwise from top left: Horno San Onofre; Pretzel and Chocolate Creme Cone; One of Madrid's countless plazas; "Coco".

JUST DESSERTS: Horno San Onofre
LOCATION: North of Plaza de Sol, Madrid, Spain
DATE: August 22, 2005
DESSERTS: “Coco” with mixed fruit and nuts; Tuna Empanada; Bite-size Spinach Quiche; Nut Glazed Pastry Pretzel; Chocolate Coated Cone Filled with Chocolate Cream; Bite-size Hazelnut Cream Pastry
PRICE: 7.00 Euros

What’s for dinner? The eternal question.

Don’t eat that, you’ll spoil your appetite. The eternal warning.

But if the first had an answer that nullified the need for even uttering the second – well wouldn’t that be a situation Liebniz might have described as the best of all possible worlds?

So dessert for dinner was the solution. Fatigued after taking in many of Madrid’s essential sites – from El Retiro to La Plaza Mayor – hunger weighed as heavy as a Valezquez painting over Danny and me both. It being seven, most of Madrid’s restaurants had another hour or more until dinner time, closed for one of the seemingly endless Spanish siestas. Instead of waiting, we opted to skip the savory and head right for the sweats.

Horno San Onofre had the upscale atmosphere of a West Village grocery, but without all the other foods mixed in. Though my intention had been to focus only on desserts, the temptation of Horno’s mini-quiches and meat stuffed pies proved too overwhelming. The quiche was simply riveting: cheese, cream, egg and spinach combining for a mouthful of buttery bliss. The tuna stuffed pie was like a pastry sandwich, and packed the robust flavors of tuna and onion with the delicacy of a flaky pastry casing.

But, these were the warm up acts. The featured performers came onto stage with the assured air of mastery and put on a show full of pyrotechnics. The “Coco” was like a mixed nut and fruit peanut brittle without the hardening and overly sugary glaze. The trail mix topping rested upon a soft and buttery crust, not unlike that of a pie. The sugar and nut glazed pastry pretzel was as light as William Gaddis’ prose is heavy and each puffy bite proved the combination of German engineering (the shape) and French style (the croissant like pastry) should occur elsewhere than Alsace-Lorraine. The bite-sized chocolate coated cone with chocolate crème filling illustrated why sometimes ice cream is simply unnecessary. And as for the hazelnut cream pastry, there’s little else this nut could be used for more advantageously.

In all, Danny and I had succeeded in not only spoiling our appetites but also in removing the need for dinner altogether. With France up ahead, another night of just desserts beckoned, though Horno would be a remembrance not soon to pass from memory.

RATING: 8.5/10

Restaurant 65: Museo de Jamon (Madrid, Spain)

2005-11-18T13:21:00.000-05:00

Clockwise from top left: El Museo de Jamon in Madrid; Tortilla with Jamon y Manchego; All parts of the pigs. Man do Spaniards take their pork seriously; A display of pig parts in Barcelona's central market.

RESTAURANT: Museo de Jamon
DATE: August 21, 2005
LOCATION: Calle de Goya, Madrid, Spain
FOOD: Tortilla with House Ham and Cheese on Integral Roll; Pastry Espanade
DRINK: Water
PRICE: 5.00 Euros

The contemporary art world has changed the museum from a place only to show art into a work of art in itself. As countless literary theorists have pointed out, the aesthetic line separating what hangs on the walls and the very walls on which they hang has largely been obliterated. The avant-garde’s legacy has been less to show us how art is everywhere around us, but rather the very subjectivity of what we consider art in the first place.

Well who knows how Duchamp or even Picasso would have responded to the numerous Madrid locations of El Museo de Jamon. For at this museum, the art is edible and it comes prepared by the strong, yet loving hands of burly Spanish butchers. The museum could be seen as a testament to Spain’s love of all things pork. Whole cured hams hang from the ceiling, seeming to number in the hundreds, like the finest vintages in a wine cellar. The choices of pork at the Museum is astonishing, but the house speciality, more like a pancetta than jamon is why the museum deserves its lofty name.

The pork is the color of dark cherries. The meat possess the perfect level of saltiness and while adequately tender, forces the diner to chew with concentration in greedy indulgence. Sewed into the puff embrace of a Spanish tortilla, lined by Manchego sheep’s cheese, there can be few things more authentically Spanish or more divinely pleasurable. If all contemporary art was as enjoyable, the world’s museums would seem far less austere. But any place with the gall to name itself the museum of any meat, let alone ham – well you know it’s got to be good.

RATING: 7.7/10

Restaurant 64: Edelmann's Cafe (Barcelona, Spain)

2005-11-17T22:18:00.000-05:00

From top left: Potatoes Aeoli, Hot Bomb, Stuffed Squid, Bruschetta, Cod Fritters.

RESTAURANT: Edelmann's Cafe
DATE: August 20, 2005
LOCATION: Barcelona, Spain
FOOD: Potatoes with aeoli, Hot Bomb, Stuffed Squid, Bruschetta, Fried Cuttlefish, Tortilla with Spinach, Mushrooms sauteed with ham; liquor based dessert tarte
DRINK: Beer
PRICE: 17 Euros

Exhausted and hungry after a day of touring Barcelona's array of memorable sites, we sought a taste of tapas to cap off the evening. Cal Pep was closed for the month of August, a disappointing turn of events that it would take until November, when our trip was over, for us to rectify. Near the Plaza d'Catalunya, we found Edelmann Cafe, where a deceptively unaffordable and subpar meal ensued. While the cod fritters were crunchy and only slightly oily, the potatoes with aeoli sauce were a disastrous blend of boiled root vegetable and underseasoned globular mayonnaise. The spinach tortilla (Spanish omelette) proved unassuming if not downright bland and the mushrooms sauteed with ham were a dish even the most novice chef could prepare better.

The lone redeeming tapas were the complex potato and meet "Hot Bombs", covered in paprika laden dressing and the Andalucian style cuttlefish, wich tasted as authentically Spanish as their title suggested. However, even a generous does of liquor as saucing couldn't save the dessert tarte from its dry, flavorless self. With a pricetag that reached seventeen Euros a person for six incredibly mediocre tapas, Edelmann's was a bad introduction to eating out in Spain.

RATING: 3.0/10

Europe 1: A Taste of Spain

2005-11-17T22:04:00.000-05:00

Clockwise from top left: Barcelona from Parc Guell; The Palace of Communication in Madrid; The Royal Palace in Barcelona; A Wall Tile in The Alhambra, Granada.

A TASTE OF SPAIN

CITIES AND DATES: Barcelona – August 15-20, 2005 and November 10-12, 2005;
Madrid – August 20-24, 2005;
Granada – August 24-28, 2005;
Valencia – August 28-31, 2005
BREAD: Integrale; French Style White Baguette; High Fiber Bread in Granada (perhaps too much of a good thing)
RESTAURANTS: (reviews forthcoming) Barcelona: Café Edelman;
Madrid: Horno San Onofre (Pastry Shop);
Granada: Al Andalusa; Bar Pilar;
Valencia: La Barrasca
MARKETS: Barcelona: El Mercat de Boqueria;
Granada: Mercat St. Augustin
PORK: Chorizo, Lomo
WINE: .45 Euro cent box of
CHEESE: Sheep’s Milk Cheeses, especially Manchego
FRUIT: Meloncoton (peaches) at the peak of flavor
HOTELS: Barcelona: Hesperia Sant Juis;
Madrid: NH Parque de Avenidas;
Granada: Hostal Alcazaba;
Valencia: NH Hotel
RANDOM FUN: Granada: Kashbar – A fantastic tea house with nightly belly dancing exhibitions; Caves in Sacremento (Granada) – Above the city, gypsies inhabit caves in the hills overlooking the city; Bunol: Tomatina – You may never want to see a tomato again after the festival but the craziness is a once in a lifetime even to behold.
ESSENTIAL SITES: Barcelona: La Sagrada Familia, Montjuic, Parc Guell, Las Ramblas;
Madrid: El Prado, El Retiro, Plaza Mayor, Plaza Sol;
Granada: Alhambra
ODDS AND ENDS: Reservation fees for trains add up in the summer, even if you have the Eurail pass; EVERYTHING is closed in August, from restaurants like Cal Pep, to many stores and even some museums; The Prado is free on Sundays.

Europe

2005-11-14T10:00:00.000-05:00

From August 28, 2005 to November 12, 2005, I backpacked around Europe, starting in Barcelona and moving eastwards. Upcoming on this blog with be an account of that adventure.

Restaurant 63: Nizam's (Vienna, Virginia)

2005-11-13T22:13:00.000-05:00

Doner Kebab: The lone bright spot of the meal.

RESTAURANT: Nizam's
LOCATION: 523 Maple Avenue West, Vienna, VA
DATE: August 13, 2005
FOOD: Split the mezze plate including Hummus, White Bean Salad, Borek (Fried Cheese), Feta Cheese, Olives, Yogurt covered Eggplant; ENTREE: Doner Kebab (Thinly sliced lamb with dill, covering a grilled pita and yogurt toped with tomato sauce); DESSERT: Dessert Sampler including Baked Pear, Baklava, Milk and Honey Sponge Cake.
BEVERAGE: Pasha Martini, Argentinian Red Wine
PRICE: Courtesy of my mom

As Europe turns inward and the EU’s xenophobia convulses like an epileptic seizure, the probability that Turkey will gain admittance to the unified Western nations becomes increasingly remote. Since the fall of the Ottoman Empire and the rise of Ataturk, Turkey has embraced a precarious Western secularization, unique amongst its neighbors. While the EU’s desire to include Turkey wanes, the tremendous and intricate culture of Turkey is overlooked for economic reasons.

One furtive aspect of this culture is the cuisine. Reminiscent of Greek, Lebanese, and other Mediterranean nations, Turkish food centers around roasted and skewered meats, pureed vegetable dips, robust cheeses and honey laden desserts. Nizam’s, a Vienna establishment honored with a place amongst Washingtonian’s Top 100 restaurants for 21 consecutive years, attempts to drape Turkish cuisine in all the elegance and regality of the Europe which keeps the country at arms length. While it takes kebabs above the street cart form, Nizam’s, can’t quite succeed in being the refined European it seeks to be.

The house specialty is the doner kebab. Similiar to the Greek gyro but with a greater diversity of spices, ground lamb is roasted on a spit and then sliced paper thing. In Germany, doner kebab elevates street food to a rarefied level. In Vienna, Virginia, the meat comes on the pita instead of in it, but the taste is just as marvelous. The dish is richly layered – the lamb pieces rest atop pita bread softened by meat drippings and are lathered in a fragrant dill yogurt. The meat is then gently brushed with a forceful tomato sauce. This tiered trio comes off at great effect, producing a creamy and acidic contrast for the succulence of the meat.

But it was in the appetizers and desserts that Nizam’s was closer to stumbling than to Suleiman imperial dominance. A boring mixed mezze plate with the sole highlight of yogurt covered eggplant, left a lot to be desired. The hummus was bland, the feta under salted, the borek forgettable and the white bean mix regrettably cold. The mixed dessert plate was similarly misconstrued, with a commendable baklava backstabbed by a tasteless baked pear and a gelatinous milk and honey custard cake. Combined with service that was more distant than the Dead Sea, Nizam’s excellent doner kebab could not compensate for an otherwise uninspired meal. Fortunately, the nation of Turkey has a lot more to offer Europe than Nizam’s can offer diners. The only question left to ask: Why does Washingtonian view the restaurant so positively?

RATING: 4.8/10

Book 18: After the Quake, by Haruki Murikami

2005-08-18T10:29:00.000-04:00

Paperback: 160 pages
Publisher: Vintage; Vintage edition (May 13, 2003)

Americans may find all too familiar the angst haunting the characters in Haruki Murikami´s collections of six stories, After the Quake. In each story, a tumultuous event provides ample reason for buried fears to rise to the surface consciousness of the an individual character. In one instance, catastrophe escaltes the progres of a love stalled by years of friendship. In another, the earthshaking event leads a woman to reconsider her life and her punctuated hatred of her ex-husband. But in all the story, Murikami´s characteristic masterful use of simple language for profound ends allows the author evoke a sensitivity and passion in not just his characters, but the reader as well.

Murikami is perhaps the foremost Japanese novelist. His works include Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World along with the novel generally regarded as his masterpiece, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. But After the Quake, provides a rare glimpse of the novelist in short story form. It is a glimpse full of promise and reward and thoughts with a universal applicability.

Americans may recognize the scnearios faced by Murikami´s characters, but few will have deep knowledge of the tragedy involved. The Kobe earthquake wrought havoc on the Japanese city when it struck in 1995, measuring a devastating 6.9 on the Richter scale. It had the same type of effect on Japanese life as 9/11 did for many Americans. What had seemed stable was suddenly undermined and frighteningly ephemeral. What foundations were left? Who was to blame, how to prevent another such tragedy, when the "enemy" was so evasive? It is the fear of living that Murikami tackles in the foremost, his six stories exploring how people come to deal with fear and go on living even as they are forced to realize every moment could be their last.

Unlike many short story collections, each story in After the Quake is a unique entity on its own, while tying into the work´s larger thematic emphasis. In "Frog Saves Tokyo", the main character is beset upon by a Gregor Samsa like gigantic Frog to battle the devil earthwarm that will cause an earthquake beneath Tokyo like no natural disaster before. However, in the longest story, "Honey Pie", Murikami is much less fantastical, dealing with love and the classic Hamlet paradox of inaction versus action. Fear, whether personal or in the form of a potential destroyer, may lead us to turn in ourselves to seak safety, but disengaging from the world rarely provides us with the answers we´re looking for. In the end, what arises most from Murikami´s wonderful and entertaining stories are the human ability to persevere despite horrendous circumstances and a willingness to face life head on. As his stories suggest, Murikami sees avoiding life as being as frightful as anything mother nature can muster.

Restaurant 62: King Louie's (St. Louis, Missouri)

2005-08-12T15:18:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: King Louie’s
LOCATION: 3800 Chouteau, Saint Louis, Missouri
DATE: August 6, 2005
FOOD: Seared gnocchi with brown butter, mushrooms, and pistachio; roasted mushroom Flatbread, thyme, goat cheese; King Louie’s Salad: Dried Cherries, Pears, Toasted Walnuts, gorgonzola; Yellowfin Tuan with syrah reduction and seafood sausage; Beggar’s Purse: Chocolate-Cherry Walnut Tart with caramel ice cream
BEVERAGE: Martini, up with lime; Split a bottle of Lawson’s Dry Hills Sauvignon Blanc – Marlborough; Coffee
PRICE: $190.00 (for two)

We were on our way to see the King. Libby and I, mixes of anxiety and anticipation, held hands to calm ourselves as we approached his castle. We had broached the fortress during an October night nearly a year before, but that night, then as now, was more waking fantasy than reality, a surreal entwining of personal happiness and public pleasures.

Now a visit to see the King is not something to be entered into lightly. First, and perhaps most importantly, King Louie does not share the foolishness of a certain other emperor. You will not see Louie walking around his castle naked. Consequently, this means none of the guests are allowed to sport “new clothes” either. Louie isn’t asking for suits and ties, but the man’s a King for Christ’s sake, and attire fitting his majesty is the surest way to begin and stay on his good side.

Immersed in nervous conversation so as to avoid the subject on both of our minds, we arrived at King Louie’s before we had time to second guess ourselves. The King’s, the King’s. There was no mistaking it – any thought that we had taken a wrong turn somewhere along Chouteau was quickly dispelled by the castle’s sign “King Louie’s”. We were in the right place.

Trying to summon courage from somewhere deep in the smythie of our souls, we fearlessly left the tiny Honda behind and walked towards the castle’s drawbridge, beautifully ablaze in an otherwise serene nightscape. But the bravery suddenly faded. Had we remembered the second most important thing before visiting the King? We stopped walking and listened. For moments there was nothing. Just silence, silence as black as the night around us. But then we heard it. At first softly, it grew, until there was no mistaking the joyous cacophony echoing from our bellies. We had remembered to arrive hungry! No fear, we would be able to handle a feast fit for a king.

Our last hesitancies cast aside like a worn-out court jester, we charged ahead, across the drawbridge and the perilous moat beneath. We entered the castle and relief washed over us like a wave. The dark wood, the romantically lit rooms – it was just as before. The recognition sparked a sense of safety, of coming home. I turned to Libby, and the look in her eyes was unmistakable – this was exactly where we needed to be.

But there was one more hurdle to jump before we reached the King. Inside or out, the question loomed like the threat of a foreign invader? Inside or out? Inside was familiar and peaceful, but the outside had that slick summer buzz of outdoor barbeques and fireflies. Where would we find the true King and not an imposter?

With a bold determination, I forged ahead to the outdoor patio, only to realize we would never find the King this way. While there was no doubt an enjoyable evening would have ensued, outside presented only a limited version of the King’s greatness. Libby and I had come for the real thing. So we beat a hasty retreat, lavishing apologies upon the cute and friendly courtier, who succumbed to our charms and seated us in the King’s main banquet hall, far away from the maddening crowd that had also come that evening to see royalty at work.

We settled into an uneasy calm. Would there be any more tests? Had we finally surpassed the last of the obstacles? As if a genie from a lamp, one of the King’s most trusted advisors appeared by our table. Courteous and knowledgeable, with a practiced air about him, the advisor immediately set our minds to rest. Yes, it was okay to relax. We belonged here with the King and everything was going to be alright.

From that point forward, the evening progressed without hiccup. Having remembered to pack our appetites, nothing the King threw at us was the least bit daunting. The King was clearly well traveled. Using influences from all over the world, he presented us with enough options during his banquet for meals to come ad infinitum. However, as we were concerned only about the one directly before us, we solicited the goodwill of our aide-de-camp and his recommendations were as flawless as Cleopatra’s were divisive.

The King pulled out all the stops. He began his display of marvels with a funghi exhibition of unexpected and tempting delights. His thyme flatbread, loaded with goat cheese and enough mushrooms for an entire kingdom’s harvest, was superb. The bread had the charcoaled lining of wood oven pizza and while it may have been my imagination, some incendiary bit of the fire’s heat seemed to dance amongst the bread’s surface.

Equally compelling was the mushroom gnocchi. Perhaps when you’re King, it’s easier to ignore convention than it is for the rest of us plebeians. Whatever the reason, Louie’s gnocchi was a shocking fusion of American technique with Italian heritage. Seared like a scallop, his gnocchi had the buttery richness of a sauté, but with the dense potato flavor one desires in gnocchi. The mushrooms were the ideal compliment to the gnocchi’s splendor and if Louie had forced us to leave then, we would have exited with contentment etched across our faces.

But Louie still had some tricks up his sleeve. Quite obviously, any salad officially given the name of the King is going to produce fireworks. Sweet cherries sparked our mouths when coupled with the softened pears, candied walnuts, and pungent blue cheese of the salad. The salad was an epiphany of sorts – while fruit, cheese and nut salads have become as commonplace as bad political leadership, Louie reminded us why the salads gained notoriety in the first place. His salad deserved its praised title.

During all of the food, our lips were lapped by the nectar of the gods, a personally selected and aromatic white wine from the distant land of Oceana. The wine’s intense grapefruit flavor meshed well with our food, and Louie proved himself not to be a connoisseur of food alone.

With all the devotees having flocked to the castle that Saturday evening, the one mistake during our meal was understandable, if not downright forgivable. For the same amazing yellowfin tuna I had ordered my previous visit to see his greatness, this time was a bit dry around the edges. Enhanced by seafood sausage and the brazen use of mashed potatoes with fish, Louie provided enough successful side shows to make up for the slightly overcooked nature of the tuna. With such a wide dominion to look after, I’m hopeful he attends to his ports and waterways with more care next time.

Even as Libby and I patted our stomachs, near full and entirely satisfied, Louie had one more spectacle for us to behold. The King is known for his humor, so his tongue and cheek labeling of his prized dessert as the “beggar’s purse” is an act of levity that comes from some many years of sagacious rule. Composed of a flaky, pie like dough, the “purse” enclosed a mind-blowing lava of melted dark chocolate, walnuts, and cherries, the last of which provided a tartness of scintillating proportions. Never had chocolate tasted like this, sweet and sour fused into one panoramic whole.

The King seemed to be smiling. We had graced his majesty’s presence without embarrassing ourselves, but with our acute awareness, we knew it was time to depart. Holding hands once again, this time out of joy rather than apprehension. Embracing in the moonlight, Libby and I felt, even if for that fleeting moment only, what it would be like to be King. The only way to describe that feeling is to quote Mel Brooks: “It’s good to be king.”

RATING: 8.5/10

Just Desserts 14: Annapolis Ice Cream Company (Annapolis, Maryland)

2005-08-11T17:21:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Annapolis Ice Cream Company
LOCATION:196 Main Street, Annapolis, Maryland
DATE: August 2, 2005
DESSERT: Sundae with a scoop of Raspberry Chocolate and a scoop of Chocolate Chip Vanilla, topped with Heath Bar pieces, Slivered Almonds, and Whipped Cream; Cone with one scoop of Blackberry Cobbler ice cream.
BEVERAGE: Tap Water
PRICE: $5.50

There were no barbershop quartets. No nickel shoe shines or candy stripers either. A sign even advertised flavors including cake batter and green tea. Unless Bazz Larhman was directing a remake of American Graffiti, there really wasn’t any reason to think that Annapolis Ice Cream Company was in anyway hinting at some great Americana nostalgia. Yet, unmistakably, it was.

Take, for instance, the linoleum floors. One part Norman Rockwell, one part America that never was (though the two are truly one and the same), the floors hinted at that clean simplicity with which Americans like to view their past. Or, if further examples are needed, take the dreamy-eyed teenagers who scooped and smiled with the naïve air of unlimited expectations. Had they never heard of irony, did they not realize the cruel reality of the world?

But it wasn’t one thing specifically that evoked the America of the G.I. Bill, economic optimism, and entrenched segregation; it was the cumulative effect that made the atmosphere of Annapolis Ice Cream Factory so anachronistic. Almost as if the place had Rip Van Winkled its way through the last half-century, awakening in a time when every dunk of an Oreo brought with it hearty amounts of trans fat, a time when ice cream shops needed to set out disclaimers stating that in the interests of health, ice cream was best enjoyed in moderation.

Such a sign does in fact hang in Annapolis Ice Cream Company, yet another eclectic leveling of time and place to satisfy even the most demanding post-modern stomach. However, even with the double-codings and the shadow of Frederic Jameson hanging over the freezers like an academic Frankenstein, the actual product the store churns out is less Pynchon and more Potter, as in Harry, being one of life’s simple, but seemingly inexhaustible pleasures.

Though the flavors were more mundane than the concoctions of Chinatown Ice Cream Factory or the gelato of Otto (oh sweet Olive Oil, how I miss thee), Annapolis Ice Cream Company did very well with dessert ubiquities. The raspberry chocolate was more fruit than cocoa, possessing a tartness more reminiscent of a chocolate raspberry martini than dairy decadence. The chocolate came in such minute pieces, like those used in a good mint chocolate chip ice cream, that no one aspect overwhelmed any other, and a sturdy cohesion greeted the tongue. The same was the case with chocolate chip vanilla, with just enough pizzazz to break up the monotony of normal vanilla ice cream. In sundae form, complete with heath bar pieces and almond slivers, a mighty combination emerged.

Yet, the show stopper was the blackberry cobbler scoop. Akin to Ted Drewes’ use of whole pieces of pie in concretes, Annapolis Ice Cream Company had true, buttery crumb pieces of cobbler incorporated into the berry infused ice cream. Perhaps blackberries are an evolutionary accident, on par with dinosaurs and Jamie Lee Curtis, but they’re certainly the most delicious berry of them all. And when used as Annapolis Ice Cream Company used them, in minced, rough chopped form, they add a texture, style and taste to dessert nothing else can.

Maybe Annapolis Ice Cream Company just cares about the ice cream. Maybe they’ve paid less attention to their furnishings than their desserts. Maybe, just maybe, the old-timey feel is unintentional. Maybe it doesn’t even have a feel at all.

Maybe.

Maybe not. But regardless, whether Annapolis Ice Cream Company is attempting to incite in its patrons a love of yore or just a love of ice cream, what it achieves most definitively is an ice cream that is much less mundane and much less misconstrued than anything it linoleum tiles might suggest.

RATING: 7.7/10

Restaurant 61: Cafe Normandie (Annapolis, MD)

2005-08-11T12:21:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Café Normandie
LOCATION: 185 Main Street, Annapolis, Maryland
DATE: August 1, 2005
FOOD: Split the following: Appetizers: Artichoke Stuffed with Crab; Baked Brie with Honey and Almonds; Entrees: Cornish Hen Stuffed with Spinach, served with roasted potatoes; Lobster Thermadore; Desserts: Crepe filled with Vanilla Ice Cream, Pecans, and Caramel; Profiteroles with Chocolate Sauce, Almonds, and Vanilla Ice Cream.
BEVERAGE: Bottle of Pinot Grigio; Decaf Cappuccino
PRICE: $150.00 (for two)

But what would you expect?

Leave New York and the food changes. The restaurants change too, with everything from interior design to plate presentation noticeably different than in the cozy confines of the five boroughs. The changes aren’t always dramatic, nor are they necessarily bad. But there’s no denying, New York is singular when it comes to haute cuisine.

But that seems a bit preposterous. Of course, New York is known worldwide for its celebrity chefs and innovative food stylings, but in the end, food is food, bread is bread, and wine is wine. How different can things really be?

The first and most obvious difference is the portion size. New Yorker’s are relatively fit, a trend that might be surprising if the restrained and eloquent plating of most upscale restaurants wasn’t taken into considerations. Sure the city has its McDonalds and all you can eat buffets, but at the premier eateries, Danube, Bouley, Per Se, WD-50 just to name a few, egregious amounts are nowhere in sight. Diners aren’t left hungry, they’re just not deliberately overfed.

At Café Normandie, the plates were large and so too were the servings. The lobster was as ostentatious and extravagant as the lifestyle a Henry James character. It was also huge – huge in the way the Sears Tower is huge, huge in the way Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane occupies every inch of screen space by the end of the film. No high-end dining restaurant in New York would ever serve such a wildly large portion. But Annapolis wasn’t New York, and the taste of the lobster was nothing to scoff at. As creamy as the baked brie which preceded it, though the richness of the lobster meat and butter, cheese, and cream combination was perhaps too indulgent. The lobster, while satisfying and delicious in small bites, was too much to handle, especially in such an uncontrolled portioning and much of it was left uneaten. When an entrée costs $26, it’s a shame and financial frivolity when any of it goes to waste.

The second difference that proclaimed itself with the impact of a head-banging Futureheads song, was the plating technique. While Asian-inspired ceramics are certainly not the sole dominion of the Tri-State are, at Café Normandie, a restaurant ranked by Washingtonian magazine as the only Annapolis restaurant to be included on the DC Area Top 100, the plating, dishes and food included, were much more traditional. Maybe this is expected at a country French restaurant, but the change was noticeable nonetheless. The brie, perfectly baked until the cheese developed the desired over-crust top layer, was wonderful to taste but rather lard-like and unappetizing to behold. Appearances can be ignored when taste triumphs, but the contrast existed regardless.

A third change was the attention to detail. At a dinner at The Modern, the wait staff seemed to sense what patrons would do even before the diners did it, effortlessly pulling out chairs and refilling water glasses, all the while remaining unobtrusive. At Café Normandie, the service was fine and attentive, but there were little things that never would have passed at a nicer New York establishment. Perhaps most glaringly was the artichoke filled with crab, in which a delectable and rewarding crab salad had been plopped a top an artichoke not completely shucked of its leaves. While the decision to include the leaves was deliberate, it made the dish cumbersome and messy to eat, something that would be fantastic at Dinosaur BBQ, but not for a romantic French dinner.

Finally, there were the ingredients. Whereas most New York restaurants include a Cornish hen or chicken dish mainly as a way to appease the non-adventurous dining dead, at Café Normandie, the Cornish hen was a special, and like the lobster, prepared in a style distinctly French. More moderately sized than the lobster, the Cornish hen was excellent, paired well with crispy pan fried potatoes and buttery sautéed spinach. The only negative of the course was that there was only dark meat on the plate, the more succulent parts of the bird apparently getting lost somewhere between coop and kitchen. Another example was the crepe, not only massive, but filled with a rather too American heaping of vanilla ice cream. However, like the profiteroles stuffed with the same ice cream, the crepes tasted amazing, blending mild bases with scintillating sugary sauces of caramel on the crepe and chocolate on the profiteroles. The portion sizes were the most extreme of the evening, but is this really a complaint when desserts taste as fantastic as Café Normandie’s did? It’s hard to say.

In the end, even taking into account the relatively supersized amounts and various other non-New York methodologies, it’s easy to see why Café Normandie holds the reputation as the best restaurant in Annapolis. Every thing was delicious and at times even memorable. But to misquote Dorothy, “I don’t think we’re in New York anymore”. For all its merits, Café Normandie only further solidified why its beneficial to live on the Hudson.

But of course, what else would you expect?

RATING: 7.4/10

Restaurant Remix 4: Otto

2005-08-11T01:26:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Otto
LOCATION: 1 Fifth Avenue
DATE: July 30, 2005
FOOD: Split the following – Vegetables: Summer Squash & Pecorino; Summer Corn & Fregula; Meat: Coppa; Fish: King Fish "In Soar"; Cheese: Coach Triple Cream, Goat, NY; Parmigiano Reggiano, Cow, EMI; Ricotta, Cow, CT; Salad: Heirloom Caprese; Pasta: PENNE ALLA NORMA (TOMATO, ROASTED EGGPLANT, BASIL, BUFALA RICOTTA); LINGUINE SICILIANI (ZUCCHINI, FRESH CHILES, MINT, BOTTARGA); Pizza: QUATTRO STAGIONI (TOMATO, ASPARAGUS, MUSHROOMS, COTTO, PEPPERS);
BEVERAGE: Glass of Proseco (complimentary for a long wait); Split a bottle of white wine
PRICE: My treat

The Tasteland's first review of Otto, from April 24, 2005.

Unfortunately, there are no pictures for this meal.

It was my final night. A year in New York filled with more unforgettable experiences than anyone person should hope to have in a lifetime, and just one night left. With melancholy already setting in and my appetite retreating like the Yankees’ chances of a pennant, it was hard to muster the desire to leave the apartment let alone gear up for one last revelatory meal.

So just as the year had passed with an incomprehensible speed, so too did the hours of July 30th. It was nine pm before we were ready to eat. After enough discussion to make the Yale debate team seriously consider giving up rhetoric permanently, Bennett, Wayne, Libby and I decided to meet my former roommate Jordan at an old standby.

Otto. Mario Batali may have the Midas touch, but Otto suggests that the man cares more about the food than bilking customers or pandering to food critics. Otto, in its essence, proves that Batali is a simply a man who likes to eat and a chef who has never forgotten that meals are a first and foremost a social activity. With a wine bar that creates a festive atmosphere, Otto is a perfect meeting place.

But wine and uplifted spirits can’t outshine the food. Even though we had to wait until 10:30, the vibe in Otto was still electric. At 10:30, every table was filled and the hostess apologized numerous times for not being able to seat us on time. When we were finally seated 20 minutes later, she gave a round of Proseco to the entire table as a way of apology, which makes sense, because who isn’t a bit friendlier when they’re drinking free alcohol?

Trying to please five fairly diverse diners was a difficult, but our waiter (who was very likely inebriated himself) did a commendable job of guiding us through the menu. Eventually, we opted to let him select for us, and he brought us dishes from each of the menu’s categories. The two vegetable and king fish Italian-style tapas offerings came together, and ranged from refined simplicity, to more daring and varyingly successful combinations. The pecorino and squash was as straight forward as its two ingredients would imply, though how Otto’s kitchen makes squash so tender remains a mystery. The salty pecorino complimented the earthy texture of the root vegetable well. Equally pleasing was the corn and fregula. There’s something distinctly summer about fresh corn and the dish captured that feel marvelously. The king fish “in soar” was the only sub par of the three initial samplings. Tasting vaguely of canned tuna and exuding the color of the gray English afternoons under which D.H. Lawrence tarried, the king fish was a surprising misstep from a restaurant that otherwise is very reliable.

However, the king fish was soon forgotten. The cheese tasting was marvelous, especially the creaminess of the goat cheese. Every cheese plate at Otto comes with saucers of honey and fermented cherries, and the sweetness of these sides enhances Otto’s marvelous dairy selection in a way other restaurants should take note of. After all, success lies in the details.

The heirloom caprese showcased the seasonal tomatoes. Aged to the degree of ripeness eliciting sexual comparisons of suppleness and firmness, the salad disappeared quickly. The pasta courses followed suit. While the linguini scilliani had the spice of Babbo’s black spaghetti, its zucchini base was too mushy and similar in texture to the noodles to be truly outstanding. Fortunately, the penne more than made up for its semolina sister. Large roasted chunks of eggplant and artistically appealing clouds of mozzarella jostled with the noodles for plate space, but were the very example of cohesion when tasted. The mozzarella made the pasta and it’s amazing that a restaurant with Otto’s reasonable prices can serve products of such high quality.

Finally, there was the pizza. The Quattro Stagioni was Otto’s take on the classic quartered pie and offered something for everyone. The same coppa, an Italian ham similar to proscuitto, which had helped open our meal on an up note, concluded it in the same manner as a topping on the pizza.

Though lasting nearly two hours, our meal seemed as compressed and fleeting as my stay in New York. As Jordan and I reminisced over a friendship stretching into its fourth year, I couldn’t help thanking him for being the reason I came to New York in the first place. As I said goodbye to him and the city I love, I felt an unexpected burst of emotion puncturing my normal (and preferred) near catatonic state. Perhaps my mood wasn’t assisted by the fact that we had forgotten to order Otto’s otherworldly gelato, but by the time we said goodbye on Fifth Avenue, I knew my departure from Jordan, as well as New York would have to be temporary rather than permanent. Otto brought to the close a year of eating, unique experiences, and life-altering moments that like New York, are without equal. Only time will tell, but I have a feeling this isn’t the last New York has heard of me or I of it.

RATING: 8.0/10

Rise and Shine 2: Murray's Bagels

2005-08-09T15:34:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Murray’s Bagels
LOCATION: 500 6th Avenue
DATE: July 30, 2005
FOOD: Multigrain Sesame Bagel with Low-Fat Scallion Cream Cheese, Smoked Salmon, Tomatoes, Capes, and Red Onions
BEVERAGE: Bottled Water
PRICE: $8.00

What’s a visit to New York without at least one bagel? So, when Libby’s sister, Bennett, and her boyfriend, Wayne, came to New York during my last weekend in New York, Saturday began with a trip to Murray’s Bagels.

Continuing on the excellence of my previous two visits, my lox and cream cheese bagel was outstanding, and hands down, the best of my three experiences. The bagel contained its typical hearty sublimetly, the cushy inside offset by the perfect tough, chewy exterior. However, the smoked salmon was what made this visit outshine my others. Nearing the perfection of Russ and Daughter’s expertly cured seafood, Murray’s smoked salmon was fresh and crisp, the type of fish usually found only near fresh water ports. Whereas many smoked salmons are ruined by oversalting, Murray’s had the prefect level of sodium dense luxury. That I could even get low fat scallion cream cheese to enhance the pungent flavors in the salmon, capers, and onions, made this an ideal breakfast. Though being a tour guide is seldom fun, at least in this instance, it meant I got to eat well.

RATING: 8.5/10

Restaurant 60: Alto

2005-08-09T01:01:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Polenta; Gnocchi; Peach Strudel; Guinea Hen.

RESTAURANT: Alto
LOCATION: 520 Madison Ave.
DATE: July 28, 2005
FOOD: Four Course Dinner Prix Fixe: Polenta Integrale – Chanterelle mushrooms, white asparagus, braised lumache & preserved truffles; Potato-Spinach “Stran golapreti” – ricotta and potato gnocchi with rabbit “en civel” shaved parmigiano; Guinea Hen – “poached” breast, roasted leg, foie gras emulsion, speck & haricot verts; Peach Strudel – vanilla custard and fresh blueberries; Additional Cheese Plate: Brunet: goat’s milk – Piedmont crystallized rosemary, apple and pinenuts; Hoch Ybrig: cow’s milk, Ybrig, Switzerland – caraway and shallot marmalade with fennel salad
BEVERAGE: Glass of Proseco; Split a bottle of red wine
PRICE: $145.00

L’Impero wasn’t enough. For, Scott Conant, all heady youth, ambition dripping like purified olive oil, it was time to make the next jump. He wanted his fourth star. Thus, Alto was born, a restaurant set on transforming Italian food by adding the influences of German cuisine.

And by all accounts, Conant is close – close but still not quite there.

Alto has all the trappings of the traditional four stars: smooth, knowledgeable service; creative presentation; a menu with as many languages and cultural influences as Mario Batali has restaurants. Yet, Alto is still young, still in need of the refinement only time and countless repetitions can bring.

The four course dinner prix fixe is a bargain by New York standards at $72. Including three savory courses and a dessert, it follows the same model Conant made popular at L’Impero. However, it’s not just the two menu’s structures that show similarities; the offerings also nod towards one another. At L’Impero, Conant’s polenta with mushrooms has become the stuff of legends. At Alto, he adjusts the dish, adding escargot, truffles and white asparagus, while maintaining the brilliant coupling of grain and mushroom. Alto’s polenta appetizer was soft and fluffy, delicious and complex. When a bite took in all the dish’s ingredients, the taste was magnificent, the earthy chew of the mushrooms mixing with the saltiness of snail and polenta to dazzling effect. Yet, the polenta itself lacked the creamy resplendence to stand on its own which made L’Impero’s polenta as memorable as it was. At Alto, the whole worked, but the components equaled something far less great.

The same frustrating case of stunted development hindered the gnocchi course from reaching its full explosiveness. The large, spinach gnocchi were sensational on their own. So too, the tender meat of the rabbit. But while deconstructed dishes may be all the rage, at least for a pasta course, its better to build than tear down. With a presentation evoking sushi, the gnocchi was a disparate blend of flavors. A more traditional cohesion of the rabbit and gnocchi (and a sauce of some kind instead of shaved parmigiano) would have reduced the austerity and seeming overly ornate-ornateness of the potato dumplings. Whereas with the polenta individual aspects needed to be improved to survive on their own, with the gnocchi it was the cohesion that was lacking.

However, when it came to the guinea hen, Conant left no reason to question his methods. Inverting the traditional roasted chicken, Conant injected the guinea hen with a stuffing of almonds and currants before covering it in a foie gras foam, the taste of which are testimony enough of the chef’s prestigious talents. Cloudlike in texture, the emulsion was densely packed with a rich and intriguing smokiness. As he did with the rabbit in the gnocchi course, Conant mixed light and dark meats of the same bird, presenting the diner with an entire spectrum of flavors in the same dish.

The peach strudel was the only true disappointment of the evening. Sweet and enjoyable, it was far too simple for a restaurant attempting to push the boundaries of traditional cuisine. It was the type of excellent strudel easily found at unassuming German restaurants throughout the city or any Milwaukee bakery. But, with the bar set high during the rest of the meal, it was a let down for dessert to be so normal.

And as convivial as the service was, there are still kinks at Alto no four star restaurant would and can permit. One instance occurred when the cheese course was brought at the same time as dessert, with a complete disregard for adequate spacing. It meant either the ice cream melted or the cheese, better prior to dessert than after, had to wait until later.

So Alto isn’t there yet. It may have the petit-fours, but it doesn’t have the grace of a Le Bernardin or the class of a Per Se. Conant is trying to scale a German sized Alp and is having some technical difficulties on the way to the apex. But if Conant’s success at L’Impero is any indication, there’s little doubt that given a little time, Alto will start rising to the heights its name suggests. And who knows what Conant will think to do then.

RATING: 8.0/10

Restaurant Remix 3: Babbo

2005-08-03T22:49:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Warm lamb's tongue; Duck tortelli; Italian cheesecake; Pappardelle with pork ragu.

RESTAURANT: Babbo
LOCATION: 110 Waverly Place
DATE: July 26, 2005
FOOD: Sauteed Chickpeas (complimentary); Warm Lamb's Tongue Vinaigrette with Hedgehogs, and a 3-Minute Egg,; Roasted Potatoes; Spaghettini with Spicy Budding Chives, Sweet Garlic and a One Pound Lobster; Pappardelle with Pork Ragu; Homemade Orecchiette with Sweet Sausage and Rapini; Duck Tortelli with “Sugo Finto”; Italian Ricotta Cheesecake.
BEVERAGE: Split a bottle of red wine; Decaf Cappuccino
PRICE: $81.00

Is it possible to over-eat a good thing? Is it possible that the pleasure and excitement of a particular restaurant’s food will be lessened if dined upon one too many times? In the case of Babbo, the answer is clearly, unequivocally, and a forthrightly screamed NO! Unless you were born sans pasta taste buds, Babbo’s cuisine is like the Bloc Party and Rolling Stones albums that play in the restaurant, in that both the food and the music never get old.

Danny and his friend Brian joined Alex and I for a pasta tasting menu of our own creation. However, before we sampled semolina like it was our jobs, we started with the appetizer Danny had been fascinated with for weeks. The warm lamb’s tongue vinaigrette was every bit as evocative, singular and palate shattering as we’d hoped it be. The lamb’s tongue tasted more like mushrooms than meat, the tongue so tender that chewing really wasn’t required. Once the gushing yoke of the quail egg had been released by the prick of my fork, an entire new element of creamy richness was added to the more subtle acidic fangs of the vinaigrette. As a whole, the dish certainly ranks up there as not only one of the most unique appetizers in my New York dining experience, but also as one of the best.

However, we had come for pasta and it was pasta we would have. Like one of Umberto Eco’s monks in The Name of the Rose desperately trying to avoid the temptation of the flesh, so too did I ward off the desire to once again revel in the majesty of the black spaghetti and beef cheek ravioli that Danny, Alex, and Brian split. My restraint was rewarded by the tastes of four previously untried pastas. The first, the duck tortelli, was an amazing take on meat filled ravioli. The overly fatty nature of duck was well utilized in the tortelli, as in such specific amounts, the duck’s fascinating mix of poultry and lamb flavors was allowed to shine through. The tomato base saucing was superb and of course, the pasta itself was as soft and pliant as an Italian maiden’s bosom (or at least what I would assume an Italian maiden’s bosom would feel like, having never experienced it myself, I can only guess, which is a sad reality, an oh, so, so sad reality).

Next came the spaghettini with a full pound lobster. Possessed by the same spicy complexity that makes the black spaghetti such a successful mix of ingredients, the budding chives and heavily applied garlic combined to make the pasta just as decadent as fresh lobster dripped in butter, but with an edge. It would be hard to imagine lobster better used in pasta. Just as masterful was the pappardelle with pork ragu, the lasagna like noodles providing the wide berth needed to support the density of the stewed pork. Like all of Batali’s dishes, the meat was astoundingly prepared and when topped with grated cheese the sensation was pure bliss.

Last, but certainly not least was the orecchiette with sweet sausage and rapini. Anytime a dish is composed of three ingredients that are heavenly on their own, it’s a good bet the combination will end in a collaboration of momentous affect. The rapini had a lovely garlic hue, while the sweet sausage merged sublimely with the sugar of the tomatoes. Contrasting all the soft textures was the firm, chewy nature of the orecchiette, served authentically al dente. As we polished every last trace of pasta from the plates before us, it was only natural to sit back and gasp at the wonder we had experienced. Mario just continues to amaze.

While none of us were hungry at that point, in what seemed an effort to prolong the meal and keep the evening from ending, we ordered a round of desserts. My selection, the Italian ricotta cheesecake was exactly how cheesecake should be. Instead of the American version in which the over application of cream cheese leads to an inducement of stomach turning gravity, Babbo’s cheesecake was more like composed whipped cream. The fresh strawberries hinted at sabayon and supplied a lighter finish for a night filled with the hearty satisfaction only luminous pasta (and there’s none been than Babbo’s) can bring.

Even after two visits within two weeks, I still wanted to go to Babbo again. But while this desire will have no capacity to be quelled any time in the near future, I’m at least mildly contented by the fact that I tried all the pastas on the menu that intrigued me most. Hopefully by the next time I’m in New York, Mario will have let his creative side out once again, and there will be plenty of new raptures to try. Until then, mangia on Mario. Mangia on.

RATING: 10/10

Book 17: Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, by Jonathan Safran Foer (Infinite Feast XXII)

2005-08-03T12:21:00.000-04:00

Hardcover: 368 pages
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin (April 4, 2005)

After he published Catch-22 in 1961 until his death in 1999, the duration of Joseph Heller’s literary career was spent trying to live up to the notoriety and achievement of his first novel. Critics generally only offered back-handed, watered down compliments, always engaging in a comparison to his first masterpiece.

Such situations are not uncommon to any artistic field, least of all the literary community. Thus, that just three years after he garnered world-wide acclaim for Everything is Illuminated, 26 year old and Brooklyn resident Jonathan Safran Foer published his second novel is at once an extremely courageous and an incredibly naïve move. The novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, has all the same humor and pseudo avant-garde stylistics that made his first novel so successful. In fact, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is probably exactly what most of Foer’s fans sought from him – but it was exactly what he shouldn’t have given them.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close follows the impertinent but loveable Oskar Schell, a nine-year old whose business card lists his occupations as inventor, jewelry designer, jewelry fabricator, amateur entomologist, Francophile, vegan, origamist, pacifist, percussionist, amateur astronomer, computer consultant, and collector of rare and other things. That Oskar is a jack of all trades but master of none is an appropriate metaphor for Foer’s novel as a whole: just as his character dabbles in everything but excels at nothing, so does Foer produce a inconsistent and at times frustrating second effort that will leave casual readers smiling, while more demanding readers will be left wondering if Foer has regressed, bought too much into his own hype, or if Everything Is Illuminated wasn’t that good to begin with.

Oskar’s father died in the 9/11 World Trade Center terrorist act. The novel rotates around Oskar’s unmitigated pain at the loss and his search to find some way to keep the memory of his father alive. He begins a search across all of New York in an attempt to hunt down the answer to a mysterious key he finds hidden in his father’s closet. Along the way he meets a host of magical realistic characters, some of which are charming and endearing, while others are just downright annoying.

That inconsistency is the greatest flaw of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. The same schizophrenia that overwhelms Oskar’s thoughts so too consumes Foer’s writing. The novel at times is extremely entertaining and incredibly moving, as when Oskar hits on an older woman or throws in random French phrases accrued from his private lessons. But the novel is undercut by a conventional and predictable plot, replete with sappy storylines, melancholic indulgences and a general bogarting of the 9/11 tragedy’s power for its own sentimental artistic means. There’s a disingenuous sub-thread running through the novels pages that a good editor would have picked out.

Foer throws in literary allusions like he’s name dropping at an exclusive night club. Oskar is clearly an homage to the lead character of Gunter Grass’s Tin Drum, but did Foer’s Oskar really have to carry a tambourine everywhere he went to mimic Grass’s drum playing renegade? Haphazard touches like this abound in Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and it causes the reader to wonder whether Foer is paying homage to literary forerunners, or just self-promoting himself as extremely well-read and incredibly smart. There’s no deftness to the allusions, only a hodge-podge of rather loosely related references.

But the allusions would only be a minor detraction if the rest of the novel were better. And while Foer certainly uses mixed-media effectively in some places, he’s often too cute by half and much less original than he realizes. Yes the novel is broken up with pictures of everything from the collapse of the towers to the Staten Island Ferry crash, and these splices often carry great emotional gravity, but Ishmael Reed did the same thing in a much more inventive way in Mumbo Jumbo, all the way back in 1971. And Foer seems to throw some pictures in at random. What made Everything Is Illuminated so delightful was that Foer was able to create his own atmosphere and emotion. In Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, its certainly questionable whether we feel for Oskar because Foer’s writing evokes us to, or because the 9/11 event is so charged with emotion on its own.

There are historical sideshows as well, which seem forced and heavy handed. Oskar’s grandparents survived the Dresden bombing and therefore, this enables Foer to link 9/11 to a grander picture of war as pure futility. Oskar makes a report on Hiroshima to his class as well, yet again invoking another catastrophe. But just as the literary allusions often fell short, so too do these rather historically shallow connectors come up short. In trying to show how all wars are similar in their pointlessness and wasted bloodshed, Foer glosses over the differences and complexities of conflict and the world in general, which leave any historically minded reader disappointed and suspect of Foer’s historical veracity. He seems more committed to writing a book fit for Hollywood production, than a well researched and thoroughly thought out narrative. At moments, Foer seems to be pandering to a Ron Howard like audience, ready for the next uplifting, Beautiful Mind scene to set them on their way.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is certainly worth reading and any frustration towards Foer comes only out of the fact that he is indeed an extremely talented and incredibly gifted writer. But just as The Life Aquatic revealed aspects of Wes Anderson’s aesthetic that were false and rather sappy, so too does Foer’s second novel reveal a tendency to rely more on gimmick than substance. Whereas Heller produced many novels after Catch-22 that were art in their own-right, hopefully Foer will exceed the promise of Everything Is Illuminated and progress into all new literary territory. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close shows that he’s standing still at the moment, but his youth gives ample grounds for thinking he might fully reach his future promise.

Restaurant Remix 2: Veselka

2005-08-03T02:05:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Veselka
LOCATION: 144 2nd Avenue
DATE: July 24, 2005
FOOD: Deluxe Meat Combination Plate (with substitutions) – Cup of Lentil Soup; Salad; 1 Meatless Stuffed Cabbage; Grilled Kielbasa; 1 Spinach and Cheese, 1 Sweet Potato, 1 Sauerkraut and Mushroom Pierogies. Dessert – Pear, Blueberry and Almond Tart a la Mode; Sticky Bun; Chocolate Cupcake.
BEVERAGE: Tap Water; Decaf Coffee
PRICE: $29.00

Old habits die hard. Or perhaps, old habits are really old friends and they shouldn’t die at all. While new experiences are all well and good, when it comes to comfort food, especially late night comfort food, novelty just isn’t an option. Thus, while a disappointing Bigos experience had left me wondering whether to return to Veselka, my late night standby, in the end, I knew I couldn’t leave New York without one more trip to the 24 hour East Village Ukranian.

Veselka deserved another chance. It had provided more than enough memories to warrant my forgiveness. From our first drunken gorging, to less intoxicated discussions on life’s complexities, to more drunken binges (including one following a meal at WD-50 that would be impossible for me to forget), Veselka has been Danny and my stand-by, the place we affectionately refer to as “our place”. Outsiders have accompanied us, but on our final visit, it was only the two of us and all our New York reminiscences.

On such a memory ridden, and somewhat bittersweet occasion, I had no intention of ordering anything new. I was returning to my Veselka favorites – the hearty Ukranian fare that sticks to the ribs and lasts even the longest of winters. I might not be a hunter (and have ideological qualms with the activity in general), but that wasn’t going to stop me from eating like one.

So with all the difficulty of Meg Ryan’s Sally in When Harry Met Sally, I ordered the Deluxe Meat Combination Plate, only to substitute until all of the beef items had been replaced by their corresponding vegetable renditions (I wanted the kielbasa – somehow pork is okay). I was bringing in scabs, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was that the job of feasting got done.

The lentil soup starter was thick, only lightly salted, and most importantly, fresh. Unlike canned lentil soups (Progresso, I’m looking in your direction) Veselka’s soup could in no way be called watery. The house salad, with a tangy lemon and dill vinaigrette was equally simple and equally delicious. It was the type of no nonsense cuisine that endeared Veselka to me in the first place.

But then came the gist of the order. A meatless stuffed cabbage, covered in white mushroom gravy, was a viable alternative to its meat filled cousin. The cabbage was crisp instead of limpid, the rice and ground vegetable filling creating a surprisingly light take on a dish traditionally as heavy as Ukranian snowfall. The kielbasa was tender with a crusty skin providing a pleasant chew. And of course, the pierogies, the tasty dumplings that Veselka seems to do better than anyone else. The sweet potato is perhaps the best, an unadulterated filling complimenting its familial, unsweetened brethren, used as the wrapping.

However, the meal was far from over. Ever since our first visit last June, Veselka has gained in stature in the minds of both Danny and myself largely because of its desserts. Pierogies are all well and good, but a dumpling can’t touch my sweet tooth fit for a saber-toothed tiger. Thus, in accordance with so many past gluttonies come and gone, I ordered a three course dessert mania that would have left even Jacques Torres speechless. I had tried the banana and vanilla cupcakes on previous Veselka splurges, but the chocolate cupcake surpassed both of these for moistness and flavor. The icing had the perfect restrained sweetness I desire in a cupcake. And as the night was about old friends, I found great solace in the sticky bun, lacquered with enough pecans to make a pie, the pastry, akin to the cupcake, was soft and moist. The caramel coating was sugary enough to be a dessert, but mild enough for breakfast. But the hands down winner of the impromptu dessert competition was the pear and blueberry tart, an unexpected innovative turn from the Veselka bakery. While the blueberries should have been better integrated into the rest of the tart’s damp, fruity texture, the tart was half cake, half pie, and completely wonderful.

Thus, while it might have been our last visit to Veselka, it was one of the best. Even as melancholy feelings melted within me like the ice cream a la mode on my tart, I was heartened that Veselka was there, everyday, 24 hours a day, open and consistent. It might take a while for me to get back to New York, but oddly, its reassuring to know that no matter where I am, Veselka will be open and waiting for one more late night bout of revelry.

RATING: 7.8/10

Tour 5: Sandwich World Tour

2005-07-29T16:20:00.000-04:00

Row 1: Eisenberg's; Turkey Reuben; Tony Luke's
Row 2: Tony Luke's Pork Italian; 5 Ninth's Cubano; 5 Ninth's Banh Mi
Row 3: Caracas; Chopiarepa; Comeflor Arepa

As Sandwich World Tour ended up being one of my favorite food adventures in New York, I figured I’d review it in the form of one of my favorite poems. Thanks Eliot.

"The Love Song of S. Wich Rockefeller"

Let us go then, Danny and I,
While the morning is spread across the sky,
Like a sandwich sliced on a cutting board.
Let us go, through less than deserted streets,
The enticing treats
Of restless tours in this great city,
And sandwich restaurants costing less than ten fifty:
Treats that follow like a brilliant argument
Of delicious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visits.

In the classic sandwich shop the clients come and go
Talking of sandwiches made nice and slow.

SANDWICH ONE
RESTAURANT: Eisenberg’s Sandwich Shop
LOCATION: 174 Fifth Ave Ste 1
SANDWICH: Split a Turkey Reuben
PRICE: $4.50

The sauerkraut fog that rubs its back upon the rye bread panes,
The sliced turkey that rubs its muzzle on the rye bread panes
I licked my tongue into the corners of the seasoning,
Lingered upon the excess salt that was a bit of a drain,
Let fall upon my tongue the Swiss that comes from cows,
Slipped between the turkey and kraut, but couldn’t make the leap,
And seeing that it was only of mediocre might,
We only ate half as there were miles to go before we could sleep.

RATING: 6.0/10

SANDWICH TWO
RESTAURANT: Tony Luke’s
LOCATION: 576 9th Ave
SANDWICH: Split a Pork Italian
PRICE: $5.50 (with bottled water)

And indeed there was time
To walk the long distance to 9th Avenue where it crosses 42nd street,
Even in the hot sun, Tony Luke’s was worth the pains;
There was time, there was time
To prepare a Pork Italian like nothing else you could eat;
There will be time to indulge and salivate,
And time for all the broccoli rabe to cover your hands
That lift and drop the sandwich on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a sliced pork decisions,
And for a hundred dreams and visions,
Of Tony Luke’s toasty sandwich mastery.

RATING: 8.5/10

Along 9th Avenue the bloggers come and go
Talking of Bahn Mi and Cubanos.

SANDWICH THREE
RESTAURANT: 5 Ninth
LOCATION: 5 9th Ave
SANDWICH: Split a Banh Mi and a Cubano
PRICE: $32.00 (with a margarita)

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I share?”
Time to eat two that are more than fair,
With more spicy red sauced pork prepared with care—
[They will say: “How Nicky’s is better, the real thing!”]
My agreement but 5 Ninth’s is still worth the bling
Do I share
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For Cubanos and infusion which it’s better not to reverse.

For I have known others already, known Cubanos all:—
The pork that fixes you in a contented haze,
And leaves me contented, and far from thin,
When I left 5 Ninth, I decided their Cubano should hang in a hall
Then how could I begin
To spit out all the deliciousness of my days and ways?
And how should I consume?

RATING: 7.5/10

SANDWICH FOUR
RESTAURANT: Caracas Arepa Bar
LOCATION: 91 East 7th Street
SANDWICH: Chopiarepa (Inspired on the "Choripan" (chorizo+baguette), this street delight arepa has grilled chorizos and cheddar cheese; also added plantains); La Comeflor (sautéed mushrooms with leek and aged cheese)
PRICE: $21.00 (with a Chicha Rice Drink and Half a Banana Milkshake)

And I hadn’t known the arepas already, never known them all—
Arepas that are corn crunched and yellow and blair
[But what in the world, nothing else to these do compare!]
It is spicy chorizo and nothing less
That makes me so ingest?
Arepas that lie along a table, or deserve to stand tall.
And should I then consume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have enjoyed arepas stuffed with meats
And watched the cheese that melts, oh what a sight
Or mushroom and leeks, falling out of their arepas windows?…

I should have been a pair of these amazing corn claws
Filling across my stomach, Caracas an infinite please.

RATING: 8.5/10

And the morning, the adventure, sandwiched so peacefully!
Grasped by my fingers,
Breaded … fried … oh it lingers,
Sandwiched forever, here beside Danny and me.
Should I, after Bahn Mi and Cubanos and Pork Slices,
Always want more sandwiches, oh what a crisis!

Restaurant 59: Itzocan Bistro

2005-07-28T13:43:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Pumpkin and shrimp soup; Mushroom crepes; Pork Scallopine; Pear Tarte.

RESTAURANT: Itzocan Bistro
LOCATION: 1575 Lexington Ave. (Upper East Side) at 101st St.
DATE: July 23, 2005
FOOD: Appetizer: Pumpkin and Shrimp Soup with Chipotle Crema Fresca; Entrees: Split the Wild Mushroom Huitlacoche Crepes with Brie and Poblano Crema Fresca; Sauteed Pork Scallopine with Potato Hash and Black Trumpet Mushroom Sauce; Dessert: Ibarra Chocolate Pear Tarte with Goat’s Milk Caramel Sauce.
BEVERAGE: Split a pitcher of Red Sangria
COST: $52.00

You don’t need chips and salsa to be classified as Mexican food. At Itzocan Bistro, near east Harlem on the Upper East Side, meals open with bread and olive oil tableside. It’s a European twist on conventional Mexican dining. A quick glance over the menu reveals Itzocan Bistro bears as much resemblance to a taco stand as Oedipus does to an archetypical father and son. With dishes that include just as much crème fraiche as they do jalapenos, it might not even be proper to call Itzocan Bistro a Mexican restaurant – perhaps its more of a renegade, Francophile cousin.

But familial metaphors are apt. Itzocan Bistro could be called the sister or more mature second child of Itzocan Café, the outstanding East Village four table restaurant of chefs and brothers Anselmo and Fermin Bello. At Itzocan Café, the fare is more traditionally Mexican, though the French accents pervade just as they do at the Bistro. However, at the Bistro, the brothers Bellos have more nakedly revealed their ambitions. Through their Mexican-French fusion cuisine, the brothers set to do for Mexican what so many chefs have done for Asian – elevate it to the level of fine-dining.

This is not to suggest that Itzocan Bistro is fancy or even slightly pretentious. It’s the food that’s fine, while the atmosphere is more barrio than bourgeois, the service more ambiente than mannerly mechanical, and the prices are a far cry from the thirty dollar entrees and fifteen dollar cocktails of many Manhattan establishments. In sum, Itzocan Bistro is the perfect second step in what hopefully will become yet another New York food empire, though this one’s all in the family.

Having spent the last month living on the Upper East Side, it was interesting to go even further north into the nebulous region where the Upper East becomes East Harlem. In a neighborhood otherwise populated by bodegas and housing complexes, Itzocan Bistro sticks out like Geoffrey Firmin drinking in a hacienda of locals in Lowry’s Under the Volcano. The area doesn’t appear to have many other restaurants striving for greatness. But this was fine with Thomas, Danny, and I, as we weren’t concerned with the digs, we were concerned with the food.

All three of us started with an interesting re-imagining of seafood bisque. In lieu of heavy cream, there was crème fraiche. Pumpkin had displaced the standard carrots and leeks. And instead of lobster or a variety of other seafood, the soup had shrimp and shrimp alone. However, even with all the renovations, the soup still tasted mostly of cream. The pumpkin was a bit masked and a slightly annoying inconvenience presented itself when we realized the shrimp weren’t shelled. While this rustic touch would work well in other dishes, in a soup it was messy and unwarranted. Because the shrimp had to be eaten individually, their flavor wasn’t able to fully mesh in with the rest of the soup, which was a shame as otherwise, it was a very satisfying opener, especially due to the jalapeno kick which contrasted well with the smoothness of the cream.

Next, Danny and I split wild mushroom crepes with brie and another dose of crème fraiche. The crepes were hearty enough to be an entrée, but possessed a sprightly earthy taste brought about by the Huitlacoche, or Mexican mushrooms. Brie is perhaps the ideal cheese for crepes and its inherent creaminess added a gooey but measured consistency to the crepes. If the kitchen had showed a bit more restraint with the mushroom and vegetable saucing, the crepes would have been outstanding. But it was still nice to see how well a traditionally French dish could be used for definitely non-French purposes.

However, what made my meal at Itzocan as successful as it was, came down to one course, and one course alone. My entrée, the pork scallopine, is certainly one of the twenty best entrees I’ve had in New York. The pork had been pounded to a beautiful thinness. Whereas the crepes had too much saucing, the black trumpet mushroom gravy covering the pork was applied in the perfect amount. The gravy softened the potato hash hidden beneath the tearfully tender pork, leaving the root vegetables saturated with the same salty excellence of the rest of the meal. Al Di La’s pork saltimboco is the only rendition of pig that comes compares to the mastery of Itzocan Bistro’s scallopine.

If the pork had been Acapulco, dessert was Oaxaca, a diverse blend of old and new influences. The pear tarte was shockingly savory and nearly devoid altogether of sugar taste. Closer to a minced meat pie than chocolate, the Ibarra had the texture of brown sugar and the tang of bitter, unsweetened chocolate. Along with the strange goat’s milk caramel sauce (again lacking in sweetness), the entire dessert was a novel experience. I still haven’t decided if I liked it or not, though I’m certainly glad I ordered it. Like much else at Itzocan Bistro, the pear tarte wasn’t something I could have had elsewhere and my palate is better for the occurrence.

Though no Mexican ancestry courses through my veins, the meal at Itzocan Bistro tasted like home cooking. Perhaps it is best described as the Mexican Rose Water, a place where familiar food is infused with ingredients and panache distinctly Mexican, but prepared with the elegance of French dining. Regardless of the comparisons, Itzocan Bistro has more than enough polish and grace to stand on its own. As great as Itzocan Café is, Itzocan Bistro is a clear sign the Bellos brothers are on their way to becoming legends in this city.

RATING: 8.0/10

Restaurant 58: L&B Spumoni Gardens (Infinite Feast XXII)

2005-07-27T14:15:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: L&B Spumoni Gardens
LOCATION: 2725 86th St., Brooklyn
DATE: July 23, 2005
FOOD: Sicilian Slice; Two Round Slices with Sausage and Mushrooms; Large Cone with Rainbow Spumoni; Large Cup with Peach, Vanilla Chip, and Pineapple Sorbet.
BEVERAGE: Tap Water
PRICE: $10.00

Once upon a time in a city very much like New York, a young man set out on an adventure. Now this young man was not unlike other men his age. In fact, upon meeting him, he probably would not have made all the much of an impression. But regardless of this personality innocuousness, it is this young man that our story concerns.

The young man had traveled all over the city very much like New York searching for the best pizza. He had embarked on a Pizza World Tour, stuffing himself with pizzas from all five boroughs. He had tasted more refined versions of pizza at Una Pizza and Otto. And yet, like all adventurers, he was still unsatisfied. He wanted to try more.

Thus, when he heard of a restaurant in a place not unlike Brooklyn heralded for its Sicilian slices, he decided to journey to the distant land to experience a slice for himself. But the journey was filled with unexpected perils. An express train suddenly ran local. His stomach, inexplicitly, caused him great pains. The moderately warm temperature induced shvitzing all over his body. At certain points, the young man wondered whether he was really cut out for such a quest.

But he persevered. Finally, he arrived at his destination. In the place not unlike Brooklyn, in a locale not at all dissimilar from Bensonhurt, L&B Spumoni Gardens had thrived as an authentic neighborhood Italian restaurant since its founding in 1939. The young man was overwhelmed with excitement and soon forgot the obstacles he had faced during his trek. L&B was large and impressive, three eateries in one, with a take out pizza counter, ice cream stand and sit-down restaurant existing together harmoniously. An muted red awning distinguished L&B from its surroundings.

The young man had traveled with a friend and they decided to eat indoors. The restaurant was filled with boisterous parties of people young and old. Many seemed to be regulars. Many seemed to have had too much pizza in their lives. Their chairs seem to sag beneath them. But, with nary a glance at the rest of the clientele or menu, the young man ordered a Sicilian slice and a round slice, come what may.

The pizza came quickly. The Sicilian looked delicious. He snapped a quick picture to commemorate the meal and then immediately sank his teeth into the slice. Utopia? Revelry?

No. Neither. The slice was good, certainly. But legendary? Definitely not. While the thick, French bread like crust had a rewarding crunch, the sauce and cheese on top was soupy and insipid. It was like meeting the young man for the first time – nothing stood out.

But perhaps the round slice would be better? Before the young man had even take a bite, he was already doubting the prospect. For though he had ordered a sausage and mushroom slice, what he say in front of him, unbelievably in a day and age of near universal fresh produce usage, were (oh the words are hard to even write)…CANNED MUSHROOMS! Salty and limp, they detracted from an otherwise quality slice. The Italian sausage did nothing to help the cause, as boring and lifeless as reading about the young man. The round slice would have been better without the toppings, but he was already full. There was no time left to test his hypothesis.

Fortunately, he consoled himself with dessert. The rainbow spumoni was packed with intense flavors. His favorite was the pistachio, the real nuts added texture to the smoothness of the icy cream. He followed the spumoni with a commendable mix of sorbets. The peach tasted, get this, just like a fresh peach. But he really loved the vanilla chip, chocolate and vanilla not having gone together so well since the invention of the black and white cookie.

All in all then, our young man’s quest had not been in vain. While he might not have found the pizza he was looking for, no adventure is ever worthless. He had learned something about himself, though he had no idea what it was. He boarded a train (again running local) and headed back to the borough not unlike Manhattan from which he had begun, tired, but ready start out again, the next time some food exploring beckoned.

RATING: 6.3/10

Restaurant 57: Le Bernardin

2005-07-26T17:37:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Tuna; Escolar; Salmon; Lobster.

RESTAURANT: Le Bernardin
LOCATION: 155 West 51st Street
DATE: July 22, 2005
FOOD: Chef’s Tasting Menu: Amuse: Lobster in foamed broth; TUNA: Layers of Thinly Pounded Yellowfin Tuna, Foie Gras and Toasted Baguette; Shaved Chives and Extra Virgin Olive Oil; CAVIAR – PASTA: Iranian Osetra Caviar on a Nest of Tagliolini, Quail Egg and Bacon Carbonara Sauce; ESCOLAR: Hawaiian Escolar Slowly Poached in Extra Virgin Olive Oil; Petite Salad of Lettuce Hearts and Tomato Confit (Served Rare); LOBSTER: Baked Lobster; Citrus-Mango Emulsion; Endive and Sheep's Milk Ricotta Gnocchi; WILD SALMON: Barely Cooked Salmon; Wasabi Pea Purée, Fava Beans, Asparagus in a Yuzu Butter; CODFISH: Pan Roasted Codfish, Sautéed Baby Artichokes, Pistachio and Parmesan in a Sage and Garlic Perfumed Broth; "EGG": Milk Chocolate Pot de Crème, Caramel Foam, Maple Syrup Maldon Sea Salt; PINEAPPLE – COCONUT: Almond Pain de Gênes, Vanilla-Roasted Pineapple, Coconut Sorbet, Crushed Pistachio; CHOCOLATE-CASHEW Dark Chocolate, Cashew and Caramel Tart, Red Wine Reduction, Banana, and Malted Rum Milk Chocolate Ice Cream
BEVERAGE: Martini; Split two bottles of White Wine; Decaf Cappuccino
PRICE: $285.00

Let the trumpets roar and Poseidon sing! There is glory in the seas once again.

Well truthfully, the glory is actually on the land, but the sea and Poseidon can at least take pride – but not the credit. Chef Eric Ripert deserves that and a whole lot of praise.

Known as New York’s only fine-dining French seafood only restaurant, Le Bernardin had its 4-Star status reaffirmed by the New York Times’ Frank Bruni earlier this year. The review confirmed executive chef Eric Ripert’s standing as one of New York’s premiere culinary minds. While newcomers like Per Se and Masa grab headlines, Ripert has lofted Le Bernardin impeccable reputation with less fanfare and theatrics. But a night with his seafood is just as singular an experience as one with Masa’s sushi or Keller’s “creations”.

Located in the Equitable Building in west midtown, Le Bernardin manages to diffuse the clamor of the hustle-bustle streets outside, generating a tranquil dining room, artistically decorated with post-impressionism styled paintings of French beaches. Huge bouquets of exotic flavors are the only atmospheric hint of the diversity and artistry parceled within the seafood fare to come. While a four course prix-fixe is available, the chef’s tasting menu, consisting of six fish courses and two desserts afforded the greatest opportunity to sample as much of Ripert’s genius as possible. Ripert’s fish is incredibly fresh, so fresh in fact, that many of the dishes are served rare to fully exemplify this quality. It is this for which the patrons flock.

The meal began with a lovely and pliant lobster, covered in a dainty foam emulsion, the ethereal presentation an ideal way to ease the diner into the tasting menu. But as the taste of the lobster receded, the tuna was propelled onto the stage. With a construction that made it perhaps the most pictorial fish course of the evening, a blanket of paper thin yellow tail provided concealment for a bed of foie gras and toasted baguette hidden beneath. It was a tremendous combination of flavors, as rich as steak, but with a delicacy distinctly fish. The foie gras was a surprisingly apt pair for the yellowtail; its creaminess acting almost like a sauce for the otherwise sparsely adorned tuna. A dusting of chives gave the raw tuna a maki framing that captured the true essence of the yellowtail.

But immediately following the tuna was perhaps the most “Per Se” inspired course of the night – and perhaps the best course as well. In what Keller might have called “Eggs and Bacon”, Ripert constructed a magnificent pasta dish designed to showcase unbelievably delicious Iranian caviar. Tagliolini noodles came mixed in classic Carbonara sauce of eggs, cream, and butter, but wisely touched up with bacon. On top of the pasta was a poached quail egg, which was itself topped with the aforementioned dollop of black caviar. The arrangement was like listening to Miles Davis play the trumpet – bold and soulful and completely unlike anything else. The saltiness of the bacon and caviar played off one another instead of clashing, while the creaminess of the poached quail egg matched that of the Carbonara sauce. That Ripert serves such masterful pasta, despite his French background, is only further cause to extol his abilities.

A Hawaiian white fish known as Escolar was next. Though having the appearance of chalk, the fish tasted the opposite of dry, its fatty cohesiveness more like a pate than seafood. Coupled with a parmesan influenced salad, the Escolar, was pleasurable without being outstanding, though this had more to do with the type of fish and not its preparation. Escolar is clearly a fish some will love while others will find less satisfying, its unique milky texture not something to be entered into lightly.

However, there was nothing odd about the lobster course. Lobster is too often like the crime thriller genre of literature – often attempted, but rarely put forth with success. For every treasured rethinking of the genre, like Jonathan Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn, there are countless Janet Evanovich dumbed-down offerings. Of course, Ripert’s lobster was no Mary Higgins Clark. In a brash snub to convention and to the earlier lobster amuse, Le Bernardin’s bathed its lobster course in a vermillion citrus-mango emulsion that would have had Jean Georges fans drooling. But the petite squares of goat’s milk gnocchi set the dish into previously unattained orbits. Every inch of the tender lobster meat was infused with flavor but one completely different than that of the ricotta like gnocchi. The cross cultural nature of the dish was sublime and instead of confusion from such diversity, there was only harmonious exchange.

In a rare turn of convention, the wild salmon was supplemented with fava beans, wasabi peas and asparagus, a pairing that has become common throughout the city. However, this takes nothing aware from the delicious nature of Le Bernardin’s dish, which focused on drawing out every last ounce of flavor in the fish. Ripert succeeded at this and the greens worked well as added texture and layering.

Instead of going out with a whimper, the fish courses ended with a bang. The cod, simple and accented with a savory semi-clear broth was astonishing. The fish was seared expertly, with a flush, un-flaky core not usually associated with white fish. The broth and parmesan cheese added a sublime suggestion of saltiness. It’s only rival would be the cod of the Modern, which used chorizo, a luxury Ripert did not allow himself. Instead, like so much at Le Bernardin, it was the fish and fish alone that was the main concern and for this Ripert should be commended. The fish is treated with as much respect as Raymond Queneau treated his title character in Zazie on the Metro. The cod was the type of dish a kitchen can build its entire reputation on. At Le Bernardin, it was just one of many masterpieces.

One might almost expect the desserts to lag behind in a restaurant so uniformly concentrated on seafood. Fortunately, this was not the case. The “Egg” was one of the best desserts to be had anywhere in the city. Ornately plated and with the austere appearance of a Rothko canvas, a brown egg came filled with crème, maple syrup and caramel. The ingredients were layered so that spooning into the egg was like Indiana Jones digging for buried treasure. Each stage provided yet another flavor of sweetness to indulge in.

The main dessert, or in actuality, desserts, were just as impressive. Having requested a substitution of the Chocolate-Cashew for the Pineapple-Coconut on the Chef’s menu, instead the customer-friendly staff brought both. Even at the end of such a luxurious meal, it was impossible not to finish each of the two plates. The Chocolate-Cashew was proof that chocolate and nuts should always come together and beautifully compliment by the Whoppers like malted ice cream. The Pineapple-Coconut consisted of a caramelized roasted pineapple and an almond cake that subtlety buttressed the fruit. All in all, it was a welcome and precipitous wonder that the desserts lived up to the fish. Yet another reason Le Bernardin is one of the five four stars in this city.

The service was well trained, their timing on presenting dishes in unison a paradigm of orchestration, akin to watching preeminent dancers perform their art. Though Le Bernardin might possess a degree of stuffiness at lunch, when wealthy businessmen fill its seats, during a Friday night dinner, the vibe was relaxed. There was a buzz amongst the tables whereas at Jean Georges, the feel was more mausoleum or library than joyous dining experience. Again, Ripert deserves credit for deftly maneuvering between formality and casual, somehow straddling the line perfectly.

The night at Le Bernardin is one it’d be inconceivable to imagine forgetting. Every detail is noticed, every possible demand of diners met before the words are uttered. Eric Ripert takes fish and redefines it in his image. After such a meal, even Poseidon himself would probably be inclined to begin a hagiography of Ripert’s craft. Le Bernardin sets the diner to sea and there’s nothing fishy about it.

RATING: 10/10

Book 16: The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood (Multitude of Drops 2)

2005-07-26T12:41:00.000-04:00

Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Anchor; 1st Anchor Books ed edition (March 16, 1998)

Religious fanaticism reaches an extreme. America’s leaders become more and more conservative in their moral views. The rights of women, minorities, and homosexuals are at first lessened and subsequently removed altogether. An uncontrollable outside enemy, Islamic in its origin, is a threat used to justify the tightened laws and displaced freedoms.

It’s a description that sounds eerily familiar and yet Margaret Atwood wasn’t describing contemporary Bush America, but rather the future state of Gilead, the society in which her Handmaid’s Tale takes place. In the grand tradition of Huxley, Bradbury, and Orwell, Atwood creates a dystopia in which men have completely subjugated women, making the latter mere child-bearing vessels for a culture desperately using religion to at justify its own existence and turn in upon itself. Written in the 1980s, at the peak of Reagan era Christian conservatism, Handmaid’s Tale successfully invokes the image of a society in which a corrupted view of religion becomes the basis for an entire nation of broken up families, government censorship, and legalized rape.

The novel is the first hand account of Offred, a woman forced to be a Handmaid in Gilead. Handmaid’s are birthing machines, with no rights or freedoms, other than the right to have the children of the Commanders, the men who control the society. The Commanders have wives, but these women are long past being able to give birth. So instead, to counteract a dwindling population, decimated by environmental disasters, Handmaid’s are the sole hope for the future. Offred is as much a character as a woman in her position can be. Her role in society is strictly to produce – beyond that she is of no use, and the greater the anonymity of her persona, the smoother her life will be. There is no way to fight those in charge. Any protest leads to death or deportation to a distant wasteland and a lifetime of disposing of nuclear spillage.

But though the leaders of Gilead try to indoctrinate her, Offred cannot forget her past life – her husband Luke, her hippy mother, her daughter. It is these memories she clings onto as the single motivating force keeping her from suicide. Even as her resistance wilts and she foresees the future generations in which any type of different life will have been forgotten, Offred tries to remain some vestige of her old self. Though dystopian novels usually suffer from underdeveloped characters, Atwood masterfully makes Offred a complete person, one which the reader comes to care about, only furthering the affect of her disturbing story.

Atwood’s ability is only rivaled by her achievement. The Handmaid’s Tale, perhaps more so than any other novel of its kind, illuminates the way culture and morality are entirely relativistic concepts. While President Bush may wage war between his good and evil duality, reality, as Atwood shows us, is far more complicated. The Commanders argue Gilead allows women to live better than before, as the fairer sex no longer has to worry about being sexually objectified, exploited in pornography, or raped against their will. The irony of the situation is obvious to the reader. When rape becomes a government endorsed program, women no longer have the capability to exert a will for the act to be against. When criminality becomes legality, to what authority can the oppressed appeal? Morality and religion are tools of the government used to serve their own ends. But even as the reader realizes this, he is required to ask himself about his own society and the very things Gilead rails against. Contemporary society treats women as objects, just in a different way from the members of Gilead. It is up to the reader to decide which state is more desirable. Atwood craftily leaves her tale ambiguous and open-ended, many more questions posed than answered.

Language, all its possibilities, all its power of persuasion and domination, ripples through Atwood’s pages like a motor boat’s wake. As in other dystopias, most memorably Orwell’s 1984, language is both a tool of repression and a possible means for reaching the salvation of freedom. Atwood plays constantly with her words. The signal to the reader comes immediately in Offred’s name, signifying both her position in society as being “of – Fred” or Fred’s (the Commander’s) Handmaid and yet simultaneously indicating Offred’s hatred of and tenuous position within the society. All Handmaid’s are required to wear red dresses (along with confining white headgear), and thus Offred’s name can be seen as an emblem of the way she is internally removed from the future America in which she is forced to suffer. Her soul is certainly off red in color.

Atwood writes in a terse style, though Biblical allusions abound in her prose. Hers is an accessible, yet deeply complicated and layered narrative, fitted with just enough ironic black humor to keep the reader from complete depression. One does not have the sense Atwood is a writer consumed by hatred of her subject, though her objection to the material is clear. But she lays out the possible dilemmas and problems of conservative Christianity taken to its extremes with a level and measured tone. In a contemporary America is which “Culture Wars” wage and close-mindedness and fear of difference is preached by all those in power, The Handmaid’s Tale still resonates long after the Reagan era of its publication. Atwood’s conceived society is pertinent today not only as a reminder of how power corrupts and morality is flexible, but also as an aesthetic powerhouse seldom equaled in literature of any kind.

Restaurant 56: Philoxenia

2005-07-25T15:56:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Spanakopitakia; Taramosalata; Chicken Slouvaki; Feta Cheese Special.

RESTAURANT: Philoxenia
LOCATION: 26-18 23rd Avenue (26th Street), Astoria, Queens
DATE: July 19, 2005
FOOD: Split the following appetizers: Taramosalata (Carp roe caviar spread); Feta Cheese Special (broiled feat cheese with peppers, tomatoes, and olives); Spanakopitakia (Spinach Pie); Entrée: Chicken Soulvaki with French Fries and Sauteed Dandelions; Yogurt with Grapes and Honey (complimentary)
BEVERAGE: Half Carafe of House White Wine
PRICE: $23.00

Philoxenia is the Greek word for hospitality or “love of visitors”. So it seems only logical that a restaurant deciding to use the word as it’s name would be situated in a two story house, complete with a charming fence and outdoor patio, in a homey Astoria neighborhood. Such a setting exudes a “make yourself at home” quality that causes a diner to do just that – relax, sprawl in a chair, and kick back with some inexpensive wine($2.50 for a glass, $5.00 for a half-carafe).

Dionysia Germani, the owner, sometime chef, sometime waitress of Philoxenia, seems to embody the essence of hospitality in and of herself. She floats around the restaurant, paying careful attention to the customers, always ensuring that every empty water glass is filled, every request or substitution is met. If you’re Greek, there’s the possibility you may mistake her for your aunt, as such attentiveness is seldom extended to strangers in Manhattan restaurants.

The food at Philoxenia is just as traditional and comforting as the environs. While nothing is spectacular, the food is consistently good and affordable, the type of food experience it’s easy to walk away from feeling satisfied.

Crusty buttered bread, served warm and topped with oregano, begins the meal. A wide range of hot and cold appetizers open a lengthy menu compiled with English definitions for Greek dishes. This user-friendly touch allows diners to always know what they’re getting in for before ordering.

The baby pink taramosalata, a spread of caviar roe, was airier and less garlicky than at Taverna Kylcades and Pylos. While enjoyable, it was almost too slight in stature, as wispy as the gender ambiguous Cal in Jeffrey Eugenides Middlesex is while a young boy/girl. However, there is nothing insubstantial about the spanakopitakia, delicious triangles of spinach and feta cheese wrapped tautly in phyllo dough. A welcome twist on conventional spinach pie, Philoxenia’s had a full layer of feta cheese inside the flaky crust. It made the turnovers creamier than versions in which the spinach and cheese is fully mixed.

But both roe dip and spinach pie are to Greek food what hamburgers and French fries are for American restaurants – their ubiquity can often result in a desire for something new, some Greek dish not available at every corner deli. Philoxenia’s broiled feta cheese special is the perfect solution for those seeking the untried. Broiled with tomatoes, olives, green peppers and spices, the feta cheese is served unpretentiously, wrapped in the very tin foil in which it simmered. It’s an outstanding way to eat heated cheese, as unlike fried haloumi or other Greek cheeses, the broiled feta was lacking in excess grease (one pun per review) and oil. The chicken slouvaki was the only major disappointment of the meal, tough and slightly bland, it failed to achieve the level of marinated succulence of chicken kebabs elsewhere. However, the cheese and oregano covered French fries and sweet and sultry wilted dandelions helped make up for the dry chicken.

In one final act of the aforementioned Greek hospitality, at Philoxenia, meals end with a bountiful portion of honey covered Greek yogurt and grapes. Smooth and light, the yogurt concluded a meal at once both cheering in its fare and its surroundings. With a price-tag far smaller than many lackluster Greek restaurants in Manhattan, Philoxenia might not be the best Greek in Astoria, but it might just be the best way to feel like you’re eating at home, even when you can’t.

RATING: 7.0/10

Just Desserts 13: ChikaLicious

2005-07-22T14:20:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: ChikaLicious
LOCATION: 203 E 10th St.
DATE: July 17, 2005
DESSERT: Amuse – Caramel Gelee with Apricot Sorbet; Dessert – Warm Chocolate Tart with Pink Peppercorn Ice Cream and Red Wine Sauce; Petit Fours – Banana Cake; Lemon Espresso Chocolate; Coconut Marshmallow
BEVERAGE: Tap Water
PRICE: $16.00

A letter to Don and Chika Tillman, owners of ChikaLicious, a dessert bar in the East village that in actuality will never be sent, but which makes for a more interesting review than the usual formulaic stuff Rockefeller churns out, or if it doesn’t quite fit the level of “interesting” is at least a little less mundane…

Dear Don and Chika-

Don, I don’t know how proprietary you are, and I hope I’m not stepping on any toes by saying this, but you got one hell of a chica there in Chika (I’m sure I’m not the first to make this rather regrettable pun). Her desserts are outrageously delicious. Honestly, how have you not gained 200 pounds living with her? If I were you (which I think we’re both happy I’m not), I’d just pull a stool up at the bar every afternoon starting at three and eat my way through the entire menu. I mean, I’m sure it’s nice working with your wife and waiting on your devoted clientele, but wouldn’t it be better to just indulge your sweet tooth day after day? Maybe I’m just a glutton, but that’s what I’d do. I mean Chika worked at Gramercy Tavern for god’s sake, she knows what she’s doing.

Chika, wow, you’re amazing. I’ve dined at ChikaLicious twice now (though I’ve come and left when the wait has been too long at five other times as well) and both times were unforgettable. This visit I had the warm chocolate tart. I loved the way you contrasted the abrasiveness of the peppercorns with the sweetness of the ice cream. Your creativity is commendable to say the least. The red wine sauce was also an elegant companion to the richness of the chocolate and I wish more restaurants would use this type of saucing in their desserts. The best of the petit fours, in my opinion, was the banana cake. The only problem was it tasted so delightful, I wanted it to be another full course of dessert rather than a tiny sampling. But that’s not really your fault now is it? Well I mean, it is, but only in the good sense of fault. Libby had the cherry soup (what I ordered on my first visit) and such an innovative and silky dessert can be had at few other places. The cornbread accompaniment provided a beautiful compliment of substantiality to pair with the soup’s delicacy. Libby loved it.

So yeah, I know this letter has been a bit rambling, but I just wanted to thank you for keeping on doing what you’re doing. ChikaLicious is like no other place in New York. I love sitting at the bar and watching Chika prepare the desserts. It feels like I’m in my mom’s or aunt’s kitchen, impatiently awaiting the culinary pleasure to come. ChikaLicious is like having a gourmet chef prepare dessert for you in your own home. So thank you. When I return to New York, I can promise I’ll be returning to ChikaLicious.

Sweetly yours,
Rockefeller

RATING: 8.5/10

Restaurant Remix 1: Tia Pol

2005-07-21T14:34:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Blue Cheese Croquettes; Fava Bean Spread; Mushroom Carpaccio; Tres Salsas.

RESTAURANT: Tia Pol
LOCATION: 205 10th Avenue
DATE: July 17, 2005
FOOD: Split the following: Two orders of Patatas Bravas; Deviled Eggs; Carpaccio of Mushrooms in Olive Oil; Blue Cheese Croquettes; Ham and Cheese Croquettes; Fried Chickpeas; Fava Bean and Pecorino Cheese Spread on Baguette; Tres Salsas (Pepper Spread, Olive Spread, and Lima Bean Spread) with Tomato Basted Baguette
DRINK: Glass of Red Sangria
PRICE: $38.00

TheTasteland’s first review of Tia Pol from April 3, 2005

In a city with as many dining options as New York, it’s not enough to be a flash in the pan (pun definitely intended), one more of many restaurants of the moment, here today, forgotten tomorrow. To accomplish staying power, a restaurant, once reaching a level of prestige, must develop a consistent kitchen, turning towards the technical aspect of cooking by maintaining and building off of past accomplishments. To Kill A Mockingbird is a great novel, but a great novelist Harper Lee is not. One book, like a strong two month stint for a restaurant, does not an undisputed master of an artistic field make.

Thus, three months and hoards of publicity later, that Tia Pol is still creating symphonic Spanish tapas is more than reassuring. The patatas bravas were as addictive and cheesy as in April. The ham and cheese croquettes gushed with the same overflowing indulgence, fried cheese fit for Queen Isabel. And of course, there were the fried chickpeas, crunchily delicious and as salt-ridden as the glass of margarita, but with a light snack quality reminiscent of popcorn.

However, the dishes left untried on the previous visit proved just as impressive. The blue cheese croquettes were the best of the bunch, somehow managing to be even more rewarding than their ham and cheese kin. The fattiness of the oil toned down the inherent sourness of the cheese, the two ingredients forming a balancing act fit for the a high-wire circus. Mushroom carpaccio, a nightly special, illustrated an ability of Tia Pol’s chefs to create food of a more delicate nature. Bathed in fragrant Spanish olive oil and tiny red and yellow peppers, the near translucent mushrooms blossomed like freshly caught seafood on the tongue. Tres salsas of olive, lima bean, and mixed peppers were another outstanding vegetarian option, as was the salty coarseness of the blend of fava beans and pecorino cheese in another spread. Both were hampered by baguette slices which were a bit to tough for the whipped airiness of the spreads. The only real downside of the meal though, were the paprika laden deviled eggs, bitter and over-seasoned. However, it’s much easier to overlook a misstep when it only costs three dollars and when the rest of the meal has been remarkable.

Overall, Tia Pol has continued to expand on its superb beginning. It might be too early to award it the status of New York culinary giant just yet, but it has moved beyond promise and into the realm of achieved expectations. Tia Pol shows all the signs of possessing the stuff legends are made of.

RATING: 8.7/10.0

Restaurant 55: Babbo

2005-07-20T19:52:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Grilled Quail, Roast Potatoes, Sorbet and Gelato Tasting, Maccheroni alla Chitarra.

RESTAURANT: Babbo
LOCATION: 110 Waverly Place
DATE: July 16, 2005
FOOD: Sauteed Chickpeas (complimentary); Buffalo Mozzarella and Basil Caprese; Garganelli with Funghi Trifolati; Maccheroni alla Chitarra with Oven Dried Tomatoes, Red Chiles and Bottarga di Muggine; Black Spaghetti with Rock Shrimp, Chorizo and Green Chilis; Grilled Quail with “Scorzonero alla Romana” and Saba; Side of Roasted Potatoes; Blueberry Crostata with Coconut Gelato; Rhubarb and Sweet Potato Budino with Cinnamon Gelato; Gelato and Sorbet Tasting (including Grapefruit Sorbet, Pistachio Gelato, Hazelnut Gelato, Kiwi Sorbet)
BEVERAGE: Two Quartinos of White Wine; One Quartino of Red
PRICE: $250.00 (for two)

Bravo Mario!

As a precautionary note, I will preface this review by saying that Babbo, after just two visits, is my favorite restaurant. This review will reflect the same glowing disposition I have been left with after my two meals at Babbo.

I doubt there is better pasta made anywhere in New York, maybe even in all of the United States, than the cross-cultural noodles created at Mario Batali’s Babbo. Though it is classified as Italian and for the majority of the dishes this label of nationality is appropriate, Batali’s food draws on influences from all over Mediterranean Europe. Numerous offerings contain the fiery spiciness of Spanish cooking and the desserts have all the refinement of gourmet French. But the overwhelming tendency is indeed towards Batali’s beloved Italy and nowhere is this more evident than in the transcendental and life-altering pasta Babbo has built its reputation on.

While I haven’t had the opportunity to try the entire menu, I’m certain it’s impossible to take a wrong turn anywhere, especially with regards to the pasta. On my first visit in March, Danny, Libby and I split five pastas and each was equally amazing. The Black Spaghetti was the winner of the evening, but the Goat Cheese Tortelloni and Beef Cheek Ravioli left my body in a state of convulsing pleasure, a true food orgasm. This time, having surprised Libby with this unexpected feast, we resolved to focus on untested aspects of the menu. Of course, we still had to order the Black Spaghetti again.

Our first course was Libby’s version of gastronomical heaven – buffalo mozzarella and tomato salad, known in Italian as Caprese. During a summer “studying” in Italy, Libby developed a love of this simple, yet elegant salad that stayed with her long past Florence. While I doubted Babbo could really make a rendition of the dish all that different from everywhere else, Mario, in yet another triumph, completely out did my expectations. First of all, the salad had the appearance of a work of art, the forest green leaves sculpted with holly tree points and fanned on the plate like a sun dial. Fresh tomatoes dotted the leaves like Christmas tree ornaments. But the taste was the true marvel. Rarely does mozzarella achieve this climactic profusion. Drier than most buffalo mozzarellas, Babbo’s was still unbelievably creamy and moist. Its texture was more like the froth on a non-Starbucks cappuccino than cheese. Libby didn’t even need to speak. Her cooing spoke volumes.

But I was ready for the noodles and on this account Mario was able to take my breath away once again. The Garganelli with Funghi Trifolati was perhaps more delicate than any pasta I’ve enjoyed. The weightlessness of the butter and wine sauce, applied with restraint and complimented by fresh grated cheese, was amazing. It was the ideal pair for the chewy earthiness of the mushroom and feathery tubes. The following course brought the Black Spaghetti, which was better than I remembered. Brash chiles and piquant chorizo add a flair to the rich gloss of the squid ink spaghetti. The small shrimp add the final layer making this dish as revelatory as it is. Even Libby, a hater of all things pork, indulgently agreed with the positive assessment of the Black Spaghetti.

Going out on a limb, we also ordered the Maccheroni alla Chitarra. I was expecting Kraft but I got Keller instead. In a take off of shrimp scampi, the thick spaghetti noodles were coated in salty fish flakes and thinly sliced garlic. The taste was at once of summer at the ocean and the heartiness tomato base of winter fortitude. To be able to combine such diverse elements into one unblemished whole is a feat only a magician like Batali could achieve.

Having ignored the Secondi courses in March, Libby and I selected the grilled quail this go-round. If all roast chickens were comparable to Babbo’s quail, there would be no need for steak any longer, and Morton’s and Smith and Wollensky’s would focus less on bovine and more on aviaries. The quail possessed a succulent tenderness unmatched in other birds. The meat fell of the bone with the same proficiency Italo Calvino uses to compose his prose. The mixed greens accompanying the dish were just as redolent, but it was the side order of roast potatoes, another holdover from our meal in March that took me to another dimension. While my love of potatoes is well documented, Babbo’s surpasses all others in the category, made with an ideally crisped skin and an inside as soft as mashed potatoes.

Batali has said on "Iron Chef America" that in the past, he too often has ignored desserts. No one would be able to gather this from Babbo’s sweets. The sweet-potato and rhubarb budino set the night on fire, graced with the pliancy of crème brulee, but with the substance of a tart. But the blueberry crostata, highlighted with toasted coconut, may have ruined pies for me forever. The crust had the perfect marriage of crumble and firmness, the blueberries emphasized the fruit. It was a pie fit for arcadia and I had somehow gained admittance. One final splurge, the six miniature scoops of sorbet and gelato were the final star in this luminous universe of a meal.

(Forgive this next personal indulgence, do not continue reading if you are prone to gagging on overly sentimental protestations)

As Libby and I left Babbo, high on life, food, and love, we found ourselves at the end of our most memorable day in New York. Babbo had supplied the final energy to complete the bliss. Amazingly though, the food was all that was on our mind. Suffering through a relationship based on bi-monthly visits, our dinners usually revolve around intense conversations of future plans and past joys. But at Babbo, we focused entirely on the present and for once, not on ourselves. Reflecting upon the dinner later, we realized the majority of the meal had been spent discussing, well, the food. Babbo is that deserving, that amazing, that adjective worthy. If reservations were easier to come by, I’d eat at Babbo every night. Happiness can’t be purchased, but perfect pasta can be. Sometimes a restaurant makes an already celebratory occasion, one in which every second shared with the person you care most about it the world seems to possess the staying power of a photograph, that much more luminous. Babbo is that place. Libby is that person.

Mario, you are my hero. Bravo!

RATING: 11+/10 (I know I said this was only reserved for Per Se, but Babbo deserves this rating too)

Multitude of Drops 2: The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood

2005-07-20T13:33:00.000-04:00

BOOK: The Handmaid's Tale
AUTHOR: Margaret Atwood
DATE: July 16, 2005

In the latest installment of Multitude of Drops, Libby and I read Margaret Atwood’s (review forthcoming) The Handmaid’s Tale, the future dystopia of a society in which woman are merely vessels used for procreation. To tie in with the book’s profuse thematic discussion of religion, I selected two bars, Temple Bar and Church Lounge, to play up to this thread. As we were headed to Babbo for dinner (review also coming later) and pasta and female oppression don’t really go hand in hand, the book club was for once, non-food related.

BAR: Temple Bar
LOCATION: 332 Lafayette St.
DRINK: Flower Martini (Premium Vodka, Chambord, and Elderflower); Proseco; Flirtini (Premium Vodka, Champagne, Cointreau, and Pineapple Juice) (Libby)
PRICE: $39.00

The Lafayette St. entrance to Temple Bar is deceptively unassuming. But upon opening the heavy metal door, Temple Bar reveals itself to be the opposite of ordinary. The L-shaped bar is composed of a beautiful dark wood, at once contemporarily classy and unpretentiously ornate. Scattered track lighting gives the lounge a stage quality, as it’s possible to move in and out of the dim glows like an actor performing. But while the lighting is Beckett, the vibe is Fitzgerald. Temple Bar has the feel of a 20s something speakeasy, but with the serenity of a bar no longer worried about the intrusions of prohibition authorities. For a romantic evening, I know of no better bar in the city.

The Flower Martini (yes, I admit to ordering it) was bold and delicious. Just as in the Danube cocktail (at David Bouley’s Danube), elderflower contributed an innovative sweetness to the clarity of the vodka. Followed with the bubbly and refreshing Proseco, the evening had begun perfectly. That bowls of popcorn (the favorite snack of Libby and myself) were Temple Bar’s version of bar snacks only furthered the utopian feel of a discussion centering on decidedly portentous and disconcerting literature. It might be blasphemous, but at Temple Bar, alcohol has once again become sacred.

BAR: Church Lounge
LOCATION: 2 Avenue of the Americas
DRINK: Martini with a twist of lemon; Tantric (Libby)
PRICE: $32.00

The scene is slick and trendy. As your eyes move across the seedily lit room, they search for the famous, the rumored celebrities who grace this Downtown haven. Most patrons go to Church Lounge not for the drinks, but for the climate – the see and be seen atmosphere of this bar located in the extravagant and lavish Tribeca Grand Hotel. But the lack of focus on the bar is a shame – the drinks are excellent, if overpriced. The Martini is straightforward but polished, just as a Martini should be. Libby’s “Tantric” was girly and soft, but not so sweet as to ruin the tastebuds for the evening. And the bar itself is a site to behold, the fluorescent back lit bottles promising refined intoxication.

The irony of Church Lounge is in its name, as the gaudiness of the hotel and lounge practically beg visitors to engage in some Las Vegas weekend-style forbidden act, some sin enacted in the room’s dark corners. The space itself is huge, but worth witnessing at least once. And while horror stories of Church Lounge’s confrontational service abound on the internet, during our visit, Libby and I experienced only gracious attentiveness. Though, after hearing one of the other customers exclaim, “I want everything taken care of. We have a lot more people coming, so this is my daddy’s credit card to cover everything,” as she handed her waitress the plastic, the rumored surliness of the staff might be an understandable byproduct of having to contend with a crowd who no longer realizes its not “in”.

Play 1: Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

2005-07-19T17:49:00.000-04:00

PLAY: Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
WRITTEN BY: Edward Albee
DIRECTED BY: Anthony Page
CAST: Kathleen Turner (Martha), Bill Irwin (George), David Harbour (Nick), Mireille Enos (Honey)
LOCATION: Longacre Theatre, 220 W. 48th Street, New York, NY
DATE: July 16, 2005, Matinee Performance

Anthony Page’s direction of Edward Albee’s classic piece of American drama, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, chooses to focus on an interesting, if often underappreciated aspect of the play – its hilarity.

Sure the barbs Albee created for Martha and George to hurl at each other are humorous in their own right, but Page expands the text’s latent comedy, taking it to its logically calamitous and painful ends. But even as the audience’s laughter explodes, the uproar is painted with a touch of pathos. After all, we are laughing at the disintegration of the American ideal of marriage, the ideal so many of us build our lives around. Albee exposes the posturing and hypocrisy involved in all marriages. The humor is partially based on the familiarity of family bickering. We might not be watching our own family, but we certainly know one like it. Rancor and unhappiness possess the lead characters of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf and Page deftly draws out these elements by the classic route of linking tragedy to comedy.

Martha’s frequent comments about George’s career failure and George’s constant nagging of Martha about her alcoholism are delivered with cutting wit and illuminating irony by Turner and Irwin, respectively. The two actors are masterful, the hype surrounding their performances deserved and if possible, understated. Irwin slowly brings George out of his shell until the climatic final scene when all illusions are shattered and years of pent-up frustration finally find a release. Turner is perfect for the role of Martha, her mannish features and domineering presence an appropriate fit for Martha’s haughty yet unfulfilled life. Albee’s lines take on whole new dimensions in their hands. The viewer loses track of time, the other members of the audience, even outside concerns, watching this performance. Beyond the suspension of disbelief usually required for art, the audience becomes immersed by the play, swallowed in the act like Jonah in the belly of the whale. This is Broadway at its best.

Albee’s play still has the freshness and power to provoke that it had upon first publication in 1962. Under the instruction of Page, Turner and Irwin, and to a lesser extent, Harbour and Enos, extract all the subtle and covert themes running through the play. From the way the Cold War kept the world at peace only through violence, to the misconceptions and lies at the heart of the institution of marriage, all of Albee’s intentions are on display. But even as the ending exposes in the brightest light the problems of a society structured around greed and half-truths and an aura of thorough sadness pervades the theater, we’re left with a surprising, if somewhat superficial question to ponder:

Who knew dysfunctional marriages could be so funny?

Albee of course. And maybe even Virginia way back when. And certainly this cast. That may lead us into some murky territory, the grays a red and blue America no longer has time for. How can we laugh at something so dark? But such ambiguity might be a good thing and proves, even today Albee is relevant, his black comedy bares America’s dark side whether we’re ready for it or not. You can almost here Albee’s laughter in the audience’s chorus, his voice mockingly asking:

I’m not afraid are you?

Restaurant 54: Hummus Place

2005-07-19T15:43:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Hummus Tahini, Health Salad, Pita Bread, Hummus Masabacha.

RESTAURANT: Hummus Place
LOCATION: 109 St. Mark’s Place
DATE: July 15, 2005
FOOD: Split the following: Hummus Tahini (with chick peas, tahini, olive oil & spices) ; Hummus Masabacha (with whole chick peas, tahini, olive oil & spices – served warm) – both with Hard-Boiled Eggs; Health Salad (tomato, cucumber, parsley, onion, olive oil & lemon juice)
BEVERAGE: Tap Water
PRICE: $20.00 – Courtesy of Libby

It’s the old aphorism, frequently employed by parents and technical specialists alike – do one thing and do it well. Rarely, if ever, though does a restaurant take this maxim to heart. With restaurant’s menus expanding in proportion to diner’s waistlines, for a restaurant to go against the trend and stick to one food and one food only is a bit shocking. But just as all of Wes Anderson’s films utilize a similar style to create engaging cinema, so too does Hummus Place, in the East Village, take one idea and run with it.

And that idea, obviously, is hummus. The void, Styrofoam hummus purchased at grocery stores nationwide has no relation to the type of pureed chickpeas served at Hummus Place. The tiny, Israeli owned restaurant churns out hummus that redefines the very nature of the dip. Offered in three varieties, the hummus is made fresh several times daily and is served warm, in large, soup-bowl portions. Hummus Place mines the details and traditions of its namesake dish, using Mid-East spices to take the puree back to its roots.

Having visited Hummus Place two times previously, I had spoken of its marvels to Libby on numerous occasions. A lover of all things vegetarian, Hummus Place had perked her interest. We ordered the Tahini and Masabacha, both with the requisite hard boiled eggs. The Tahini is as smooth and rich as melted chocolate, lacquering the mouth with a texture akin to warmed cream. The center of the bowl has a more refined mash applied to the chickpea and its velvet near liquidity is astonishing. The sleekness of the Tahini indicates the role of beans as a chunky and cumbersome side dish as a thing of the past.

The Masabacha on the other hand presents the chick peas in the whole. Spread throughout the otherwise serene hummus, the bold and chewy chick peas are an excellent study in contrasts, allowing the tongue to jump from one texture to the next in the same bite. A green, olive oil centers, adds a delicious subversion to the thickness of the chick peas.

Ordering the hummus with hard boiled eggs is an essential, on par with seeing the Pixies in concert or reading Cervantes in the original Spanish. Though not a combination I had had before, upon first tasting the way the slippery exterior and chalky interior of the egg interacted with the hummus, I never want to eat hummus any other way. Libby was also taken back by the surprising way the seemingly disparate ingredients complimented one another.

But as good as the hummus is, it still wouldn’t be as transcendent as it is without the warmed and puffy pitas that come with every order. These are true pillows, containing the perfect level of grain and flour to support the hummus. The freshness and simplicity of the tomato and cucumber salad was also a welcome addition to the meal, each bite practically declaring summer in its taste.

Hummus Place sets a standard other, larger and more ambitious restaurants would be wise to follow. Being able to take a run of the mill dish and make it magical is something most places can only dream of. But dreams are reality at Hummus Place. Factoring in that nothing at the restaurant is more than five dollars, Hummus Place might be the best cheap food in all of Manhattan. It certainly has my vote.

RATING: 9.0/10

Restaurant 53: Sripraphai

2005-07-18T17:10:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Sripraphai
LOCATION: 64-13 39th Ave. (Queens) Between 64th and 65th Sts
DATE: July 10, 2005
FOOD: Split the following: Crispy Watercress Salad with Chicken, Shrimp, and Squid; Pork Drunken Noodles; Sweet Sausage; String Beans with spicy sauce and shrimp; Fried Fishcakes
BEVERAGE: Split a bottle of Lychee Wine from Thailand
COST: $33.00

Don’t let the auto repair shop veneer fool you. You’re in the right place. This is the veritable home away from home for Thai food in this or any other part of the United States. Trust in the fact that your trip on the 7 train was worth the schlep. This is Sripraphai and if Thai food pleases you in even the faintest degree, you’re in for an amazing night.

A few things to remember before your meal and a few things to make sure you bring along for the feast:
1. A huge appetite – At Sripraphai, they don’t mess around. The portions are generous and the spiciness of the food makes a meal incredibly filling.
2. An open mind – Sure you’ve never had fried watercress elsewhere, but this salad, along with a litany of other unique dishes are why Sripraphai is as renowned as it is. Whatever you do, don’t order the Pad Thai.
3. A penchant for heat – When the waiter or waitress asks you how hot you want your dishes, be careful, but don’t be cautious. After all, Thai food is as influenced by peppers as Washington is by corporate interests. Be bold, just don’t be stupid and take on more than you can handle.
4. A friend…or many of them – You want to be able to split things in order to try as much as possible
5. Patience - If it’s later than 6 pm, there’s probably going to be a line, regardless of the night.

The menu is as extensive as Swann’s Way, but unlike Proust, it comes with pictures to give non-Thai diners a clue as to what to order. The list of exotic and challenging salads at Sripraphai are perhaps the most enticing category and it would be near impossible for even the most savvy and seasoned eater to not find some item previously unknown to his or her palate. On a previous visit, I ordered the Papaya salad, but was unprepared for the level of heat it packed. After a single bite, I consumed an entire glass of water. The salad was delicious, but too much for my still evolving Westernized tastebuds. Thus, on this later visit, I opted instead for the sublime and hair-raising fried watercress salad. Without Sripraphai, who would know such wondrous combinations existed? The watercress, apparently ignorant of the fact that it is a green and has no business being fried, is lightly battered and then cooked to a deep-fried perfection. If all salad greens came with the same crunchy tempura coating, kids would be begging, demanding in fact, that there parents serve salad every night. The fried watercress is rounded out by dry cashews, adding another notch of mild saltiness and delightfully chewy chicken, shrimp and squid. The trio of meats mimic the resistance of raw vegetables, seemingly inverting all notions of the conventional salad. That the salad’s spice creeps up on you with the stealth of a CIA operative not-outed by Karl Rove, is what completes the fullness, the utterly satisfying and tremendous nature of this dish.

But that’s just the beginning. Fried fishcakes, as red as bricks, are an ease-into-Thai appetizer for everyone. Though slightly rubbery, the flavor of the cakes is as fresh as the Fulton St. seafood market and a peanut vinaigrette with the intensity of a Joe Louis fist will leave your sinuses clear for days to come. Thus, with heat running around as unfettered as a lawyer at an accident, the sweet sausages were a needed mild and calming influence. As thinly sliced as the Thai basil leaves that they shared the plate with, the sausages powered through with a complexity of onion, garlic, and pork fat flavors, not unlike the more common Italian sweet sausage.

The sausage wasn’t the only cross-cultural similarity. Sripraphai’s drunken noodles are legendary. Brushed with the rich green of Thai basil, the noodles themselves are sautéed and silky. Whereas other Thai restaurants have a propensity to make these noodles as oily as a worn out shamy, Sripraphai’s are layered with meticulously portioned amounts of oil that cause no complaints of greasiness. Previously, I tried the noodles with chicken. Though the chicken version left me speechless, the pork Danny and I ordered this time was unbelievably better. The pork’s inherent fatty composition furthered the gluttonous intention of the entire dish. The only negative of the entire meal was the overly hot string beans and shrimp. Sriphraphai’s spiciness has a sophistication seldom experienced elsewhere. It’s a heat that evolves over the course of the meal. The flavors are complex and tiered, a bite promising to supply as many stages as an old-school Nintendo Mario Brothers game. The beans, however, were just hot, and didn’t layer in the same way as the drunken noodles and watercress salad. Anywhere else, the beans would have been more than expected. But at Sripraphai, they became ordinary.

One final novelty was the Lychee wine, decidely different from normal grape wine, but worht ordering all the same. Not as sweet as Longan Juice, it cooled the mouth nicely after the scalding of the peppers.

Departing, you’ll realize there’s a reason the storefront is as innocuous as it is. At Sripraphai, the attention is on the food and the food alone. As long as teleporting stays an impossibility, Sripraphai remains the best way to get to Thailand without laboring in the sultry weight of Bangkok humidity. But Sripraphai has brought the heat to this side of the Pacific. And New York is that much the better for it.

RATING: 9.5/10

Restaurant 52: Viet-Nam Banh Mi So 1

2005-07-15T17:13:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Viet-Nam Banh Mi So 1
LOCATION: 369 Broome St.
DATE: July 10, 2005
FOOD: House Banh Mi #1 with Ground Pork, Salami, and Sliced Pork.
BEVERAGE: Sugar Cane Juice
PRICE: $7.00

Reason #3,719 I love New York: The ease of attaining the porked paragon that is Banh Mi sandwiches.

Seemingly, the only good things to come out of French Imperialism are the works of Albert Camus and cross-cultural cuisine. This even applies to sandwiches, nowhere better exemplified than in the French-Vietnamese fusion of Banh Mi sandwiches. Using the ubiquitous French baguette as baseboard, the Vietnamese came up with an incredibly delicious and exotic version of the sandwich that is all their own.

Though the Banh Mi at Nicky’s Vietnamese Sandwiches are better, those at the whole-in-the-wall takeout only grocery store/sandwich shop Banh Mi So 1 on Broome Street, are outstanding in their own right. While the freshness of the baguette is vital, making or breaking the sandwich from the get-go, it’s the Vietnamese components that really make Banh Mi special. The combination of shredded carrots and fresh ginger add an Asian flavored crunch to contrast the softness of the bread. Banh Mi So 1’s ingredients were commendably fresh, their taste’s vibrant, especially in the case of the vegetables. Long, pickle-esque cucumbers without the pickled, furthered the sharp, nutty crispness of the carrots and ginger. Tying all the fresh elements together were sprigs of cilantro, as robust and forthright as the Vietnam War era-Nixon administration was nefarious (see for instance, Kissinger’s unwarranted and vicious bombing of Cambodia). Cilantro is God’s answer to past European monarch’s desire for the perfect herb.

But it was not in the garden, but in the pen, the meatier topics that Banh Mi So 1 fell short of Nicky’s Vietnamese Sandwiches. Whereas Nicky’s uses a complex and intricately creamy pork pate, Banh Mi So 1 instead used sliced pork and salami which caused the later sandwich to lack the cohesive dexterity of the former. The pate worked almost like a thick sauce, a poor man foie gras, melting from the warmth of the ground pork, whereas the salami and sliced pork provided too much additional salt to the already adequately spiced ground pork of Banh Mi So 1. Banh Mi So 1’s ground pork, golden-brown yet with a cunningly reserved amount of excess oil, was practically begging for a better companion in an otherwise near perfect sandwich. Batman had his Robin, Bill Clinton had his Lewinsky, Billy Pilgrim had his aliens, George Costanza had his hand – so too does ground pork on a Banh Mi need its pork pate. Just look at Scorcese, and how much his movies have slipped since he exchanged DeNiro for DiCaprio, to see what happens when perfect pairs are not kept in tact.

So perhaps start at Banh Mi So 1 and then advance to Nicky’s once the desire for Banh Mi had seeped into your blood. Banh Mi So 1 makes an excellent sandwich, though it needs to stop being so petty about its pate (zing!). In addition, the sugar cane juice, made one glass at a time, right after the customer orders, is simply one of the most unique and memorably created beverages out there. A bundle of sugar cane rods stand in the corner of Banh Mi So 1, which are then shucked, split, and pushed through an archaic looking machine in order for the cane juice to be extracted. It is amazing to watch, worth the $4.00 price just to witness the process. The taste of the juice itself is different, dramatically less sweet than expected, with earthy hints, the distant suggestion of lychee and a root bitterness swelling in a bold novelty of layered flavors. Viet-Nam Banh Mi So 1 might not offer the best Banh Mi in all of New York, but for a $7 lunch, you might not be able to find a more genuinely Vietnamese experience this side of Hanoi. It’s yet another one of New York’s seemingly endless secrets just waiting to be discovered.

RATING: 7.0/10

Restaurant 51: Kenka

2005-07-15T13:46:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Pork Pancake with barbeque sauce; Spring Rolls; Crab Omelet; Ginger Pork.

RESTAURANT: Kenka
LOCATION: 25 St. Marks Pl. (E. 8th St, East Village)
DATE: July 10, 2005
FOOD: Pork Pancake; Egg and Crab Omelet served over Rice; Miso Soup; Japanese Pickles; House Salad; Ginger Pork with Rice; Spring Rolls
BEVERAGE: Sapporo; Tap Water
PRICE: $20.00

Walk down the stairs from St. Marks Street and you enter a different world. A world with many of the characteristics of a typical Japanese restaurant, but in which everything is slightly askew. It’s a world that starts to come to life at 10 pm, but doesn’t hit full swing until after the witching hour. The aura of inebriated weekends and endless nights coalesce, loading the air thickly with drunken possibility. And throughout the glam music, the excited conversations, and beer bottles, wafts the smell of enticing Japanese food. A minute ago you were in the East Village, now you’re in Kenka, which Bloomberg should declare a separate city within this city, like Vatican City in Rome. Kenka is the Bizarro World of Japanese food in New York. And like watching Seinfeld, it’s something everyone must try.

So order a Sapporo and saddle up, for though you’ve graduated college, late night eating shouldn’t be something that stopped once you received a diploma. Kenka is a late nighter’s paradise, serving the type of dishes intoxicated stomachs beg for. And with prices indicating the Yen still hasn’t recovered, there’s every reason to order a lot. Salty and sweet Japanese pickles, at a dollar an order, provide the added sodium to further the dehydrating effects of the alcohol, sure to enhance the hangover of tomorrow’s morn. But they’re worth it, crunchy and addictive. In lieu of French fries or another donor of craved for grease, the spring rolls were a nimble adaptation, filled with vegetables and adequately satisfying. Ordering one of the house special entrees entitles you to both an excellent, if traditional Miso soup and a lettuce salad coated in a sickening amount of ginger dressing, which if used in more controlled quantities, might have been pleasant. As it was, the dressing made the lettuce limp and soggy, neither of which sounds appropriate for a body craving bold and greasy tastes.

Luckily, the salad is an afterthought, the main dishes the Murikami imagination of the experience. Even the most casual viewer of Iron Chef will notice Chef’s Masaharu Morimoto’s love of thin Japanese omelets, but few normal sushi-dominant restaurants offer the crepe-like eggs. Kenka is an exception and their omelet, though it would be unappealing as a breakfast food, is simply marvelous for a post-midnight feast. Loaded with enough crab to keep Maryland’s crabbing industry in business for years to come, everything about the omelet flashed with the same fluorescence as Tokyo’s neon signs. Steamed white rice contributed a wholesomely grainy base, to contrast the feathery egg and crab mixture placed on top. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but one almost expected the omelet to scream, in the words of the band Franz Ferdinand, “Ich Heise Super Fantastic”. Oddly, the eggs remained silent.

Silence was not a problem, however, for the ginger pork. Brash and forceful, the flavor of the ginger flirted with the perfectly browned pork like a university coed attempting to solicit an A from a professor. In appearance, this pork seemed like something you’d find at a Chinese restaurant, but the splendid layering of ginger with the pork fat, made this a distinctly Kenka-Japanese wonder.

The pork pancake was less Tokyo, more Texas. With the same level of reserve and nuance you’d expect to find in a Bush State of the Union Address, the egg based pancake was slathered in a bum steer sized quantity of American barbeque sauce. Barbeque sauce?!!!! On a Japanese pancake?!!! That’s right, barbeque sauce, and far too much of it. For the rest of the pork pancake was a supple study in contrasts, the delicate nature of the pancake and crunchy fish flakes responding well to the weight of the meat. But the barbeque sauce, like other things from Texas, invaded all else around it, overwhelming and finally turning the dish to saccharine failure. While it’s outstanding that Kenka is willing to take risks and remodel Japanese cuisine, it shouldn’t forget the austerity and reserved preparation of its heritage.

If all innovation requires a bit of lunacy to succeed, Kenka does to Japanese food what Einstein did to Newton’s Laws. Kenka is your crazy uncle, the guy who knows he’s too old to be hitting on 20-something girls, but who does it anyway, the guy who you know you shouldn’t encourage, but the spectacle he provides is so entertaining, you keep volunteering your friends as test cases for his “game” anyway. Kenka serves Japanese food seemingly prepared by chefs as drunk on novelty as the majority of NYU students, East Village hipsters, and misplaced Yuppies who make up the restaurant’s clientele are on Beam and Cokes. Nothing is as it seems. If Willy Wonka made sushi and ramen instead of candy, Kenka would be his laboratory. Though nothing at Kenka evenly remotely resembles an Oompaloopah, the meal does end with a trip to the cotton candy machine by Kenka’s door, one more carnival aspect for the night, the logical conclusion to the fun and irresponsibility felt while eating.

RATING: 7.3/10

Tour 4: The Grape Escape

2005-07-14T17:49:00.000-04:00

THE GRAPE ESCAPE:
In which Rockefeller sets out in one evening to have a glass at two restaurants and two wine bars highly reputed for their exemplary collections, attempts to refine his pathetically adolescent sensibility for the nectar of the gods, and tries to accrue an understanding of the subtle variations between vintages, all the while ignoring the effects of these spirits in order to stay upright throughout the adventure.

FIRST GLASS: Veritas
LOCATION: 43 East 20th St.
WINE: E. Pira & Figli – Dolcetto d’Alba ‘Chiara Boschis’ – Piedmont, Italy 2003
PRICE: $11.50

In which Rockefeller, his youthful exuberance in stark contrast to the geriatric society assembled in Veritas at 6:30 pm on a Saturday, enjoys a deliciously rich and full-bodied Italian red from chef Scott Bryan’s extensive cellar containing over 100,000 bottles, remarks on the superb lack of acidity in the wine, and studies the Veritas wine menu which contains numerous famous individuals’ quotes on wine, including one from the Beastie Boys.

SECOND GLASS: Cru
LOCATION: 24 5th Avenue
WINE: Two 3 oz glasses – 1: Vouray Brut NV Champalou – Loire, France; 2: Rose de Loire 2004, Chateau Soucherie – Loire, France
PRICE: $11.50

In which Rockefeller finds a place at the bar of Cru run by “it-chef” Shea Gallante, is pleased to find the wine menu of over 65,000 Bottles allows for 3 oz tastings from which he selects a remarkabe uplift of effervescence in the form of the Vouray Brut of Loire, but is then underwhelmed by a tasteless, bland, yet fragrant Rose from the same region.

THIRD GLASS: Bar Veloce
LOCATION: 175 2nd Ave
WINE: Antonelli 2003 (Umbria) – full bodied, with good minarlity and an almond quality
PRICE: $10.00

In which Rockefeller, now slightly inebriated, walks across town to the trendy Bar Veloce (located directly across the street from Cacio e Pepe), and again partakes in an aromatic and nutty Italian wine, this time white in color, which caters to his preference of dry wines perfectly, though he wonders if the bar’s design isn’t trying a bit too hard to be chic, especially since one of the best aspects of wine is the reserved tradition of its craft.

FOURTH GLASS: In Vino
LOCATION: 215 E 4th St.
WINE: Passito di Pantelleria - Minardi, Sicily
PRICE: $13.00

In which Rockefeller, now bordering on tipsy, marvels at In Vino’s rustic layout, but more importantly, the sublime nature of his red dessert wine, surprisingly mild and temperately sweet, exhibiting the same full-bodied character he found so fantastic in the Dolcetto at Veritas, and the night ends with his realization that the adage “In Vino Veritas” is true, and his quest has truly come full circle.

OTHER TOURS:
Tour 1: Dumpling World Tour
Tour 2: Vintage Bar Crawl
Tour 3: Pizza World Tour

Restaurant 50: World Tong

2005-07-14T12:50:00.000-04:00

Row 1: Tofu Skin Rolls, Shrimp Dumplings, Seaweed Balls; Row 2: Shriimp and Eggplant, Noodles Stuffed with Shrimp, Peanut Noodles; Row 3: Fried Fish, Coconut Rolls, Fried Rice Balls.

RESTAURANT: World Tong
LOCATION: 18th Ave and 62nd Street in Bensonhurt, Brooklyn
DATE: July 9, 2005
FOOD: Dim Sum, including the following – Fried Tofu Skins with Vegetables; Shrimp Dumplings; Eggplant with Fried Shrimp; Seaweed Stuffed Balls; Sausage Rolls; Wide Noodles Stuffed with Shrimp; Shrimp and Vegetable Dumplings; Pork and Chive Triangle Dumplings; Wide Noodles with Peanut Sauce; Fried Fish with White Dipping Sauce; Mango Fish; Coconut Rolls.
BEVERAGE: House Chrysanthemum Tea; Tap Water
PRICE: $27.00

Ah, the pleasures of Dim Sum. There’s nothing like waking up early (as in 10 o’clock) on a Saturday and venturing out to Brooklyn for what many posts on Chowhound.com aver is the best Dim Sum anywhere in New York. What makes the experience even more special, is that I was popping my Dim Sum cherry. If all first times were as memorable as my visit to World Tong, no one would wait until marriage. Hell, they wouldn’t even make it until high school.

World Tong’s storefront in Bensonhurst gives no sign of the delights held within. Perhaps I expected to see a gaudy placard screaming “Best Dim Sum West of the Yellow River”, but there wasn’t even the slightest indication the owners of World Tong are aware of it’s “foodie-cred”. Walking in the door, it’s immediately apparent World Tong needs no advertisement. At 11:30 on Saturday, it was packed with Chinese faces, so crowded that parties had to share tables. Like my experiences at Himalayan Yak and Tangra Masala, that Danny and I were the only Caucasians in the room, only indicated the good things to come.

The atmosphere is frenetic and loud, but not alienating. While there was a wait to be seated during our entire meal, it never lasted for longer than 15 minutes. The countless waiters attentively refilled our water glasses and cleared our table with regularity. A quiet order pulsated beneath the chaotic veneer.

Carts emerged from the kitchen loaded with small plates of Chinese appetizers, pushed by matronly women. We began our Oriental orgy with vegetables wrapped in tofu skins. Akin to spring rolls, the skins were light and un-oily, the Worchester sauce used for dipping, adding a surprising kick. But the shrimp dumplings we selected next were truly outstanding. The shrimp were beautifully fresh and the rose bud shaped dumplings contained the perfect degree of supple chew. Delicate, yet entirely satisfying, these were some of the best Chinese dumplings to be had anywhere.

But, amazingly, they weren’t even the best dumplings of the feast. The pork and chive dumplings, filled with Chinese greens, were sumptuously devoid of grease, the greens creating a clean taste, leaving the mouth salivating for more. But, though the pork was delicious, World Tong truly excelled at all things shrimp. Tempura battered shrimp, crisp and indulgently fried, made up for the mushy and bland slices of eggplant they were sandwiched in-between. Wide, lasagna-esque rice noodles, stuffed with petite whole shrimps were quietly pleasing and restrained, reminiscent of the Vietnamese ravioli at Nah Trang. Weightless and with the aesthetic appeal of a blank canvas, the stuffed noodles were covertly filling. The same noodles popped up in another dish as well, covered in a Thai influenced peanut sauce that was a tad too mild, lacking the complex spicing of Thai peanut blends.

I learned as the meal progressed that like a married man tempted to cheat, one shouldn’t indulge in everything that catches the eye. The food kept coming and my stomach filled before I was able to try everything I desired. One misstep occurred with the sausage rolls, which were overly salted and tasted and looked like a clogged artery. But a tempura battered white fish (Tilapia, I believe) immediately recovered World Tong’s eminence. Though seriously battered, the fish was still the most prominent flavor, minute squares of red and green pepper adding a point of sophistication to the whole proceedings. The fish came with a white sauce which is best avoided, a white mess with the substance of coalesced heavy cream and mayonnaise.

Unexpectedly, World Tong’s also had a wide variety of desserts. And though I ruined my stomach’s capacity by shoveling in one last savory course of pureed rice and seaweed balls with the texture of Matzoh, I still enjoyed the sweets. A sparkling and creative mango pudding in the shape of a fish was thoroughly fruity and revitalizing. And sushi style rolls stuffed with a coconut cream finished the meal with a tropical virtuosity.

12 hours after World Tong, I was still full, the lengthy period of satiation yet another new experience for an eater whose stomach usually knows no limits. However, for once, I was joyous in my gluttony, as World Tong’s Dim Sum provided so many great options, I’d rather have tried too much, than have left wondering what I’d missed. My meal at World Tong has left me with a longing for future Saturday gorging, another chance to start my weekend with a bright sum.

RATING: 8.1/10

Restaurant 49: Cacio e Pepe

2005-07-13T13:05:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Cacio e Pepe
LOCATION: 182 Second Avenue
DATE: July 8, 2005
FOOD: Tonnarelli cacio e pepe (Traditionally prepared homemade pasta tossed with pecorino romano cheese and black pepper); Split the following: Gnocchi di ortica con pomodori confit, rosmarino e mozzarella di bufala (Homemade nettle gnocchi tossed with tomato confit, rosemary and buffalo mozzarella); Saltimbocca di coda di rospo (Monkfish layered with prosciutto Parma and sage leaves sautéed in butter and white wine).
BEVERAGE: Glass of White Wine
PRICE: $45.00

As the old saying goes, when in Rome…

At last check, www.citysearch.com had 1084 Italian restaurants listed in Manhattan alone. In such a crowded marketplace, how does one Italian restaurant stand out among the rest? Simple. By serving exceptional, mind-blowing, jaw-dropping, earth-shaking, preconception shattering food that transports you on some supersonic Vespa to the hills of Tuscany and the crowded streets of Rome. That’s how. Cacio e Pepe, located in the East Village, succeeds at serving just this type of food, distinguishing itself amongst the rest of New York’s Italian eateries.

Firstly, there’s the cozy confines. Dark wood tables adorned unpretentiously with candles and emerald olive oil, greet customers, and offer a perfect setting for a romantic rendezvous. The wait staff is knowledgeable and engaging, ready to supply a recommendation or meet any request. Throughout the meal, the owner and chef wander from table to table, stopping for conversations with regular and first-time diners alike. This personalization only enhances the effect of the food, creating a complete dining experience. The concise and reasonable wine list provides a sample of the wine Italy is known for. Courses are well spaced, the presentation refreshingly simple – the kitchen operates with an efficiency even the railroads during the Mussolini reign couldn’t emulate.

But secondly, and most importantly, there’s the pasta. Pasta might have been a Chinese invention, exported by Marco Polo, but the Italians deserve the credit for perfecting this worldwide favorite. Cacio’s pasta only augments this tradition. The essential pasta is the very dish from which the restaurant takes its name – Cacio e Pepe. It’s deceptively uncomplicated mix of ingredients hides a myriad layering of flavors. The dish begins when a waiter brings the steaming pasta tableside in the hollow of a huge wheel of pecorino cheese. Expectation mounts as he scoops the cheesy spaghetti like noodles from the concavity, halved peppercorns, a touch of olive oil, and flakes of fresh Italian parsley the only other accoutrements to this pasta. Once the server plates the pasta, he then scrapes the partially melted sides of the pecorino wheel, topping the pasta with spoon after spoon of liquefying cheese crumbles. As Frank Bruni’s New York Times reviews remind us however, ornamentation means nothing if it lacks substance. Fortunately, the effort involved in preparing the Cacio e Pepe is outdone by the sublimity of its taste. Like a silk sleeve, the cheese coats the noodles. The sharpness of the pepper and robust saltiness of the oil makes the Cacio e Pepe truly extraordinary, the type of meal that redefined my opinion of pasta. In four visits to Cacio, I’ve had the Cacio e Pepe three times (it was not offered on the fixed New Years Eve menu) and if possible, it somehow gets better each time. The overcooked lamentations of pastas past are lost in the utopian smoothness of this dish.

But unlike Giuseppe di Lampedusa, author of The Leopard, Cacio e Pepe’s pasta menu is able to produce more than one great hit. The gnocchi, flavored with the same stinging nettles used to treat medical ailments ranging from insect bites to inflamed joints, team with rosemary to create an absolutely astonishing version of this potato based course. My friend Will, having made gnocchi countless times with his mother, was still taken back at the softness Cacio’s gnocchi achieved. The buffalo mozzarella and fresh tomatoes that garnish the gnocchi contribute a caprese feel to the dish which fits sublimely. The manager informed us that the nettles boil for hours until they reach a stage where they go from obnoxious skin irritants to delicious gnocchi infusion. However long they take, it’s worth it. Again, Cacio uses only a few ingredients to create a magnitude of taste.

Thirdly, there’s the entrees. Saltimbocca usually consists of grilled pork fillets topped with crisp prosciutto. But Cacio e Pepe re-imagines this classic dish, using the meaty flesh of monkfish in place of the pork. Oh, if only all such remakes could be so skillful. Seldom, if ever, does one see a chef with the ability and courage to use fish as a thin cutlet, given its propensity to flake and dry-out. But Salvatore Corea is that brave. The monkfish is as succulent as roast chicken, somehow able to be both satisfying dense and weightless at the same time. The crisp prosciutto provides an ideal level of saltiness, merging effortlessly with the light butter, sage, and white wine saucing. Cacio’s saltimbocca is one of those rare dishes that appeals in any type of weather, rewarding for the heartiest of winter’s demands, or the breeziest of summer nights. Robert More might have termed Sir Thomas More the Man For All Season in his play, but Cacio’s saltimbocca is the right entrée for any time of the year.

Finally, there are the innovative desserts, which I’ve had before but was too full to nibble on this time. But with offerings like green tomato strudel and cantaloupe mousse, I have plenty of reason to go back.

When I first visited last September, Cacio e Pepe reaffirmed my belief and love of Italian food after years of palate numbing meals at the Olive Garden and Rigazzi’s. Three visits, one surreally romantic New Year’s Eve, and countless noodles later, Cacio e Pepe continues to enchant and amaze me. After spending a night in the mystical candle lit interior, fortifying oneself on phenomenally redolent and near perfect cuisine, one might almost wonder whether the Roman Empire, with the ability to produce such sensational food, really declined and fell centuries ago, or if it’s just a lie Edward Gibbons used to sell his history books. Regardless, we should all go to Cacio and do as the Romans.

RATING: 9.4/10

Restaurant 48: Madiba (Infinite Feast XXI)

2005-07-12T16:23:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Madiba
LOCATION: 195 Dekalb Avenue, Brooklyn
DATE: July 7, 2005
FOOD: Appetizer: Uputhu (ground cornmeal with tomato and onion gravy); Split following entrees: Prawns Peri-Peri (grilled Mozambique style prawns served with yellow rice and salad); Breyani with chicken (rice and lentil stew with a boiled egg and a selection of sambals); Dessert: Mom’s Tipsey Tart (crammed with nuts and dates, soaked with Klipdrift brandy syrup, served with ice cream).
BEVERAGE: Tap Water; Decaf Coffee
PRICE: $37.00

It’s the culinary equivalent of the glass half-empty, glass half-full situation. In New York, trying to choose among the hundreds of restaurants for a given ethnic cuisine is an often daunting and even debilitating task. Stay in the city for Mexican or head out to Queens? Thai at Klong on St. Marks St or head out to Sripriphai? The possible dilemmas are endless for each nationality. Well, usually that is. An exception is South African restaurants. New York has just one. Literally. Located in Brooklyn, Madiba is the only South African restaurant this city has to offer. That makes choosing where to go for South African food easy. But as Soviet Russia so ineptly showed us, without the antagonism of competition, quality suffers.

Thus, Madiba was the de-facto choice for the July’s People meeting of Infinite Feast. The restaurant is a huge space, decorated creatively in various paraphernalia from Africa. Patrons enter through a pseudo grocery store (part of an early 21st expansion of the restaurant), before being seated in the cavernous dining area. Dining at Madiba is partially about the food, partially about the experience. Antique desks are used as tables and all drinks are served in Mason jars. It’s these touches that give the restaurant a very organic atmosphere, a vibe that is distinctly non-New York. Dinner is almost like a mini-Safari vacation – except instead of the wildlife running through brush, it comes chopped, stewed, and grilled on your plate.

Though listed as a side dish, the Uputhu served as a steady, if a bit heavy, appetizer. Reminiscent of Italian polenta, Latin American corn meal, or American grits, the Uputhu was a hearty and thick hominy. Coupled with a straightforward tomato and onion gravy that continued the similarity to Italian traditions, the Uputhu may have an unfamiliar name, but its taste would be common to most American palates. The dish as a whole was pleasing, but only because the gravy covered up for the dry and congealed cornmeal. Like buffet oatmeal or grits that have sat out to long, the cornmeal tasted stale and lacked freshness. The temperature of the dish also indicated that perhaps the mixture had larded in a pot, made beforehand, but then left unattended for hours.

Next came the main courses, chicken breyani and prawns peri-peri. Like the Indian meal that bears the same name, the chicken breyani was a large plate of rice, filled with chicken, beans, and accompanied by a hard-boiled egg. However, unlike its Indian relative, Madiba’s breyani was stringy and uneven, parched in some sections, slimy in others. Overall, though skillfully seasoned and tantalizingly promising, the breyani best deserves the tag of mediocrity. Infusing the dish with an increased amount of beans or other vegetables would have made it much more successful.

The prawns peri-peri displayed greater consistency, which made up for an unimaginative and ordinary preparation, severely lacking the pizzazz or novelty often found in offbeat cultural restaurants. Juicy prawns and feathery yellow rice were held back by mundane seasoning. A hint of heat or a spice rub completely dissimilar to American flavorings would have made the dish special. Instead, it was like everything else – okay.

But like the popular novelist in Calvino’s If on a winter’s night a traveler who tries to salvage his reputation by writing a “serious” work in his later years, Madiba tried to save itself through dessert. It damn near succeeded, as the Mom’s Tipsy Tart was an exquisite blend of brandy, nuts, and dates, a dish finally displaying the combination of Mediterranean, north African, and sub-Saharan African influences expected throughout the rest of the meal. Like a South African Christmas pudding or bread pudding on a bender, this dessert combined salty and sweet flavors with the caustic, yet welcoming liquor embrace. The tipsy tart managed to place a high level of complexity in an accessible and engaging form. It’s to desserts what Vonnegut is to contemporary literature.

Madiba would be well-served by some friendly South African competition. Judging Madiba is like a university trying to assess the merits of a smart kid who is home-schooled. Sure the child has all kinds of great attributes, but having never faced any kind of competition, how can the school really know how intelligent or successful the student is? This is America after all, we’re born and bred on competition. If we didn’t have crazed parents pushing their children into beauty pageants and talent contests at the age of three or parents punching other parents during Little League baseball games, some of the greatness the Founding Fathers imbued this country with would be lost. Besides the wonderful dessert, nothing really stuck out at Madiba. Again, the glass half-empty/half-full scenario pertains. While it’s always nice to have a meal where every dish is good, it’s also a little disappointing when everything is good but unspectacular. If New York had at least one other South African restaurant, deciding whether this mediocrity is based on some intrinsic quality of South African cuisine or if Madiba just needs to up its game. There are no SAT scores for restaurants, just word of mouth and personal preference, so maybe Madiba is outstanding and South African food generally is bland – but I’d bet against this. But for the time being at least, the question is moot, as Madiba is the only game in town.

RATING: 6.5/10

Book 15: The Name of the Rose, by Umberto Eco

2005-07-11T23:42:00.000-04:00

Paperback: 552 pages
Publisher: Harvest Books; 1st Harvest ed edition (September 28, 1994)

The labyrinth. Employed as literary symbol down through the centuries. Greek myths centered around the blind twists of these rat maces. Later, contemporary Latin American fiction was turned on its head, when Borges imagined the universe as a library designed as an infinite labyrinth in which all things and all books, were possible. In The Name of the Rose, Italian novelist, professor of semiotics, and post-modern provocateur, Umberto Eco takes Borges’ idea of the labyrinthine library, makes it finite, and sets it down in the 14th century, anachronistically interjecting the ideas of today into a Catholic ideological battle of the middle ages. The Name of the Rose is perhaps the definitive post-modern novel, in as much as anything can be both post-modern and definitive.

Seldom does a piece of art ever completely exhibit all the characteristics of a given ideological movement. Critics and historians create labels like modernism and romanticism with broad, generalizing strokes of their pens, and then try to neatly fit all artists from specific time periods into these categories. Joyce is an example of modernism, Friedrich von Schiller of romanticism, the couplings ignoring the parts of the author’s work (Finnegan's Wake is a prime example) that don’t fit into the tenets of the nicely constructed artistic movement. Whether Faulkner intended for his novels to be the par exemplar of stream of consciousness literature is viewed as beside the point. How can authorial intention matter much to critics who hold that the text exists outside the author?

But whereas other authors shirk labels, Eco seemingly embraces them. What is perhaps most interesting about Eco’s novel, is how consciously he has constructed it as a work of postmodernism. In his afterward, he unabashedly discloses his surprisingly favorable position towards the assignation of postmodern onto his work, an “un-ideology” that writers like Pynchon and Delillo have refused to accept. What makes The Name of the Rose so distinctly postmodern? Using Frederic Jameson’s theory as a starting point, double coding is a key feature of postmodernism. No novel could hope to provide a greater abundance of this technique than The Name of the Rose.

William of Baskerville is a medieval monk visiting an abbey where a great meeting about the future of the Catholic church will take place. The church (and for this Eco’s becomes a historical novel, as the theological divide the book centers around actually did occur) is divided and William is attempting to mend fences. But when he arrives at the abbey, he ends up in the midst of a murder mystery, with one monk dying each of the seven days during his visit. He is Sherlock Holmes set down in another era and the story is told through his Watson, a young monk by the name of Adso.

As William probes for the murderer(s), The Name of the Rose comes to reveal itself as much more than a murder mystery. Eco is brilliant, combining philosophical thought from all ages with religious doctrines and modern day pop culture references. Every sign in this work signals something else. This is the double coding, the layering of layers mentioned earlier. For everything references something else and the number of levels The Name of the Rose can be read on are as seemingly limitless as Borges’ imagined library (that the head librarian and villain in the novel is a monk name Jorge of Borges is interesting, and in his afterward Eco, clearly indebted to the blind Argentinian author of Ficciones, states “there were debts to be paid”).

You could read The Name of the Rose simply for the solution to the murders. A more religious minded reader could read it strictly for the discussions on God. Not to mention the countless academic interpretations the novel allows. But perhaps such metatextuality, such endless possibility brings as many negative results as it does positive ones. As Eco points out in his afterward, we live in an age when everything has already been said. How can anything “true” exist anymore? He writes:

“But the moment comes when the avant-garde (the modern) can go no further, because it has produced a metalanguage that speaks of its impossible texts (conceptual art). The postmodern reply to the modern consists of recognizing that the past, since it cannot really be destroyed, because its destruction leads to silence, must be revisited: but with irony, not innocently. I think of the postmodern attitude as that of a man who loves a very cultivated woman and knows he cannot say to her, “I love you madly,” because he knows that she knows (and that she knows that he knows) that these words have already been written by Barbara Cartland. Still, there is a solution. He can say, “As Barbara Cartland would put it, I love you madly.” At this point, having avoided false innocence, having said clearly that it is no longer possible to speak innocently, he will nevertheless have said what he wanted to say to the woman: that he loves her, but he loves her in an age of lost innocence. If the woman goes along with this, she will have received a declaration of love all the same. Neither of the two speakers will feel innocent, both will have accepted the challenge of the past, of the already said, which cannot be eliminated; both will consciously and with pleasure play the game of irony…But both will have succeeded, once again, in speaking of love.” (531)

But is this the solution we want?

We’re left to wonder whether Eco’s embrace of postmodernism leaves us in a labyrinth without an exit. The book is thought-provoking, beautifully written and at points, as downright fun and indulgent as any cheap paperback thriller. And while it is clear Eco is a genius and it is clear that the man’s intellect knows no limits, running the gamut from obscure middle ages tracks to Aristotle to Roger Bacon to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, one wonders, as the abbey’s library burns down in the books final pages (sorry to ruin the ending, but this isn’t The Crying Game, and the book has been made into a movie, so the ending is hardly a “secret” anymore), if we, following Eco, have reached a dead end. The best aspect of postmodernism is that it incorporated the avant-garde idea of art as being apparent everywhere around us in our everyday lives. Postmodernism blurred and then extinguished the lines between high and low art, making highly intricate, yet accessible works such as The Name of the Rose possible. But when everything is art, so to nothing is. The Name of the Rose is a pleasure to read. But hopefully its not heralding the destruction of the very history of literature and thinking it so deftly exudes but ultimately upends. Eco warns of the cul-de-sac that is conceptual art, as when the blank canvas becomes art, art ceases to exist. But Eco might have just taken us into a different subdivision with the same dead-end. When the distinctions between Mozart and Jennifer Lopez are lost, there's the risk that art's position in our lives becomes precarious. The reader would be left to despair if Eco has left literature nowhere else to go.

Book 14: July's People, by Nadine Gordimer (Infinite Feast XXI)

2005-07-11T14:32:00.000-04:00

Paperback: 160 pages
Publisher: Viking Adult (June 1, 1981)

The racial tensions and possible societal disintegration that occupy the pages of Nobel Prize winning novelist Nadine Gordimer’s July’s People will most likely seem eerily familiar to Americans. The inferior status of blacks, the exploitative and domineering position of whites – these are American problems. Yet, Gordimer is not an American. She is South African and her novel deals not with the Civil Rights Movement or the legacy of slavery in the U.S., but rather with the disastrous consequences of Apartheid in her homeland.

Written in 1981, July’s People is set in a future South Africa in which blacks have finally overthrown their white oppressors through the use of extreme violence. The society that cradled Apartheid has been destroyed, as black militias battle the white army for control. The novel centers around the Smales, a liberal white Johannesburg family and their flight from their war-torn home. But this story is not just about them – they are led from the mayhem by their servant of 15 years, a man they only know as July, who takes them to his tribal village in the nation’s interior wilderness. This turning of the tables of dependency in the family and servant’s relationship is what pushes this work forward.

Little “happens” as far as sustained action in July’s People. The war, the fighting, the havoc is all kept on the periphery, heard through jumbled radio broadcasts, second-hand retellings, and pure speculation. What Gordimer focuses on is the interaction of her characters. Objects once meaningless, take on entirely new levels of symbolic importance in this post-Apartheid world. When they flee, July has to drive the Smales’ family vehicle to avoid attracting combative attention. But once the keys are in his possession, July is hesitant to give them back, having acquired a new found power as the sole individual who has the skin color to pass in the new society. Predictably, the Smales’ adaptation to this new dynamic, is less than smooth. Buried tensions come to the surface on both sides, as the characters struggle to accept their new lives. The Smales can only react and their passive response to powerless existences is provocative. The novel begs the reader to ask: What would you do if you were in this position?

What may be most interesting about July’s People, is that for a novel localized around interracial relationships, none of the characters in the novel are complete, appearing as two-dimensional studies of people rather than genuine well-rounded individuals. Perhaps this is deliberate, as Gordimer wants us to focus more the issue of black-white relations than allowing our emotions to become involved. Readers might then take sides and the entire novel rotates on an axis of ambiguity, concerning everything from the motivations of the characters to what the future will bring. We are left in the same limbo as the characters and this achieves an alienating chill which overwhelms the reader. But while Gordimer succeeds in distancing our feelings from clouding our visions of the ideological conflict, this leads to some feelings of indifference. Nowhere does the reader sense the same panic as Maureen Smales as she watches July become less and less subservient and more independent over the course of her family’s stay in his village. Nowhere does the reader see any shred of hope in the novel’s pages. The open-ended conclusion of the work continues in this vain, leaving the reader wondering whether a situation as horrible as Apartheid can ever have a positive outcome. Strangely, as events played in reality, they did and yet this doesn’t undercut the intellectual muscle of the work.

Much of this work is likely Gordimer probing her own conscious and anxieties, as a liberal South African white. The Smales’ never supported Apartheid and pride themselves on how well they treated July while he was in their employment. Yet, they never did anything to change the situation either. To thinkers like Foucault or Fanon, if one does not actively try to revolt against exploitive institutions, a person is therefore indicted in the institutions’ injustices. The Smales’ may feel liberal guilt, but is their guilt for the lower status of blacks in society or because they don’t necessarily want to give up their privileges? These are the questions Gordimer wants us to ponder.

The most revealing aspect of July’s People is how all of Gordimer’s characters devolve into selfishness and greed, and act largely only on part of their own interests. Her portrayal of both races is far from one-sided, far from sympathetic. While the blacks have spent decades under foreign rule in their own land, once they gain a whiff of power, they begin to fight with one another. The future society Gordimer leaves us with is one of absolute chaos and unmitigated hatreds. Even reasons for potential optimisms (like July so graciously trying to help his former employers despite the shade of their skin) are lost as time progresses and old foundations crumble. We all bear the guilt of the societies we create and the ramifications of iniquity seldom are solved through violence. Fortunately, in this case, life didn’t mimic art, and Apartheid ended in a more beneficial manner than Gordimer had imagined. But her work still pertains – race relations, not just in South Africa, but worldwide remained fractured. Guns and bombs are still the path favored by governments and terrorists alike to end disputes. Gordimer shows us a world that is frightening because it is so possible. She reminds us that no change, no matter how needed or worthy, ever comes without consequences.

Restaurant 47: Himalayan Yak

2005-07-08T15:10:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Himalayan Yak Restaurant
LOCATION: 72-20 Roosevelt Avenue, Jackson Heights, Queens
DATE: July 6, 2005
FOOD: Split the following: Goat Sekuwa (Nepalese BBQ Goat); Chilli Chicken; Nepali Dal-Bhat (Dinner platter including Lentil Soup, Mustard Greens, Potato and Black Eye Peas, Cauliflower and Potato Curry, and Rice); Tingmo (Tibetan Steamed Roll).
BEVERAGE: Tap Water
PRICE: $15.00

I have a vision, a dream really. I imagine spending an entire year beneath the tracks of the 7 line in Queens, eating my way through one nationality to the next. I doubt I’d have many bad meals as I gulped down an authentic Mexican meal one night, a raging Thai meal the next. Beneath the 7 tracks lies a world of culinary possibility. Perhaps my dream will become reality sometime in the future. For now, I console myself with random excursions to this gastrointestinal melting pot.

Max and Mina's had been a debacle – two times over. Danny and I, both starved, refused to allow the night to end on such a Coldplay-esque, ear wrenching, down-note. So two food bloggers quickly became food explorers, a Columbus and Vasco de Gama set to eat rather than exploit, armed with cameras instead of smallpox, and Mario Battali inspired joviality in lieu of the “White Man’s Burden” world view of our “noble” forerunners. We decided to take the E train to Jackson Heights and then see where our stomachs directed us. We were both thinking Mexican. But we ended up saving (ourselves for) Tibet.

Nepali and Tibetan cuisine was as new to us as the virgin tracks of the American West to Lewis and Clark. Instead of Sacagawea, we had our waiter, ready to guide us through this novel experience. The menu was divided between Nepalese and Tibetan dishes and we tried to order some of both. We started with the goat sekuwa, which our waiter told us was like barbeque. I hope he meant Korean barbeque, because this was as close to Arthur Bryant’s as Rodney Dangerfield was to ever getting respect.

To goat was served on the bone and covered in a spice rub. Dry and hot, it tasted like a mix of Indian and Thai flavored jerky. Though the meat was overly tough, its unusual zest made it worthwhile.

Next, we moved onto entrees. From the Tibetan side, we selected the chilli chicken, from the Nepali, a platter of vegetable stews called Dal-Bhat. Subtract the saccharine taste of corn syrup from Chinese sweet and sour chicken and add a hint of jalapeno temperature and you’d have something close to Yak’s chilli chicken. The chicken was extravagantly moist and pleasantly stir-fried as opposed to dumped in a deep fryer. Yak did a wonderful job of incorporating enough sweetness into the sauce, but keeping it a savory dish and not bordering on a dessert.

The Dal-Bhat was exceptional. A sampling of various stewed and curried vegetables reminiscent of the Indian food I ate while in Berlin, this was literally a tasting menu in and of itself. Like my recent experience at Devi, I found my childhood holdover detestation of cauliflower was again unfounded and soon forgotten once I tasted Yak’s curry hinted white shrubs, which were combined with delectable potatoes. Smooth and packed with a quiet heat, the saucing of the cauliflower contrasted well with the moderate crunch of the vegetable. An accompanying lentil soup was indulgently salty but refined, Progresso gone Buddhist. The mustard greens were shockingly mild and light, avoiding the bitter tenacity of their relative collard greens. And a final dish even proved that black eyed peas as a vegetable are much more harmonious than Black Eyed Peas the “hip-hop” (I put the term in quotes so as not to insult real hip-hop artists like El-P, Atmosphere, Aesop Rock, etc.) group. Again in this dish, Yak used potatoes well, complimenting the heartiness of the beans with the buttery texture of cloud-like spuds.

Yak’s staff was inviting and casual and made sure the food wasn’t too spicy for us. While we assured them we could have done much hotter, their concern was legitimate, as the restaurant was peopled mostly by non-white faces, always a good sign in any ethnic restaurant. Thus, our exploration proved immensely successful. While we’ve yet to find the Fountain of Youth, our “discovery” of Himalayan Yak at least allowed us a bit of carpe diem assurance after an ice cream meltdown (the bad puns are back!). Hopefully I’ll be grabbed by the spirit of adventure again sometime soon. If I am, I know where my quest will lead - under the 7 tracks, exploring the cultural arcadia blossoming in the subway’s shadows.

RATING: 7.5/10

Just Desserts 12: Max & Mina's

2005-07-07T13:16:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Max & Mina’s
LOCATION: 7126 Main St, Flushing, NY
DATE: July 6, 2005
DESSERT: Large cup with Muffin Batter, Strawberry Oreo, and Donut Ice Creams
PRICE: $4.50

An ice cream interview between an imaginary person with enough free time, lack of employment, or downright idiocy to want to interview me about ice cream.

Interviewer: Why did you go to Max & Mina’s? Aren’t there plenty of ice cream places in Manhattan?

Sure there are, but how many of them serve lox ice cream? Or horseradish? Or clove? That was the draw of Max & Mina’s, the outlandish flavors, the crazy concoctions. Plus it’s Kosher ice cream. If nothing else than for the sheer novelty, it seemed worth the adventure.

Interviewer: How do you get there?

The first time Danny and I visited Max & Mina’s was after Tangra Masala, but the place was closed for a Jewish holiday (Shavout, interestingly a holiday celebrated with lots of dairy) neither he, nor I, nor any of my Jewish friends had ever heard of. We ended up at Serendipity for the disaster that was the Frozen Hot Chocolate.

But anyway, it’s quite a trek out to Max & Main’s. You have to take the E or V train all the way to Kew Gardens, the dodge through JFK bound traffic during a 30 minute walk to 7126 Main St. As you can probably guess, a 30 minute walk each way means this isn’t a journey to enter into lightly and the rewards of the quest had better match the arduous nature of the path required to attain them.

Interviewer: And how was your visit?

Picture yourself walking into a Broadway show. Let’s say you’ve come to Kathleen Turner as Martha in the Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf revival. But you’re informed Kathleen’s role will be played by her understudy. And Bill Irwin, yeah he couldn’t make it either. Same for David Harbour, hell, they’re not even going to use Albee’s play, but a new, contemporized version written by somebody you’ve never heard of.

That’s how Max & Mina’s turned out. Not only were they out of the lox, but also seemingly anything that wasn’t ordinary. No cloves, no Roker-licious (named for Al Roker), no halava, no Ring-Ding, no cinnamon Oreo. This is what they’re known for. They had four(!) chocolate ice creams, but chocolate is pretty standard no matter where you get it. Who needs four chocolate ice creams? On top of that, the ice cream server was incredibly surly and angry, made no apologies for the shortages, and didn’t get either of our orders right.

Interviewer: How can you get an ice cream order wrong?

He told us a large cup has three and a half scoops of ice cream, meaning we could get four different flavors. But he forgot my blintz scoop, though I did get the donut, strawberry Oreo, and muffin batter I had requested. And he forget Danny’s fourth scoop as well. The guy seriously hated his job, fine, but there’s no reason for us to bear his aggression. His slamming down of the ice cream scoop was so overly dramatic, Nathan Lane would have told him to tone down his character.

Interviewer: Well, was the ice cream good at least?

Honestly, not really. It certainly wasn’t atrocious, but it was the least creamy ice cream I’ve had in New York. It flaked like Italian ice. Never have I described ice cream as dry, but Max & Mina’s deserves that description. The donut pieces came in stale chunks that tasted like week old bread. The muffin batter reminded me of the dehydrated blueberries found in breakfast cereals. The strawberry Oreo was the best, but come on, I can get that anywhere. Give me a hummus flavor, give me some lox. That’s what we came for. Though he liked it, I really hated Danny’s frosted flakes flavor which tasted like cereal allowed to sit in milk until it becames soggier than the face of a girl stood up by her prom-date.

The unimaginative nature of the flavors was only compounded by the fact that the base ice cream was below average. Perhaps Otto’s gelato and Chinatown Ice Cream Factory have spoiled me, but I’d rather eat Healthy Choice than Max & Mina’s.

Interviewer: So I take it you’re not going back?

Unless Max & Mina’s moves to Manhattan sometime in the next month or personally calls me and guarantees they’ll have the flavors I want, I’d rather go to Newark, New Jersey, than Max & Mina’s. I can hear, “We’re out of that”, anytime I want to by simply asking a Republican where his compassionate conservatism is located. No ride to Flushing, no 30 minute walk required.

RATING: 3.5/10

Rise and Shine 1: Anita's (Vienna, Virginia)

2005-07-06T14:27:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Anita; Anita's menu; Breakfast Burrito; Enchiladas Rancheros.

***Note: The "Rise and Shine" Feature will be the headline for reviews of Breakfast only restaurants. It will not be retroactively applied to Clinton St. Baking Co. or any other breakfast review***

RESTAURANT: Anita’s
LOCATION: 521 East Maple Avenue, Vienna, Virginia
DATE: July 4, 2005
FOOD: Enchiladas Rancheros (Cheese Filled Corn Enchiladas topped with Two Eggs Over Easy, Red Chile Sauce, Cheese, Shredded Lettuce and Served with Refried Beans and Tortillas); Breakfast Burrito with Ham, Cheese, Scrambled Eggs, and Red Chile Sauce; Side of Hashbrowns.
BEVERAGE: Decaf Coffee
PRICE: Courtesy of my father (around $15.00)

Pancakes, scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, refried beans with green chile.

Which of the four isn’t like the others?

The answer, according to my childhood at least, is none – they’re all alike. All four go together like middle school and awkwardness, like Juster’s The Phantom Tollbooth and summer break reading, like Mexican food and breakfast. Noting electrifies sleep dulled senses quite like jalapeno humidity at 9 a.m.

The original Anita’s, a Saturday family tradition and a Vienna landmark, was the official beginning of most great weekends of my pre-college existence. With a lineage that includes being the birthplace of the breakfast burrito and the favored Washington area eatery of Anwar Sadat during the Carter Administration, Anita’s opened in Vienna 30 years ago and has been turning out New Mexico Mexican (the slight difference between New Mexican and normal Mexican food is in the chiles, but the food at Anita’s would be recognizable to even the annoying Taco Bell dog) specialties ever since. If you’re lucky, you might even catch a glimpse of Anita Tellez herself, her white mane all a furl, as she slips from her Jaguar into the kitchen, an early hour check-up on her flagship restaurant.

Dinner and lunch at Anita’s each offer an extensive list of notable dishes, but there’s something singularly reckless and carefree, like cold pizza the morning after a hangover, about chips and salsa for breakfast. Now, an adult (or close to it) fully immersed in the revelatory restaurants of New York, on this July 4th, I was the prodigal son returned, ready to test whether a cherished childhood memory could live up to my (hopefully) matured and refined perspective.

The answer: yes and no.

So much was just as I remembered. The hearty breakfast burrito was filled with fluffy scrambled eggs and generous chunks of ham. The mild red chile sauce flooded over the tortilla, the burrito an emerged submarine in an ocean of pepper spice and cheese gooeyness. It all tasted so familiar, so outstanding, and yet like an old school Dr. J jersey, so retro-chic. And the enchiladas rancheros were exactly as I’d left them – the yolks of the over-easy eggs forming a freakishly tasty eye-opener when co-joined with the smooth refried beans, layers of cheese and chile and crunchy shredded lettuce. The corn enchiladas were even slightly dry and overcooked like edge of the pan hardened lasagna noodles – just as they’d always been, just as I’d grown accustomed to.

So the walk down memory lane was perfect, right? I was a kid again. I’d gone home.

Well, not exactly.

My father’s tried and true egg and chorizo quesadilla (which he pronounces K?(he says que like its a question)-S-A-Dee-A), had gone from a past of crisp attractiveness to a present of oily secretion, the tortilla exuding the uncharacteristic color of plaqued fat. The cubed potatoes, once pillowy inside with a roasted pepper crust on the outside, were now tough throughout, like partially ripened fruit. And then there was the service, a half-asleep nightmare of wrongly itemized bills, forgotten requests, and apologies from the kitchen (not to mention my very disgruntled father). This was not the Anita’s I had loved.

Constancy is an illusion. The Anita’s I knew in younger years still draws breathe, but it has aged just as much as I have. The breakfast burrito can brighten any day, but like the manor in Poe’s “Fall of the House of Usher”, Anita’s might have seen its better days. But like I said, nothing is permanent. The food at Anita’s, for the most part, is still delicious. Maybe Anita’s will get its second wind and improved service. And I can promise, after all the memories it’s given me, I’ll be going back again to find out if it does.

RATING: 7.0/10

Restaurant 46: Una Pizza Napoletana

2005-07-01T15:27:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Una Pizza Napoletana
LOCATION: 349 E 12th St
DATE: June 26, 2005
FOOD: Margherita Pizze: San Marzano tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, extra-virgin olive oil, fresh basil, sea salt
BEVERAGE: Lemon-lime Italian Soda
PRICE: $24.00

THE MISSION

“Pizza – a word known all over the world, from New York City to Los Angeles, from Paris to Tokyo. It is a word used to describe many products; deep-dish, cracker thin, stuffed crust, etc. However, the meaning of the word “pizza” has been misunderstood and misrepresented over the years. Pizza only means one thing. It is Neapolitan – the word, the definition, the product. The word is a slang Neapolitan pronunciation of the word “pita”. The history of pizza possibly can be traced back to the very beginnings of man and fire. Certainly, the pizza eaten today in the backstreets of Napoli is linked directly to the flat bread baked in Pompeii 2,000 years ago. This said, all the square, round, thick, stuffed and over-topped pieces of dough may be to your liking, but don’t call it pizza.”

THE MAN

Anthony Mangieri is passionate about pizza. His arms covered like a canvas with tattoos in place of Botticelli’s Venus, Mangieri is perhaps the most devoted pizza chef one could ever hope to meet. Though to call him a chef is unfair. If food can be art, then Mangieri is the consummate representation of an artist. To say his pizzas are made with care is a drastic understatement. His is a labor of love, and every savory bite of his pizzas testifies to his unwavering integrity.

Rare is it when a restaurant covers their menu with a food philosophy, but rarer still is when this philosophy means a condemnation of 99% of the other food called by the same name. But at Mangieri’s Una Pizza Napoletana, only true, Napoli style pizza is served in just four varieties. Baked in a brick oven starting at five pm and going until the dough runs out, Thursday through Sunday, Mangieri provides diner’s with an incorruptible view of commitment and dedication – not to mention, the most outstanding pizza outside of Italy. The entire menu details each of the pizza ingredient’s history, from the crushed wheat used in the crust, to the freshness Mangieri requires in his buffalo cheese, to the his finely selected sea salt. When eating at Una Pizza, you know you’re eating only the highest standard ingredients. Mangieri doesn’t cut corners – the results of this are obvious in his pizza’s sublime taste.

As the above menu excerpt shows, the pizza at Una Pizza’s (don’t you dare mix it up with Uno’s) is a very specific breed. Unlike more bastardized American forms, Una Pizza serves only Italian pizza. Outside of tomatoes, cheese, salt, garlic and basil, there are no other toppings. Asking for pepperoni here would be like the monks who blaspheme God in the presence of Pope John in Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose (review coming soon). You just don’t do it.

Yet, calling Mangieri the “Pizza Nazi” would be inaccurate and unjust. He cooks not out of anger, but because he wants to offer New Yorkers a chance to enjoy true pizza. Truly, we should all thank him for allowing us the opportunity.

THE PIZZA

Mangieri only makes whole pies. Not only does he not offer individual slices, he does not even slice the pizza at all. Diners are provided with a fork and knife and can do their own cutting. As Mangieri tells us in the menu, this is the way pizza is served in Italy and thus the way it is served at Una Pizza as well.

If Domino’s and Pizza Hut are not just palatable but downright delicious to you, avoid Una Pizza. During my visit, there was a family with many children harassing the already taxed waiter. Their requests for toppings and extra large pizzas seemed entirely inappropriate. Their parents would have been better served taking them down the street to get a slice from Nino’s. Una Pizza’s pizza requires an attuned appreciation. This isn’t Digornio, this isn’t Papa John’s. The pizzas are fairly, if somewhat under-priced at $17 each. The cost is admittedly abnormal, but undeniably worth every penny. But the cost is something to keep in mind when you choose a dining companion. As a word of advice, make sure you go with someone who won’t find the price-tag shocking and will appreciate the very best. You wouldn’t take a lover of Mad Dog to the Napa Valley now would you?

Danny and I both ordered the Margherita pizza. When the pizza arrived, I was first struck by its uncomplicated exquisiteness. Leaves of basil circle around the pizza’s center loose and beautiful. Clouds of cheese partially cover a crushed tomato surface that is at once rustic and refined. And finely, there is the crust with its edges slightly blackened from the brick oven. Thin, but not wafer-like, the crust forms an imperfect round, a reminder that the dough is handmade and each pizza made to order. In appearance, it harkens the Italian flag.

As for the taste, there is no equal. Di Fara’s serves a completely different style, while DeNino’s, though similar, still doesn’t match Una Pizza. A bite incorporating all the ingredients, basil, olive oil, tomatoes, salt, cheese, and crust, is enough to leave one speechless. The freshness and purity of the ingredients is evident in every chew. The crust is masterful, the work of a genius, somehow managing to be thick enough to avoid ever becoming soggy, while still maintaining the slimness required by Mangieri’s adopted food-view. Amazingly, it’s soft, tender interior is surrounded by a crisp outside providing the perfect level of chewy pliancy. Imagine your favorite bagel. Una Pizza’s crust is superior. But it’s not one single part of the pizza that makes it so astounding. It’s the harmonious interplay and cohesiveness of the sum of all the parts. The basil tastes like it came straight from the garden. The sea salt is coarse and loud, blending perfectly with the polished silkiness of the extra virgin olive oil. The olive oil is as pure as any I’ve tasted. Then there is the cheese – Artisinal could not offer you a superior. It melted without any signs of stringiness, becoming almost like cream when it entered my mouth. And finally the ripe tomatoes, pert and robust, bursting with a summer flavor that is the essence of Italy. Each of these ingredients would be immensely satisfying on their own – together, they are a vision of heaven here on earth.

I visited Una Pizza on Sunday. Every day since, the pizza has been on my mind, provoking my thoughts like an intricately plotted novel or film. My plate was left completely clear – I found every last drop of oil with my crust. Una Pizza hasn’t ruined all other pizza for me. Instead, it has only sparked my desire to learn more – and to travel to Italy as soon as possible. I can now rest assured that I have had the best pizza in New York. The world needs more people like Anthony Mangieri, willing to make art wherever possible. Una Pizza is no museum, but the pizza is certainly worthy of being commemorated for all eternity.

RATING: 10/10

Book 13: Sent For You Yesterday, by John Edgar Wideman (Infinite Feast XX)

2005-06-30T17:31:00.000-04:00

Paperback: 208 pages
Publisher: Mariner Books; Reprint edition (April 15, 1998)

Sent for you yesterday, and here you come today.

It only makes sense that one of the main themes of John Edgar Wideman’s Pen/Faulkner Award winning novel, Sent For You Yesterday, should find expression in a song. Any novel written with the musical lyricism and jive, stream of consciousness language Wideman employs is attempting to bridge the gap between music and literature. Wideman takes the blues out of the jazz clubs and places it squarely on the page for the readers’ benefit. Sent For You Yesterday is a marvel to read, not only for its eloquent exposition of urban African American culture, but also simply for the beauty of Wideman’s words.

If James Joyce had been born in inner city Pittsburgh instead of Dublin, his writing would most likely have sounded much like Wideman’s. Wideman shifts flawlessly from one characters' thoughts to the next, detailing the exclusion felt by the albino Brother in an all black community, to the lunacy of Samantha, a mother of over 10 children who loses her mind when one of her children burns to death. World War II clouds over this novel in the same way World War I is the ever-present unmentioned in Woolf’s To The Lighthouse. Wideman draws on the modernists, but in a completely original manner. The lives he shows us are real and hard, their importance obviously apparent but unbearably tragic. Through it all, Wideman’s characters persevere, suffering through life, even as they acknowledge it will only get worse. In their brave embrace of life, there is a profound sublimity. One consolation is music – it is also their heritage for people otherwise without possessions.

Any discussion of the characters in Sent For You Yesterday must begin by first acknowledging that the Pittsburgh area of Homewood is the main character. Though he is wanted by the police for sleeping with a white woman, Albert Wilkes’ has to return to Homewood. The place draws him back. He has traveled for seven years but only in Homewood does he feel at home. His re-arrival in Homewood frames the novel’s first section, while the rest of the book focuses on Lucy Tate, the narrator’s Uncle Carl, and Lucy’s surrogate brother called only Brother, and their relative inability to leave Homewood at all. The gravity of the town seems to possess the work’s human characters. Homewood exerts a force originating out of its inescapable history; even as its houses crumble, its people drink and drug themselves to death, and poverty comes to dominate like a despot, Lucy, Carl, and Brother stay fixed, attached to each other, but more so to the place. The only of the self-termed “Three Musketeers” who figures out a way to leave Homewood is Brother and he does so through suicide, symbolically mauled by the town’s lone link to the outside world, a freight train.

Wideman presents his characters not as emblems pleading for our sympathy, but in a matter of fact manner that seems to say: take them as they are or don’t take them at all, either way, your opinion isn’t going to mean much to them. Even as he chronicles the socioeconomic decline from one generation to the next, his characters never turn to external factors to lay blame for their misfortunes. As Carl eloquently recalls about his temporary drug addiction, he enjoyed crack and shot up because of the pleasure. It was his choice, no one else’s. There was no coercion, just as it was his decision to stop. While the oppressive presence of white people hangs over all, penetrating the character’s psyches as if by osmosis, Wideman doesn’t succumb to angry finger pointing. Wideman suggests that the horrendous level of disrespect with which white people treat African Americans has bored into the black mind to such a degree, that the residents of Homewood have internalized and eventually accepted the idea that they are somehow lesser than. It has become so second-hand, the idea isn’t even perceptible anymore. It’s just a part of life, like Carl’s pot belly or the shared affinity for Iron City beer. And it is the subtlety of this presentation of the ramifications of segregation and racism that makes it so effective. How can characters ask for empathy when they can’t even realize they would ever deserve it? The bluesy expression “been down so long don’t even know what’s up,” floats between the lines of Sent For You Yesterday like the lingering echo of a melancholy piano chord.

Wideman justly won the Pen/Faulkner Award for Sent For You Yesterday. His innovative utilization of “authentically black” language provides the dialect and characters with a respect they never afforded themselves. Wideman takes the tuneful acoustics of street slang and transforms the speech into high art. Not since Faulkner has a specific time and place been depicted so accurately and with such heartfelt compassion. Wideman has saved a culture and past from oblivion by rendering it as adeptly as he manages in this novel. In a present when Snoop Dogg and 50 Cent are the most ubiquitous signs of black culture, Wideman reminds all Americans that African Americans have existed and will continue to do so as an incredibly cohesive community and one that we should honor with more than Senate apologies. Wideman illustrates an unshakeable integrity pulsating in a dereliction few of us have or will ever be forced to witness. Whether Homewood’s characters comprehend it or not, they are resilient, and far from pity, should receive only our admiration for not bowing to life’s burdens. As for Wideman, he should continue to receive praise, as an achievement such as Sent For You Yesterday, like the world it defines, must never be forgotten.

Restaurant 45: The Cotton Club (Infinite Feast XX)

2005-06-29T15:54:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: The Cotton Club
LOCATION: 656 W 125th St, Harlem
DATE: June 26, 2005
FOOD: Open Buffet including Fried Chicken, Potato Salad, Cornbread, Grits, Scrambled Eggs, Red Snapper, Beet Salad, Buttered Rolls, Black Beans and Rice, Collared Greens, Sweet Potatoes, Stewed Tomatoes, Fried Chicken Livers and a slice of Carrot Cake.
BEVERAGE: Diet Coke
PRICE: (for show and food) $36.73

Combine uplifting gospel music, stomach-pounding southern soul food, a history of white oppression and busloads of tourists and what do you get? Harlem’s historic Cotton Club, situated in West Harlem, just a block from the river (and from Dinosaur BBQ). While most of my Sunday mornings don’t involve praising the Lord as much as sleeping until the arrival of afternoon, the weekly Sunday brunch and Gospel show at the Cotton Club was an eye-opening experience both figuratively and literally.

The Cotton Club originally opened in 1923, after boxer Jack Johnson sold the failed Club De Lux to a syndicate of mobsters. The Cotton Club became a spot not only for flaunting the restrictions of prohibition but also as a stage for the world’s best black entertainers, including everyone from Duke Ellington to Lena Horne. What makes the Cotton Club’s history all the more complex is that due to a “white only” policy, the clientele of the Club were generally ritzy, wealthy, and white. Reopened on West 125th St. in 1978, the Club now thankfully allows all races to enter. The Club’s mission is to keep alive an element of the city’s legacy.

Brunch at the Cotton Club includes a live gospel performance, with a host of vocalists accompanied by a jazz band. Clouded by a hangover from an apartment party the night before, as the lead vocalist praised God for being able to answer any of our prayers, all I really wanted was for Him to reduce the relentless pounding in my head. It being Sunday, He was probably busy attending more pious requests, as my brain throbbing continued unabated throughout the meal.

However, though my mind was a mess, the Cotton Club had my gut provided for. A lavish buffet including just about every single soul food dish imaginable (save fried Okra, which sadly, I still have never tried) called to me with its promise of greasy redemption. Reviewing a buffet is difficult because how a food tastes depends extensively on the factors of temperature and the time between preparation and eating. Even Thomas Keller’s “Coffee and Doughnuts” would become unappealing sitting under a heat lamp for four hours.

With that said, the Cotton Club puts on a very nice spread. Fresh food is constantly being brought from the kitchen and what is already out, though not hot, is at least adequately warm. The best salads were the traditional potato salad, using Yukon spuds and a mayonnaise-mustard base and the orange-flavored beet salad. The salad sparked memories of childhood barbeques with its simple peppery creaminess, while the beet salad was a bit more special, the bitterness of the oranges melding nicely with the pungent uniqueness of widely sliced beets.

Fried foods are especially problematic for buffets and the overly greasy nature of the Cotton Club’s fried chicken was only exacerbated by its tepid heat. The rest of the buffet was a litany of up and downs mimicking the tribulations of the characters in John Edgar Wideman’s Sent For You Yesterday, the reason for this, the 20th meeting of Infinite Feast. The scrambled eggs possessed a pleasant cheesiness, while the grits were excessively dry and lackluster. Chunks of sweet potatoes had been flavored splendidly with brown sugar and molasses while the macaroni and cheese was as unremarkably predictable as Trent Lott refusing to support the Senate’s apology for lynching Black Americans. The red snapper was refreshingly buoyant and seasoned with a New Orleans flair, but the collard greens tasted as brackish as raked leaves left to ferment in a diseased cesspool of puddle water.

My favorite two items were actually both of the breads. The cornbread was dense and smoky, the type of rich, un-crumbly cornbread perfect for soaking up leftover sauce and drippings. Additionally, the buttered rolls were exceptionally light and, well, buttery, tasting almost like a croissant gone Cajun. During the performance, the Cotton Club’s servers came around with a selection of cakes, from which I selected the carrot. While Wideman’s language focused on using only words that were essential, the Cotton Club took the exact opposite approach to their application of frosting on the cake, lathering enough of the tongue-turning sweetness to make Serendipity’s application of whipped cream seem delicate.

One doesn’t visit the Cotton Club mainly for the food. It’s a chance to partake in part of New York City’s past that though objectionable, is inescapable and enlightening. While the subdued white tourists failed to swing with the same graceful rhythm as the band, it was nice to see that some traditions never die – even if they do become more spectacle than reverence. Viewing the passionate faith on the singers’ faces and those of some audience members, was the most spiritual and moving part of the Cotton Club experience, making the price of admission worthwhile. An opportunity to glimpse a shade of New York’s history, specifically that dealing with a policy of segregation too often forgotten, is reason enough to venture up to Harlem. Throw in foot-thumping music and a touch of finger-licking soul cuisine, and you got yourselves the making of a memorable Sunday morning, even if you’re unaccostumed to getting out of bed at that ungodly hour of 11 am.

RATING: 6.0/10

Restaurant 44: Mamlouk

2005-06-28T16:25:00.000-04:00

Row 1: Yogurt Dip; Avocado Dip; Salad. Row 2: Falafel and fried cheese; Chickpeas in tomato sauce; Sea-Bass. Row 3: Lamb meatballs; Fried onions over rice and pasta; Baklava.

RESTAURANT: Mamlouk
LOCATION: 211 E. 4th St.
DATE: June 25, 2005
FOOD: Six course shared tasting, including: Plate of carrot sticks, olives, and pickled turnips; Pita Bread and Herbed Flatbread with Mid-Eastern Guacamole, Baba Ganoush, Hummus, Yogurt Dip, Red Pepper Dip, and Stuffed Grape Leaves; Salad with Vinaigrette; Falafel and Fried Cheese; Chickpeas in Tomato Sauce, Chilean Sea Bass with Tomatoes, Saffron Rice; Lamb Sausage, Pasta and Rice with Fried Onions, Stewed Eggplant and Tomatoes; Baklava.
BEVERAGE: Shared bottle of House Merlot; Almaza (Lebanese Beer); Mint Tea (complimentary with dessert)
PRICE: $65.00

A great meal usually involves more than just eating. Food is transformed from a mere consumable to a facilitator for conversation, a reason to gather amongst friends, and a pleasure lasting long after the final plate has been cleared and the bill paid. Mamlouk, situated in the East Village, induces such an experience twice nightly, at 7 and 9 pm. Mamlouk is an experience, a feasting for mind and stomach, but also an occasion that it’s essential to share with friends, especially those ready to exchange ideas in an environment that seemingly seduces the thoughts right out of you.

Mamlouk’s serves a six course smorgasbord, with dishes that change nightly. At most restaurants, having absolutely no say over what one dines on would be a scenario as frightening as witnessing your parents at a nudist colony. But at Mamlouk, you’re in good hands and contrary to FDR’s maxim, the only thing you have to fear is not having enough space to devour all of chef/owner’s Salam al-Rawi (also the owner of Moustache) out-of-this-world creations. Mamlouk isn’t just an introductory handshake to Mid-Eastern flavors, it’s a great big, bone crunching, Meatloaf from Fight Club, bear hug of an initiation. If frat hazings were this enjoyable, everyone would have pledged.

The $35 prix-fixe (with such a low price, how Mamlouk stays in business is a mystery) begins with a delicious crudite platter. While Thomas and I waited for his girlfriend Berthsy to arrive, we exhausted the raw carrots, olives and particularly intriguing pickled turnip slices almost unconsciously. But the festivities were only beginning. The meze course which followed was not only marvelously tasty, but an all-encompassing display of Mid-Eastern dips and spreads. The hummus was light and fluffy while the red pepper dip sang with a piquant sweetness. The less well-known dips were even more astounding, most notably an avocado and tomato spread reminiscent of guacamole, but seasoned with a spicing Turkish and Iraqi in origin, a mixture of Ataturk and Poncho Villa in one. The yogurt dip hinted at traditional Greek tzatiki, but expanded in another direction, reducing the cucumber sweetness of the Greek version in favor of a robust tomato. What made the dips all the more combustive were the pillow soft warmed mini-pitas and pizza like herbed Mid-Eastern flatbread. The flatbread came covered in an olive oil and parsley mixture that worked perfectly on the crusty base.

Such an opening could have been a meal in and of itself, but there was more, much more in fact, to come. A crisp, summer salad, doused in a fragrant and simple vinaigrette, readied us for a subsequent pairing of fried favorites. Mamlouk’s falafel packed an unforgettable crunch and beautifully blended chickpea and parsley filling, sparked by a trace of mint. However, the fried cheese and phyllo-dough triangles dominated my attention. The gooey cheese, which Berthsy, a chef herself, said reminded her of the Greek cheese Haloumi, melted without becoming stringy, brilliantly offset by the oiled exterior of the phyllo encasing. Again, like so much that night at Mamlouk, each taste built off another, complimenting and enhancing, in the same way a great writer like Philip Roth, adds layer after layer of meaning to the narrative in his American Pastoral.

Chilean sea bass is to today’s restaurants, what scallops were a few years back. It’s an “it” food, seemingly appearing on every menu from Kittichai to BLT Fish. Hopefully this saturation won’t lead to overexposure, because as Mamlouk’s tomato, shallot, and garlic topped version exemplified, this fish is popular for good reason. The sea bass was firm but moist, and the acidity of the saucing drew out the fish’s natural oils succulently. The boldness of the saucing worked because the fish had been altered so minimally, basically pan fried and then served. This course also included a beautiful yellow saffron rice and chickpeas in a tangy tomato puree. The chickpeas harkened to Afghani cuisine and highlighted the way Mamlouk, though its owners are Iraqi, summon the flavors of the entire Mid-Eastern world and all its diverse flavorings, in their cooking.

Our final main course centered around sensational lamb meatballs, spicy and brash. Continuing the tomato based theme of the meal, the meatballs came drizzled with marinara like sauce and the entire dish could have been an example of Italian-Iraqi fusion. Though I’m not sure this exists officially as of yet, give Jean-Georges a few years and I’m sure he’ll coin the phrase. An excellent medley of stewed eggplant and tomatoes joined with a tart and acerbic mixture of fried onions, macaroni pasta and rice. That the pasta and rice functioned as superbly as it did was due to the similarity of the grains and the sinfully delicious greasiness of the same fried onions Americans usually reserve for Thanksgiving French bean casseroles. The prix-fixe concluded on a flaky and slightly dry baklava that was the least exciting item of the evening, but after so many successes, Mamlouk could have forced us to watch Tariq Aziz debate George Bush and we’d still have left happy.

Perhaps it was the cushiony benches or the candlelit glow of Mamlouk, but our dialogue flowed like the Euphrates throughout the meal’s duration. From Karl Rove’s exploitative politics to how Pynchon took a class with Nabakov but the two only remembered each other with mild bitterness, our conversation roamed everywhere. Mamlouk felt and appeared as I imagine an Iraqi hookah and tea bar actually is, with stimulating conversation brought about by intelligent companions and an inviting atmosphere. Our only interruption came when a belly dancer performed her art in-between the tables. It was yet another considerate touch of authenticity, another way to make dinner something more than the sum of food and wine. Despite being nestled inauspiciously on 4th St., I felt dreamily far away. All I can hope for is that this is only my first of one thousand and one nights (Scheherazade I am not) at Mamlouk.

RATING: 9.0/10

Restaurant 43: Devi

2005-06-27T19:59:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: The interior of Devi on 18th St.; Mung Bean Chaat; Mango Cheesecake; Tandoor Lamb Chops.

RESTAURANT: Devi
LOCATION: 8 East 18th St.
DATE: June 24, 2005
FOOD: Restaurant week 3-courses: Mung Bean Chaat (sprouted mung bean salad, roasted papadam); Tandoor Grilled Lamb Chops (pear chutney, curry leaf potatoes); Mango Cheesecake (Rosewater almond cookie, rose sauce and candied mango peel and fresh mango slaw, mango crisp); Naan; Basmati Rice.
BEVERAGE: French 18 (Bourbon and Pineapple Cocktail); Bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon
PRICE: Courtesy of my Dad

Devi is about home-cooking – if your home were in India. Usually, gourmet food is about flaunting convention. Chefs use their food as an edible display of not only their art, but their ambition as well. Up-scale ethnic restaurants are seldom able to succeed without incorporating outside influences, pushing food that is more about fusion than tradition. But at Devi, co-executive chefs Suvir Saran and Hemant Mathur engage in what their website terms the “reconstruction” of authentic Indian flavors. At a time when Wylie Dufresne and Thomas Keller attempt to deconstruct every culinary commonplace out there, from snickers to foie gras, Saran and Mathur’s motivations are swimming against the current. However, Devi is an unquestionable success and an indication that sticking to tradition doesn’t always have to mean succumbing to the mundane.

Saran and Mathur evidently understand the link between the food one eats and the atmosphere in which one eats it. Devi is decorated in bold, bright colors which are mellowed by toned down lighting. The décor evokes both a contemporary India and the comfortable plush seating of an intimate home. Upon first entering the restaurant, an aromatic whirlwind uplifts the senses in an air as evocative as one of Arundhati Roy’s metaphors in The God of Small Things.

The cocktail list offers selections varying from the capricious to the chic. The French 18 combined the sweetness of pineapple, an Indian staple, with brash bourbon and its western imperial foundations. Devi incorporates all of India and the country’s history into its menu.

The intricate network of spice in our appetizers crept upon us with the slow heat of a Bombay summer. In my mung bean chat, the salad’s traditional fried spinach leaves were provocatively replaced with the wafer-like crunch of papadum. The beans themselves tasted like sweetened barley and were seasoned with chaat masala, a mixture that Saran told Mark Bittman of the New York Times, is commonly found in most Indian grocery stores. Even better was Danny’s Manchurian cauliflower, in which the vegetable was pan-fried and then covered by a richly garlic and exotic tomato sauce illustrating the bond between Chinese and Indian cuisine in the same way as Tangra Masala.

The Tandoor grilled lamb chops are Devi’s specialty and for obvious reason. The lamb is tender like a French style roast, but hidden in the grill lines are a blissful hint of curry. However, the lamb explodes once the accompanying pear chutney is added onto the meat, all the spicy-sweetness of more traditional Indian chutneys exemplified in the medley.

What is especially amazing about Devi is how “clean” the food is. At lower tier Indian restaurants, dishes are often submerged in a dense miasma of partially congealed oils. But Devi serves Indian that is as light as Japanese, as crisp as Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children is imaginative. This was perhaps nowhere more finely illustrated than in the chicken pista, my father’s entrée. Chunks of chicken are immersed in an emerald sauce bursting with the sultry flavors of cilantro, pistachio and green chilis. The color is playful, highlighting the green of its composite ingredients. But what is tremendous is the taste. Waves of spiciness and cool bombard the tongue with the directed wildness of Fantasia. The dish achieves a level of sophisticated contrast that amazes.

Dessert was another showcase of riches. As Cheesecake Factory’s continue there spread to every mall in American, one would think the death of the cheesecake is right around the corner. Not if Devi’s pastry chef, Surbhi Sahni (also Mathur’s wife) has anything to do with it. Her mango cheesecake was as weightless as refined panna cotta with an appearance reminiscent of flan. The mango was present, but not overused as the cake was more creamy the fruity. More outstanding was the mango slaw paired with the cheesecake, which drew out the semi-latent intensity of the cheesecake like a psychoanalyst calls forth neurosis. Jaw-dropping occurred from all those at the table.

In an essay in his collection “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” novelist David Foster Wallace analyzes the world of contemporary literature, especially the architects of postmodernism. He concludes that while the works of DeLillo and Gaddis, Pynchon and Gass, provide penetrating insights into a culture of consumerism that can only lead to a dead end, removing our connection to ourselves and one another, literature will also reach a state of oblivion if it loses all touch with the humanistic and more realistic driven style of the past. Taken to an extreme, the esoteric and obscure devolves into chaos. Wallace’s argument finds an echo at Devi. At this restaurant, tradition is not something to be ridiculed and overturned, but rather a core to revel in and learn from. The food might not be simple, but the concept is. Devi is that rare experience where a forwarding looking rendition on the past is used to create a present which is purely sublime.

RATING: 8.8/10

Restaurant 42: Alfanoose

2005-06-24T16:38:00.000-04:00

The World Trade Center Memorial near Alfanoose; Chicken Pie; Baklava; Falafel Sandwich.

RESTAURANT: Alfanoose
LOCATION: 8 Maiden Lane
DATE: June 20, 2005
FOOD: Falafel Sandwich; Chicken Pie; Vegetarian Kibbeh (Shared); Baklava (Shared)
BEVERAGE: Bottled Water
PRICE: Courtesy of Danny, courtesy of being a para-legal

If you’re going to make the claim you have the best falafel in New York City, you better have the chick peas to back it up. And if you’re then going to choose to locate your restaurant in the culinary wasteland that is the Financial District, your food had better be damn near revelatory. Alfanoose, despite initially handicapping itself with these (possible) limitations, manages to surpass expectations, serving falafel that would leave any skeptic speechless.

Falafel must be fresh. Fried food that sits in a basket hours before being consumed becomes as disappointingly lifeless and unappetizingly sodden as Paul Bowles’ spoiled, drifting characters, desperately searching for answers in the North African desert landscape in The Sheltering Sky. Each order of falafel at Alfanoose is made as the customer orders. The chick pea mounds are scooped like ice cream, shaped, and then placed in a fryer. Before being placed on pita bread, the falafel drops are slightly squished, so that the intense spices can mingle with the sharp tahini sauce and crisp vegetables. The innovative addition of pickles, added an intriguingly sour and wonderfully successful contrast to the sandwiches already complex taste.

Alfanoose’s website advertises their falafel as New York’s finest and has the word of New York Magazine to back this up. I certainly haven’t tried nearly enough of this city’s falafel to know whether such a proposition is valid and unlike Bill O’Reilly, I try not to speak on things I know very little about. But I will assert that Alfanoose’s falafel is by far the best I’ve had, in this city or any other. It is the incredible mix of spices that make this an exceptional item. Coriander, garlic, cumin were all present, but so too were many more subtle ingredients I couldn’t quite place. The shell is crunchy, the inside soft, but with enough stiffness to prevent the falafel from subversive mushiness. If the pita had been heated instead of rolled at room temperature, this sandwich would have been perfect. Unless you’re dealing with a prostitute donning a Ph.D, seldom does something with this intricate web of complexity come with such a cheap price-tag – five dollars to be exact.

But Alfanoose is about more than falafel. The menu is surprisingly extensive for a restaurant primarily dedicated to the take-out orders of Thomas Pink shirt wearing investment bankers. The chicken pie, filled with tender pulled chicken in an aromatic yet mild red sauce, was to chicken pot pie what Manhattan clam chowder is to the creamed New England soup. The flaky crust was more bread than pie, but delightful regardless. Less well known dishes also make an appearance, proving that no restaurant is too small or inexpensive to successfully challenge established palates. The vegetarian kibbeh reminded me of Havana Chelsea’s stuffed corn tamale, though only in texture, as the seasoning of the kibbeh was entirely Mid-Eastern in origin. The blending of bitter swiss-chard, slightly sweet pomegranate juice, and tart lemon and mint, awakened dormant taste-buds. Hesitant at first, I became more and more enamored by this novel, grain based minced “pie”. The nonchalant baklava was bland and run of the mill, but the only negative of the entire meal.

I’ve lived in the financial district for nearly a year now. Suffering through the desolated weekend sidewalks, wind-tunnel Wall Street hurricanes, and eerily quiet evenings, I’ve had more than my share of complaints with the area. But now, just as I’m moving out, I’ve discovered a reason to stay. While Alfanoose’s sublime falafel couldn’t quite induce me to change my plans, it did cause me to reconsider them, if even only for an instant. In a wilderness of steeled metallic skyscrapers and their towering, isolating glassed facades, Alfanoose is a soulful reminder of authenticity in an area generally lacking in such visible integrity. I’ll still be moving, but at least I now have a reason to come back.

RATING: 8.0/10

Book 12: The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, by Thomas S. Kuhn

2005-06-23T16:37:00.000-04:00

The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, by Thomas S. Kuhn

Paperback: 226 pages
Publisher: University Of Chicago Press; 3rd edition (December 15, 1996)

Paradigm shift.

The expression is part of our common vernacular now, used in IBM commercials, spouted by the title character of D.B. Pierre’s Booker Prize winning novel, Vernon God Little. But like many other oft-repeated catch phrases (Coach Pat Reilly’s copyrighted “3peat” is one example) achieving cultural ubiquity, the phrase has a definitive origin, even if that source is obscure – Thomas S. Kuhn, professor of science and philosophy at such noteworthy academic institutions as Berkeley, Princeton, and MIT. His ideas have permeated throughout society even if his name has not.

Kuhn’s main argument in The Structure of Scientific Revolutions is that science advances not in the slowly modified baby steps of Darwinian evolution, but rather in grand leaps, divided and set-off from previous interpretations. When science changes, it occurs dramatically, sparked by a crisis that begs for resolution. These pivoted marks, these rewriting of scientific certainties, show how science is far from a fixed entity, but rather as malleable and capable of change as an organism. Changes of this nature Kuhn labels paradigms and they are what impel science forward.

These replacements do not always occur cleanly. Many professionals in the scientific field undergoing such a transformation resist the change, clinging to the universal “truth” they have worked their entire careers to solidify and prove. Kuhn leaves it to younger generations, those who have missed the blinding indoctrination caused by an education founded in the older paradigm. The colloquialism “think outside of the box”, might provoke Kuhn to shiver if he were still alive as it has been used and abused in an awful fashion. But it is the popularized tagline of one of his most fundamental ideas. It is only those innovators, those renegades possessed with a foresight they might not even recognize, that can see around the problems of one paradigm in order to create another. Just as self-help gurus dumb-down Heidegger’s philosophy, so too does Kuhn’s complexity suffer from popular oversimplification.

It is Kuhn’s view of interpretation that offers his most groundbreaking intellectual extensions. Kuhn attempts to destroy the concept of the objective man of science, the scientist led by facts, who is not biased by any personal convictions, but merely exposing the facts of nature that his laboratory experiments reveal. Kuhn rejects this notion with the acumen of his scientific background, moving beyond theory and into practice. In his mind, hypothesis so often are supported by experiments, because the scientists’ personal opinions lead to findings which correlate with what they already knew. They are looking to support their accepted paradigm. Information or data that falls out or cannot be explained by the paradigm is ignored, or put aside. But it is when these very problems come to impede progress too significantly that paradigm shifts occur. Think of Copernicus dealing with the errors of the Ptomelic universe or Einstein showing that Newton’s laws only operated in very specific cases.

Scientists are interesting in solving the puzzles that their particular paradigm presents. In this stance, there are two key points. The first is that all scientists (while Kuhn doesn’t want us to, can we extend this to all academics or even all people? As Ignatius Reilly reminds us in Confederacy of Dunces, we all have our particular worldview) subscribe to a distinct paradigm. If they didn’t, they couldn’t engage in research. The paradigm sets the parameters for both the how and the what the research will attempt to resolve. The second point is that scientists focus mainly on the puzzles that their paradigm need solved. The same paradigm can be viewed by scientists in different fields for completely opposing ends and thus the puzzles they set out to solve will be far from analogous. Interpretation, again, is the key. How the scientist “sees” his paradigm is based on personality, other members of the paradigm, and a host of other highly subjective factors. Kuhn isn’t so much saying that scientific research has become a subjective enterprise as he is proclaiming there it was and always has been riddled with personal prejudice. We can’t escape our preconceptions, even when we try to cloak them in the veil of scientific authority.

Kuhn holds that all paradigm shifts are signs of progress. But like his relativistic position on scientific observation, Kuhn also attacks the notion of progress with a distinctly modern sensibility. Showing greatly the Darwinian influence in his work, paradigm shifts are “advances” but like natural selection and evolution, there is no set direction or intention behind these movements. Progress reverts to subjective interpretation. There is no “grand design” behind the throwing off of one paradigm for another. Paradigm shifts occur in times of scientific crises but they are not fixed in time, place, or meaning. They occupy a space more heavily guided by chance than an overarching purpose. In other words, God isn’t planning these up shifts as a way to glorify human reason. We are progressing, but towards what, Kuhn asks. He writes, “we may have to relinquish the notion, explicit or implicit, that changes of paradigm carry scientists and those who learn from them closer and closer to the truth.” A single fixed truth might not exist.

This element of crisis pervades The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. Without crisis, there would be no impending need for paradigm shifts to result. But when a scientific worldview reaches a point where it is highly incompatible with the existing body of evidence, change occurs. When these transformations take place is open-ended temporarily, but science cannot live perpetually in a state of crisis. The change will occur at some point. Science is focused on progress and progress can only happen if unresolved questions are answered.

Kuhn’s language is crisp and clear. He doesn’t hide his ideas in overly construed and complicated verbage, but rather expresses himself with the precision only true geniuses can manage. Reading Kuhn is like reading Einstein’s essays – accessible but provoking, lucid but challenging. He died in 1996 at the 73, but his work deserves to live on, being read and discussed in the centuries to come. Science, but also human consciousness in general, owes a great debt to his strivings. He leaves us in a state of relativism, but one in which anything is possible. Instead of their being a set reality to discover, science becomes yet another way for humanity to discover itself.

Paradigm shift, indeed.

More on Kuhn here.

Just Desserts 11: The Pie Gourmet (Vienna, VA)

2005-06-22T12:34:00.000-04:00

Peach-Raspberry Pie

RESTAURANT: The Pie Gourmet
LOCATION: 507 Maple Avenue West Vienna, VA 22180
DATE: June 19, 2005
DESSERT: Raspberry-Peach Pie; Strawberry Pie
PRICE: Family dessert

At my wedding, I don’t want a cake. I want pie. Blueberry, pumpkin, peach, definitely pecan, maybe apple, and the ultimate black raspberry – I want them all and a host of tiny ovens to keep the pies warm. Throw in some high quality ice cream and I won’t even require a pre-nup. If the bride doesn’t like pie or at least acquiesce to this, my one demand, then she’s going to have to find another groom. Or at least accept that the only way I’ll be able to go through with the proceedings is if I’m very, and I mean very, drunk. I think pie is the more appealing option.

Every time I go home, my mom buys two pies from Vienna’s Pie Gourmet to appease my cravings. Call me a momma’s boy, fine, I’ll take the moniker without argument as I savor each bite of delicious pie. The Pie Gourmet’s creations show up on our Thanksgiving table, Christmas dessert, and any other occasion that merits dessert. Thus, with my grandma and aunt in town, and my sister just returning from China and Vietnam, there was cause for celebratory pie. I was lucky to be home.

Pie Gourmet’s best pies are the Sweet Potato and Plum-Walnut, but considering the humidity of summer in Virginia, the heaviness of these pies seemed far from inviting. Instead, my mom opted for the peach-raspberry and the quintessential warm weather pie, strawberry. The peach-raspberry has a French, butter crumb crust that warrants a favorable comparison to cobbler. The mixture of brown sugar and flour gives the pie a mild crunch which subsides to the taste of creamy smoothness once placed in the mouth. While surely laden with butter, the crust is sublimely dry, without the faintest sign of unwanted greasiness.

When Pie Gourmet bakes a fruit pie, they actually load it up with fruit. We’ve all had the disastrous experience of a fruit pie that is 90% crust, 5% fruit and 5% jelly, corn syrup and sugar mixture (Sara Lee I’m looking in your direction). But Pie Gourmet, whether dishing up pecan or key lime, emphasizes the filling and not the base. The crusts are as good as they are because they come in such moderated portions. The peach-raspberry was excellent, though the raspberries were a bit too dominant and the peach needed to play a more central role in the pie. Like all Pie Gourmet’s pies, the filling is only moderately sweet, relying not on voluminous amounts of added sugar, but on the fruit’s natural pectin to carry the pie. It’s a successful, though often under utilized, way to make pie in this era of Emeril lard and sugar overindulgence.

Though the peach-raspberry was wonderful, the strawberry was better. From looks alone, the congealment surrounding the strawberries suggested the pie would possess an offsetting sweetness. But this was far from the case. The filling exhibited a delicate liquidity hidden by its appearance. The huge, halved strawberries commanded this pie, leaving room for little else. The lack of a top cover of crust was a clear example of addition by subtraction. This was a true strawberry pie, with the crust used as a background compliment to the star attraction.

Well I recognize going home should involve the comfort of home cooked meals, maybe it’s alright to have dessert from the outside. Thomas Wolfe (the one that didn’t wear white suits, write “shocking” novels about how crazy college kids do these strange things called hook-ups and tout Republicanism with every swipe of his pen) was right to say you can’t go home again. Life moves forward and the Vienna of my childhood has long since ceased to exist. But Pie Gourmet is still around and for that I’m thankful. Now if I can just get pie at my wedding, life will be close to perfect.

RATING: 7.8/10

Restaurant 41: Carlyle (Shirlington, VA)

2005-06-21T14:06:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Goat Cheese and Spiced Pecan Salad; Crab cakes; Chocolate Flourless Waffle; Close-up of a Crab-Cake.

RESTAURANT: Carlyle (Arlington, Virginia)
LOCATION: 4000 S. 28th St. Shirlington (officially part of Arlington), VA 22206
DATE: June 18, 2005
FOOD: Warm Goat Cheese and Spiced Pecans Salad (field lettuces, dates, tomatoes & balsamic vinaigrette); Sauteed jumbo lump crab cakes (remoulade sauce, fries and traditional cole slaw); Shared for Dessert: Warm flourless chocolate macadamia nut waffle; Warm sticky almond toffee cake
BEVERAGE: Two Carlyle Pale Ales; Decaf Coffee
PRICE: Courtesy of my Mom

Shirlington, Virginia is a 21st century transplant of a Wild West town. The buildings are designed with a glittery contemporary architecture that is somehow soulless, sparking images of the fake facades of Tombstone or the setting of Gary Cooper’s “High Noon”. A planned community in the fullest sense, Shirlington has a movie theatre, a street of “hip” restaurants and bars, and boutique style shops. It’s like walking through a model of small town America at Universal Studios – the strip of trees even have Christmas lights that stay up year round. With the completion of a brand new apartment complex and downtown Washington just a five minute drive away, what more could a Yuppie possibly desire?

Perhaps the best known restaurant in Shirlington is the Carlyle, a nouveaux-American bastion serving foods that were trendy in New York a few years before. The molten chocolate cake Jean-Georges made famous appears on the menu as a chocolate flourless waffle. The wave of fruit, nut, and goat cheese salads can be found at the Carlyle in abundance (they even have these at McDonalds now). Seemingly, as soon as a once-innovative food becomes passé in New York, it somehow permeates to the rest of the country. For diners unknowledgeable, the Carlyle might seem imaginative and cutting-edge, but in reality, restaurants such as this are standing on the shoulders of New York’s giant chefs. This is understandable and entirely acceptable – on the condition that the food resembles its New York original in more than just appearance and description.

A glance at Carlyle’s appetizer menu presents a list of all the usual American bistro eclectic suspects – fried calamari, Tex Mex eggrolls, bruschetta, pot stickers. It’s gastro-globalization, less about maintaining the integrity of the cultures referenced, and more about combining as many toned down sure-fire favorites as possible. You can see the influence of Bobby Flay all over this menu.

This is not to suggest that the Carlyle fails in creating pleasurable food. It would be very hard to go wrong with anything on the menu – but it would also be difficult to go too terribly right. Dinners begin with the warm and delicious bread of the Best Buns Bread Co. (part of the Great American chain to which Carlyle belongs), located literally next door to the Carlyle. The raisin pecan is especially tasty, a tough, chewy crust complementing the soft, doughy inside of cinnamon swirls and sweet raisins. Following the bread, I started with the warm goat cheese and spiced pecan salad. I readily admit my favorable predisposition for salads enhanced with fruit and cheese, but Carlyle’s only resulted in disappointment. The mixed field greens were limp and sodden, the mix of dates, tomatoes, and vinaigrette generating a humid film amongst the lettuce that tasted like salad which had sat in the refrigerator for one day too many. While the spiced pecans blended sweet and hot nicely, the seared goat cheese was bland and uninteresting, the distinctness of the cheese obliterated by faulty preparation. Noticeably absent from the salad were pepper and salt, the overwhelming taste being that of undiluted vegetable oil.

The market-priced crab cakes I selected for my entrée were a dramatic step-up from the salad. Credit the Carlyle for not scrimping on the crab, as these pan-fried cakes were bursting with meat. Golden brown and lacking the oily residue that crushed the goat cheese, the crab cakes were well-seasoned and impeccably fresh. The only downside of the cakes was that they came on top of the Thousand Island dressing like remoulade sauce, which basically tasted as artery-clogging heavy as putting ketchup and mayonnaise together would suggest. In fact, the crab cakes would have been better off if they had been completely unaccompanied as the runny and oppressive coleslaw and flat, listless French fries offered another example of Carlyle’s inability to season their food satisfactorily.

Dessert was yet another round of mediocre but ultimately uninspired offerings. The flourless chocolate waffle is synonymous with the Carlyle’s prestige in the Washington area, but it was chunky and overcooked. The liquid chocolate center designed to spill out from the inside had solidified like the yolk of an overdone poached egg. A bit better was the almond-toffee, which while denser than a Bush cabinet member, was at least enjoyable and not absurdly sweet. When coupled with the saucer of caramel sauce served with the dessert, it was like a poor man’s version of Moto’s warm date cake. The massive size of the desserts was also a bit disgusting and further proof that bigger isn’t necessarily better, size doesn’t matter, quality trumps quantity, and any other applicable cliché.

Though the Carlyle has been around for years, our meal was also beleaguered by service problems. Our waiter, though obviously new and still learning, had issues with time management. He forgot to bring the bread until reminded numerous times and our entrees arrived before anyone had had time to eat even a third of their salads. Having the dishes tumble one on top of another invoked a rushed feeling that is the last thing you want when dining at a semi-upscale establishment. On top of that, my family was celebrating my Grandmother’s birthday, but the music in the restaurant was so loud, it strained even my young ears to make-out the conversation at our table. Unless chomping down at TGI Friday’s, music should be background and when it hinders dialogue, the entire meal is dampened by the excessive volume. Carlyle is part of the Washington based Great American chain of restaurants headed by Executive Chef Bill Jackson that includes Artie’s, Sweet Water Tavern, Mike’s American, and Silverado. Growing up, I’ve visited these restaurants numerous times and they were and are always packed, often with waiting times stretching into the hours. But as our meal at the Carlyle showed, these are “it” spots not because of the food, but despite it. There’s enough slightly above average dishes on the menu to make Carlyle better than okay. But just like the “town” of Shirlington that it calls home, Carlyle was high on artifice, but definitely lacking in substance.

RATING: 5.0/10

Restaurant 40: Modesto (St. Louis, MO)

2005-06-20T17:24:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Pollo a la Graciela; Croquetas de Pollo y Jamon; Churros; Canelones de Frutas.

RESTAURANT: Modesto (St. Louis, MO)
LOCATION: 5257 Shaw Avenue, St. Louis, Missouri
DATE: June 16, 2005
FOOD: Tapas - Pure de Garbanzos – chickpea puree with Spanish olive oil, garlic, lemon and croutons; Pimientos Rellenos – piquillo peppers stuffed with herbed goat cheese and avocado aioli; Croquetas de Pollo y Jamon– chicken and Serrano ham croquettes with garlic mayonesa; Pollo a la Graciela – roasted chicken thighs, Cabrales cheese, dates and amontillado-garlic sauce; Patatas Dos Salsas – fried potatoes in a piquant tomato and pepper sauce with aioli; Empanadillas de Pollo – savory pastries filled with curried chicken, spinach and pine nuts; Queso de Cabra y Champiñones al Horno – baked goat cheese and mushrooms with spicy tomato sauce and croutons; Dessert - Churros – Spanish fried doughnuts with cinnamon hot chocolate sauce; Canelones de Frutas – crepes filled with strawberry, blueberry, goat cheese and honey.
BEVERAGE: Caipirinha—Pitu, passion fruit vodka, fresh lime juice, and raw sugar; Modesto Margarita—Cuervo Gold, Licor 43, sweet and sour, and lime; Decaf coffee with Spanish Brandy.
PRICE: $46.00

We all love to share – well, sometimes that is. Maybe Tapas functions most smoothly when it resembles communism, namely that it’s much easier to share when everything is alright, but not so great as to induce people to hoard or engage in acts of rampant selfish behavior, and ultimately ruin an otherwise good thing. If instead of state controlled vokda, the USSR had been pushing Grey Goose and Belevedere, the Berlin Wall might have fallen long before 1989. Likewise, if Tapas contains dishes which are too succulent, the friendly atmosphere of peaceful distribution turns ugly, and greedy hands that once reached for lamb skewers, quickly ball into covetous fists. Of course, since Tia Pol was one of the top ten best meals I’ve had in New York, my theory of Tapas adequacy is most likely bunk. Just like communism, better in theory than in practice, as in all honesty, who would want to settle for okay when they could have ohmygod?

Since I last had Tapas at Tia Pol, it would have been hard for Modesto to compete, let alone improve upon the near perfect creations of that kitchen. And while Modesto certainly failed in some respects, there were enough successes to warrant praise. Most distinct were the tremendous and imaginative mixed drinks. There was universal assent at the table that the Brazilian inspired Caipirinha was the best drink we tried. As sweet as a Mojito, but as light as fresh fruit juice, this was a cocktail only in theory, as the taste of alcohol was completely masked by sugar and lime. While sorority girls won’t be drinking this with the same frequency they guzzle Mike’s Hard Lemonade, this drink was about as manly as one of Suleiman The Great’s harem eunuchs. This drink won’t make an appearance at any bachelor parties in the near future, but for one night, in the presence of two females more concerned with public school poverty than liquor signifiers, I was happy to taste Brazil via St. Louis. The Modesto margarita I tried later was bold, if not as effervescent as the Caipirinha, the Licor 43 (an authentic Spanish liquor) adding a no holds bar punch that even out did the tequila. But the drinks only whet my palate – after a long flight and no lunch, I was ready to eat.

Modesto’s menu divides cold and hot tapas and also includes a section of entrees. In the spirit of all that togetherness and sharing that enabled Cathy and Libby to make it through a year of Teach for America, we decided to go all tapas, all evening, foregoing the more expensive entrees (plus, we all know how little teachers are paid, and if you don’t just ask one, they’re more than willing to complain, I mean enlighten, on the subject). We selected two from the cold section and five from the warm, and our waitress served the dishes as they came out from the kitchen, providing a staggering of flavors throughout the courses. This meant we started with the chickpea puree, a Spanish-style hummus with enough garlic to push Portugal off of Iberia and into the Atlantic. The dip relied too heavily on the garlic and the taste of the beans was mired by this pungeant sting. Much more successful were the peppers stuffed with goat cheese, the peppers at once tender and firm, marinated by an herbed olive oil and further charged by the creamy blend of cheese and avocado. The sweet green peppers were the best sample of the meal and left me craving another (or perhaps many more) bite(s).

The dinner was split into acts, and like the momentum escalation of a Lorca drama, after the cold tapas, I was ready for a sparks to fly during the second act or hot tapas. However, for the most part, the hot tapas disappointed, as they were plagued by inconsistency. While the roasted chicken thighs were delicious, blending a subdued garlic gravy with the sweetness of dates and tang of Cabrales (like blue cheese) cheese, the ham and chicken croquettes were bland, dry and mealy, tasting more like uncooked pancakes than poultry and pork. Especially after the mind-blowing ham and cheese Tia Pol croquettes, Modesto’s lackluster version was severely frustrating. The empandillas bored, the vibrant flavors of spinach, curry and pine nuts completely indistinguishable and as muddled as the lime in my margarita. And one final contrast of sine curve peaks and valleys occurred with the final two hot tapas. The Italian-like tomato, mushroom, and goat cheese dip which spread as beautifully as Raphael canvas over Modesto’s crusty baguette, was nullified by the mushy, tomato-sogged potatoes, which tasted like French fries in ketchup that had been sitting out through an afternoon of siestas. Every time Modesto showed signs of triumph, the achievement was followed by an appetizer of equally botched proportions.

But as is so often the case, dessert presents a chance for a restaurant to redeem itself and Modesto took full advantage of the opportunity. For some inexplicable abnormality of the culinary heavens, my elementary school, typically inclined to serve a vegetable soup with nothing that grew in the earth and an inedible piece of cardboard called pizza but more like re-hydrated paper, also offered (and excelled at) the sweet cinnamon sugar stick doughnuts known as churros. Modesto’s wonderful and traditional pairing of these chewy twists with luscious melted chocolate, was a return to childhood that basked in the pleasant and avoided all the reasons for my subsequent neurosis. Such a harkening back is hard to find. But even better were the featherlike goat cheese crepes, sweetened with honey and berries, but altogether mild enough to act as a main course. The paper-thin crepes served as a dessert tortilla for the goat cheese mix that mimicked a sugar-restrained cannoli filling in richness. The whole blueberries and pureed strawberries made this an ideal end for a warm Summer evening.

Overall then, the unpredictability of Modesto’s food was a probably an appropriate way for Cathy and Libby to end a first year of teaching that had seen its share of successes and setbacks as well. Even though they both labeled as “modest” gains, the strides of high school students who at the beginning of the year couldn’t read a word and can now understand entire pages, modest is much more applicable to Modesto’s Tapas. For every yes there was a no – if Modesto could reach the same heights in all its food as it does for dessert and drinks, it would truly be something special. But in the meantime, honoring a year of tenacious education obstacles and obnoxious teenagers with some Spanish style intoxication was at least a more than deserved reward and we all left satisfied. Now if they could only get Tia Pol’s recipe for potatoes, my happiness would turn into euphoria.

RATING: 6.5/10

Serendipity 3 Photo

2005-06-16T11:53:00.000-04:00

Much, much worse than it looks.

Just Desserts 10: Serendipity 3

2005-06-16T11:50:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Serendipity 3
LOCATION: 225 E. 60th St.
DATE: June 12, 2005
DESSERT: Frozen Hot Chocolate
BEVERAGE: Tap Water
PRICE: $9.00

Serendipity 3’s frozen hot chocolate is the barn.

The flocks of cavorting 13 year old girls, the tourist parents and their screaming children, the teenage couples – they don’t see the frozen hot chocolate. And they certainly don’t taste it. In Don DeLillo’s monumental novel White Noise, Murray and the main character J.A.K. Gladney visit “The Most Photographed Barn” in America. Why is it the most photographed? It’s the most photographed barn because the billboards surrounding the site say that it is. Hordes of individuals travel to the barn just to take a picture. But the barn has no intrinsic value of its own. The photographers don’t really see the barn. As Murray tells Jack, they are only seeing the barn’s “aura”.

Take this example of postmodern dementia and transpose it to the realm of food and you would have Serendipity 3’s frozen hot chocolate. The wait for a table can often reach upwards of two to three hours. And everyone wants the same thing. The famous “frozen hot chocolate”. Is this fame predicated on some merit of the drink? Absolutely not. Everyone goes to Serendipity to have the frozen hot chocolate because they’ve heard frozen hot chocolate is what everyone has at Serendipity. But the drink itself is horrendous. The putrid concoction is a case in point for the effect of cognitive dissonance. No one wants to be the lone person who states that this celebrated drink is something less than ordinary – or even worse. Well, I must speak up. After the pain inflicted on my tongue by this drink, I can hold my peace no longer.

Chalky is the first word that comes to mind. If you’ve ever attempted to make chocolate milk with Nestle’s Quik and not completely blended the powder, then you’re aware of what the frozen hot chocolate tastes like. The drink is nauseatingly sweet. The ice chunks are like grains of sand or regurgitated birdseed. In the way bad chefs overly salt their dishes to mask mistakes, Serendipity overly sugars this runny mud of a drink to compensate for a severe shortage of flavor. That disgustingly large portion of whipped cream floating on the chocolate’s surface? It’s the one aspect of the drink that’s unsweetened and one wonders how something that tastes of such a heavy thickness can float at all.

Perhaps the crowds are impressed by the massive portions. I was reminded of the joke Woody Allen prefaces Annie Hall with, “It was such bad food, and so little of it”. But in this case, Serependity gives such a humongous portion of the drink, perhaps they are counting on the sheer volume of sugar to dull and eventually destroy the consumer’s taste buds. Some must find satisfaction in thinking, “Look I’m eating a vat of chocolate”. But the chocolate flavor is indistinct and unrefined. Candy bars have better quality chocolate. On top of this, the drink is $7.50 before tax and tip, but a dollar would have been too much. I’ve been known to eat four or five desserts in an evening. After trying Serendipity’s “renowned” frozen hot chocolate, I had no desire to have a dessert of any kind for the near future.

It is the barn. It will continue to be photographed. But after this, I’m ready to throw my camera out. Let the masses wait. That was the worst dessert I’ve had in New York. As Danny so eloquently put – Paris Hilton is to pop culture, what Serendipity’s frozen hot chocolate is to desserts. Ugh. Never, never again.

RATING: 1.8/10
(the lowest rating The Taste Land has assigned)

Tangra Masala Photos

2005-06-15T18:43:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Chicken hot and sour soup; chicken and shrimp pakoras; Chili-Goat; Tangra Masala Fish.

Restaurant 39: Tangra Masala

2005-06-15T18:39:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Tangra Masala
LOCATION: 8709 Grand Ave, Flushing, Queens
DATE: June 12, 2005
FOOD: Chicken Hot and Sour Soup; Split the following - Chicken and Shrimp Pakoras; Chili-Goat (Dry); Tangra Masala Fish in Gravy
BEVERAGE: Diet Coke
PRICE: $25.00

Every night as I leave work I hear it calling. In the days since my Sunday night visit to Tangra Masala in Flushing, I have found it nearly impossible not to suffer through the tortuously long subway ride to reach the warm embrace of this restaurant. Tangra Masala serves what is best described as “Chinese food as it’s made in India”. It’s an organic fusion, one brought about not by audacious chefs, but by naturally occurring geographical and cultural integrations, a de-facto culinary evolution that stays true to The Origin of Species. It’s Chinese food running an Indian temperature – mundane dishes created anew by levels of spice unknown outside of Delhi. It’s gastro globalization shimmering brightly. It’s, to put it simply, extraordinary.

Thomas Friedman might have been right to declare the world flat – at least culinary-wise, all boundaries have vanished. Tangra Masala’s staff is almost exclusively of Chinese descent. The clientele, in contrast, is nearly one hundred percent Indian (one obvious exception being this here blogger). But demographics aside, Tangra Masala’s cooking is the main aspect to notice. A menu that is expansive, but not daunting, shows dishes both familiar and unknown. Chinese restaurant standards like hot and sour soup, chicken and corn soup, and all sorts of fried rice, pop-up on the menu with the same commonplace recognition as elements on the Periodic Table. But there’s an entire section devoted to goat. And the dim sum is far from anything found near Canal Street. What becomes rapidly apparent, is that even the assumedly blasé dishes are not what they seem at Tangra Masala. A meal at Tangra Masala is like learning to eat Chinese food all over again.

The chicken hot and sour soup is as brash and untamed as postmodern poetry. Unlike the disastrous soup at Yeah Shanghai Deluxe, Tangra Masala infuses this traditional soup with a heavy and completely unexpected bout of pure heat. Tangra Masala is not for the meek and the hot and sour soup is the best example of this all-out fire. The soup’s mushrooms and chicken were perfectly cooked and added to the dish’s many layers. Such layering became a common theme throughout the meal.

But even as sensational as the hot and sour soup was, nothing else compared to the jaw-dropping chicken and shrimp pakoras. The pakoras are like an Indian hushpuppy – except larger and much more flavorful. The shrimp might have been the better of the two varieties, but the difference was negligible. The pakoras exemplified Tangra Masala’s layering of complex flavors. The balls are fried and use a mixture of spicy minced vegetables as their base. The chicken or shrimp, also seasoned, is then joined to this foundation. Biting into these is like diving into the ocean in mid-December – both send chills through the body. A sharp cilantro and hot pepper oil comes with the pakoras and a liberal sprinkling enhances the pakoras to even new levels. Astonishing, the flavors in one’s mouth constantly are in flux with this dish. From the initial touch of the oily exterior, to the bread-like smoothness inside, to the lasting zest left behind, this dish is unbelievable. If samosas, dumplings, and hushpuppies decided to mate, pakoras would be that love child.

The entrees nearly matched the supremacy of the pakoras. The goat, a meat which according to a recent New York Times article, is gaining in popularity, was by appearance and taste beef transcended. My only other experience with goat was Scott Conant’s delicious stewed capretto (kid) at L’Impero, but Tangra Masala served goat and not kid. The dish looked like beef and broccoli stripped of the greenery. Thin strips of pleasantly chewy goat had been elevated by robust red chiles. The heat of the dish seemingly escalated with each successive bite so that by the end, our waitress was refilling my water glass every few minutes.

The white fish in tangra masala sauce was equally outstanding. The red sauce has the consistency of honey and thus immediately brought to mind sweet and sour sauce. But tangra masala gravy is as much sweet and sour sauce as the Backstreet Boys are a “band”. In taste, the tangra masala was entirely unique. Fluent and glossy, this sauce challenged the palate while still harmonizing with the steamed fish. The fish was so plump and substantial, I initially believed a mistake had been made and we had been served chicken or pork. But there were no mistakes at Tangra Masala.

Starbucks recently expanded to France and there are now more McDonald’s abroad than in the U.S. Globalization permeates the world and every new chef wants to cut his or her teeth on fusion techniques. National borders may now have as much relevance to the modern world as Ptolemy’s model of the universe, but Tangra Masala is an indication that not all cultural mixes have negative results. Tangra Masala is a beacon, a reason to venture to Queens for something other than a flight. Just be forewarned – a beacon this excellent is impossible to forget. And the urge to jump on the E or F train may dominate your thoughts for days afterwards.

I might just have to go back tonight…

RATING: 9.0/10

Book 11: The Death of Artemio Cruz, by Carlos Fuentes (Infinite Feast XIX)

2005-06-15T13:56:00.000-04:00

Translated by Alfred MacAdam
Paperback: 307 pages
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux; Revised edition (May 1, 1991)

Bill Clinton’s memoir was just the latest reminder of American politicians’ apparent love of the autobiographical form. While self-promotion seemingly comes hand in hand with political leadership, it is rare when a politician displays any signs of erudite self-reflection – anecdotal confessions do not necessarily indicate thoughtful consideration. Rarer still, is an elected official who has the ability to write about something other than his or her own personal accomplishments. Carlos Fuentes, the Mexican novelist, was such a unique figure, addressing his country’s fate through both pen and action. He served as Mexico’s ambassador to France, while also creating some of the most renowned pieces of literature in all of Mexican history. The Death of Artemio Cruz is considered by most critics to be his best work.

The novel opens with Artemio Cruz, a man of immense wealth and prestige, on his death bed. He is surrounded by his faithful associates and the venomous hatred of his daughter and wife. Everyone is waiting for him to die – and waiting for the disclosure of the whereabouts of his will. The novel plots a trajectory through the refractions of Cruz’s memory of his and Mexico’s history. The story is told in the first, second, and third person, making the style reminiscent of the stream of consciousness works of Woolf and Joyce.

Artemio Cruz, though written in 1962, around the birth of postmodernism, thus reeks of modernism and all its conventions. Fuentes assumes his audience has a high level of education and literary knowledge and his heavy-handed form seems anachronistic at points. While Fuentes has often been coupled with Borges, the comparison, based strictly on Artemio Cruz, is unfounded. Borges dwells in fantasy, creating worlds within worlds to mimic the mechanisms of the mind. His style, though at times strenuous for the reader, never sounds like Faulkner. Fuentes, oppositely, stays completely in reality – the reality of 20th century Mexico. Cruz lives in a country ruled by corruption and though he rose from humble beginnings and fought in the revolution, as he came to have greater prestige, money, and most importantly power, Cruz became just as corrupt as the leaders he once fought against. The story is one of betrayed obligations – Cruz’s and Mexico’s. The great promise of Mexico’s revolutionary leaders has all but been destroyed by the time Cruz is dying in a plush apartment in the 1960s.

Cruz’s desire but ultimate inability to find anyone to share love with is the core of this story. While the pursuit of money dominates the plot’s surface (and Artemio’s), this only occurs because after his initial love of a woman named Regina during his revolutionary days, no women in his life care about him the same way. They use him as he uses them – in the same breadth they curse his maniacal drive for wealth and all the people he has to exploit to garner it, they spend his money on elaborate vacations, perfumes, and other frivolities. This wonderful juxtaposition highlights how trapped Cruz is by all those around him who supposedly have his best interests in mind. He acts villainously, but through his recounting, we learn he is not a villain. He is the embodiment of Mexico’s tumultuous history and confused identity. Fuentes makes a powerful comment on all the aspirations Mexico has ever had – and all that it has not achieved.

But what makes The Death of Artemio Cruz fail to a certain extent is Fuentes in ability to express himself concisely. His prose is often beautiful and deeply suggestive, but at key junctures it has the unintended propensity to leave the reader unaffected because each section debates a point too laboriously. Put more simply – Fuentes should have made this book shorter. The emotional core of his characters are lost in a mess of words – no matter the aesthetic merit his language has on its own, taken together, one wants to ask, “is this guy ever going to die?”. Each of the episodic memories Cruz reveals starts powerfully, but ends only after the point has been beaten to death (bad pun, sorry). Fuentes obviously drew on Tolstoy’s “The Death of Ivan Ilych” for this novel. And Fuentes masterfully inverts the religious fervor Ivan undergoes in Artemio’s turning away from any God that is not himself or that can be put to useful ends. But perhaps he should have looked to Tolstoy’s work for a more base inspiration. Tolstoy limited "Ivan" to a novella. That length would have been adequate for The Death of Artemio Cruz as well.

Bonita Photos

2005-06-14T14:04:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Bonita on Bedford Ave.; Mexican Corn; Tilapia Burrito; Lime Soup.

Restaurant 38: Bonita (Infinite Feast XIX)

2005-06-14T13:59:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Bonita
LOCATION: 338 Bedford Ave., Williamsburg, Brooklyn
DATE: June 11, 2005
FOOD: Mexican Corn; Lime Soup; Chips and Pico de Gallo; Fried Tilapia Burrito
BEVERAGE: Half a pitcher of White Wine Margarita
PRICE: $30.00

For some reason, paying $25 for a Mexican entrée seems egregious to me. I mean how expensive can a tortilla really be? But many of the better known Manhattan Mexican restaurants like Rosa Mexicano and Mama Mexico, charge such rates. And while restaurants like Mercadito and Itzocan offer innovative re-imaginings on Mexican classics, to find authentic, affordable cuisine from our southern neighbor, it’s the outer boroughs that present the best possibilities. Thus, Danny and I arrived at Bonita in Williamsburg, just blocks from the L, for the latest installment of Infinite Feast, this time discussing Carlos Fuentes’ The Death of Artemio Cruz.

While neither of us felt the need to rave about Fuentes’ novel, Bonita’s food brought mutual exaltations. With a layout reminiscent of the retro bistro style of Schiller’s Liquor Bar, Bonita was hip without being faddy, full without being crowded. The open-air kitchen allows diners to see their meals through all stages of preparation and adds to the neighborhood feel of Bonita. Our waiter doted on us, frequently asking (and re-asking) us if we liked our food in a manner showing he genuinely cared. His attention was one of Bonita’s many charms and spoke of sincerity rather than the type of uncertainty common to 14-year old girls inspecting their reflections, left to wonder if their mother’s assessment of “pretty” is accurate or if it’s a lie to help the teenager forget the colossal sized zits playing havoc on her cheeks.

However, the joys of puberty need no further elaboration – Bonita’s outstanding Mexican dishes do. We began with the ultimate of Mexican ubiquity – chips and salsa. The pico de gallo was milder than typical jalapeno salsas, but still had enough bite to satisfy the calling for caliente. But it was my first appetizer, the Mexican corn, which really convinced me Bonita wasn’t messing around. Bringing a street vendor staple indoors, this grilled corn was lathered in red chili spices. But what made it exceptional was the crumbled blend of soft white cheeses (I believe mozzarella and jack) added as a final coat once the corn had cooked. The cheese melted over the kernels to form a veneer ripe with flavor – it will be hard to go back to American buttered corn cobs in the future. The cheese provided a gooey contrast to the blackened corn and a milky sheen that mingled wonderfully with the corn’s sweetness.

The lime soup, if not equally as tantalizing as the corn, was very nearly so. In my experience, this soup has been called tortilla soup, but as Bonita’s version of Mexican chicken soup was superior to my previous tastes, the Wiliamsburg restaurant can call it whatever they like. Crisp tortilla strips floated in a chicken broth seasoned with delicious and relatively neutral Mexican spices and the accent of lime juice. Stewed tomatoes added an acidic-sugar, but the succulent chunks of roast chicken really made the soup. Bonita roasts whole chicken and I can only imagine how sensational these birds must be after tasting the guacamole like pliancy of the chicken in the soup.

To wash down all these savory supernovas, Danny and I split a pitcher of Bonita’s white wine margarita. While the title of margarita was just a fancy name for what tasted like white lime sangria, this near juice like drink worked well to alleviate the oppressiveness of June humidity and made up for Bonita’s lack of a liquor license. The drink, while enjoyable, needed to be a tad stronger, though at $18 for two and half glasses a piece, I won’t complain too vociferously.

As we debated over whether Artemio’s death really needed to go on for 300 densely constructed pages of stream of consciousness (couldn’t he have died on say page 170?), our entrees arrived. Though my fried tilapia, rice and vegetable filled burrito was humungous, upon finishing it, I literally wanted to beg for more. The fish itself was incredible – taking an overly flaky and dry white fish like tilapia and turning it into the meaty, juicy and entirely non-greasy golden brown tendrils of seafood perfection as Bonita did, requires the type of magician "Arrested Development"’s Gob continuously tries and but can quite manage, to be. Bonita also packed the burrito with fish, instead of using rice as filler. Thus, the rice and creamy sour cream sauce filling the burrito provided satisfying enhancements to the fish, but still remained as background flavors. Reflecting at the end of the meal, it was impossible for me to decide whether the burrito or the corn had been the better dish. I only knew I couldn’t have done without either.

Bonita may refer to an anonymous beautiful woman, but perhaps it is more deserving as an adjective for the restaurant’s food. Every part of Bonita functioned flawlessly and the touch of giving Chiclet-like Canel’s Gum with the bill only proved this point. For what I might have paid for a single entrée at a Manhattan Mexican tourist trap, I got an entire authentic Mexican meal at Bonita. The L train may operate as sporadically as a soap-opera surgeon, but since it takes me to Bedford Avenue and Bonita, I’ll be willing to wait as long as it takes the next time a Mexican craving hits me as hard as one of Fuentes’ sentences.

RATING: 8.5/10

Fleur de Sel Photos

2005-06-13T17:22:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Fleur del Sel at 5 E. 20th St.; Goat Cheese and Artichoke Ravioli; Panna Cotta; Roasted Cod.

Restaurant 37: Fleur de Sel

2005-06-13T17:18:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Fleur de Sel
LOCATION: 5 East 20th St.
DATE: June 10, 2005
FOOD: $25 Prix Fixe Lunch: Appetizer - Goat Cheese & Artichoke Ravioli, Paddlefish Caviar, Beet-Dijon Reduction; Entrée - Roasted Cod, Tomato Confit & Spring Garlic Coulis; Dessert - Crème Fraiche & Vanilla Panna Cotta, Confit of Rhubarb, Strawberry Sorbet.
BEVERAGE: Tap Water.
PRICE: $32.00

Everybody loves a deal. Rich or poor, the lure of a specially priced quality item is enough to catch just about anybody’s attention. Perhaps, this is especially true when it comes to gourmet food. Paying $3.50 for a bargain basement selection of reheated frozen “delicacies” at Old Country Buffet lures no one but the incredibly cheap or incredibly obese. But, a $25 prix fixe lunch menu at a two star Manhattan restaurant, whose dinner tasting menu runs to $75? – Now that’s something unique. While Manhattan’s restaurant week offers the best chance at such value, that’s only twice a year. Fleur de Sel, the lovely Flatiron French restaurant, dishes up their $25 lunch year round, seven days a week. If Fleur del Sel hired Morrie from Goodfellas for some 15 second TV spots to plug the deal, word would get out, and this lunch “secret” might explode.

Fleur de Sel’s design would appease Fredric Jamison with its postmodern blends. The exterior façade is that of a country, Province bistro, while the interior is slick and contemporary. It’s a peaceful, quiet space, if a bit too small for the number of tables. The lunch menu includes three courses: an appetizer, entrée and dessert, each with two selections to choose from. The menu changes daily and includes dishes from the regular menu. There is even a three course $17 wine pairing for those who want to revive the ‘80s, American Psycho/Wall Street get smashed on your lunch hour of power.

I began with the goat cheese and artichoke ravioli. With two of my favorite ingredients as the filling for my preferred pasta, this dish had the same pre-assured stink of success as a Vanderbilt heir. But the addition of the robust beet saucing and subtle daubs of caviar made this dish something even Babbo diehards would love. In a dish with this many loud flavors, it would be easy for internal competition to ruin any shot of cohesion (see last year’s Lakers). Luckily, that wasn’t the case. The fresh and velvety goat cheese received bolstering from the artichoke, while the caviar and beets worked as stark contrasts to the ravioli’s smoothness. A larger portion of this pasta would have been an outstanding lunch (or dinner) entirely on its own.

The roasted cod which followed was good if somewhat nondescript. Reminiscent of the cod at L’Ecole, the fish and saucing were simple and straightforward. The cod could have been tenderer, but was far from dry. The tomato and garlic coulis provided the dish with a beautiful green color, but little else. It had a pleasant buttery taste, but failed to really augment the cod in a meaningful way. The cod was like a Horatio Alger novel – given as a seafood introduction to a fish novice, it would have been entirely successful – given to an English professor, and it would have imparted significantly less of a reward.

Fortunately, the meal didn’t end on the mediocre cod – though with the lag time between entrée and dessert, it very well seemed to have. While expecting a Chili’s-esque 15 minutes or less guarantee would have been fallacious (and such needless rushing, completely unwanted in that type of environment), the service was too lackadaisical for a lunch hour in this city. After all this is New York, not some sleepy, Yoknapatawpha County (I had a high school English teacher offer extra credit to anyone who could spell Faulkner’s fictional region correctly) backwater town. Twenty minutes between entrée and dessert is just too long.

However, when it finally did arrive, the panna cotta was well worth the wait. With the luxurious, feathery creaminess of an Italian cheesecake, this panna cotta made me seriously reconsider my avowed dislike of this dessert. The vanilla hues were restrained but noticeable, allowing the crème fraiche to dominate and not result in a taste too much like vanilla ice cream. The rhubarb, sliced into four, thin leaf-like strips, segmented the panna cotta into quadrants, but added a delightful bitter contrast to the sugary sweetness of the strawberry sorbet and caramelized brittle. It was an inversion of strawberry-rhubarb pie a la mode that acted as if it were the original and not the update.

$25 can go a long way. It can buy hundreds of ballpoint pens, enough candy for Halloweens now and into the future, and at least one cocktail (two might be a stretch) at a Manhattan lounge. But if you have some time to kill at lunch, it might be best spent at Fleur de Sel, where a taste of excellent contemporary French cuisine can be had on the cheap. Now where’s Morrie and his awful wigs for the classy commercial?

RATING: 7.3/10

Per Se Photos

2005-06-10T19:18:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: Pork Shoulder; Veal; "Snickers"; Sorbet.

Per Se Photos

2005-06-10T19:17:00.000-04:00

Clockwise from top left: "Pearl and Oysters"; "Foie Gras"; Lobster; Mo'i.

Restaurant 36: Per Se (Danny's Birthday)

2005-06-10T19:11:00.000-04:00

RESTAURANT: Per Se
LOCATION: 10 Columbus Circle
DATE: June 5, 2005
FOOD: Chef’s Tasting Menu: “Oyster and Pearls” – “Sabayon” of Pearl Tapioca with Island Creek Oysters and Russian Sevruga Caviar; Terrine of Hudson Valley Moulard Duck “Foie Gras” – Poached Burlat Cherries, Pickled Ramps, Blue Moon Acres Mezza Arugula and Pistachio “Crumble”; Crispy Skin Fillet of Mo’I – Sauteed Yellow Squash, Zucchini, Sweet Peppers and Italian Eggplant with “Moulin des Penitents” Extra Virgin Olive Oil Emulsion; Nova Scotia Lobster “Cuit Sous Vide” – “Ragout” of Spring Pole Beans” and “Sauce au Pistou”; All-Day Braised Four Story Hill Farm’s Pork Shoulder – Wilted Dandelion Greens, Poached Granny Smith Apples and Whole Grain Mustard Sauce; Rib-Eye of Nature Fed Veal “Roti A La Broche” – California Green Asparagus, Mousseron Mushrooms, Parsley Root “Puree” and “Bearnaise” Reduction; “Tomme Du Berger” – Roasted Heirloom Beets, Bulls Blood Greens, Red Beet Essence and Horseradish “Aigre-Doux”; Pineapple Sorbet – Tamarind “Sponge”, Rosewater “Gelee”, Whole Milk Yogurt and “Freeze-Dried” Raspberries; “Snickers Bar” – Milk Chocolate “Cremeux”, Chocolate “Sacher” and Salted Caramel “Glacage” with Spanish Peanut “Nougatine” and “Nougat” Ice Cream; “Mignardises”; Petit-Fours.
BEVERAGE: Per Se Cocktail; Split a bottle of Riesling amongst Libby, Danny and I; Non-alcoholic pairings, including: Virgin Margarita, Virgin Bloody Mary, Gossamer Grape Juice, Pinot Noir Grape Juice, Almond Flavored Steamed Milk; Decaf Coffee
PRICE: Worth It (it being Danny’s birthday, it’d be inappropriate to discuss specific numbers)

Per Se is a “restaurant” in as much as Harvard is a “school”. During a night at Thomas Keller’s Time Warner Center landmark of culinary brilliance, the ritual act of “eating” is replaced by an experience both novel and transporting. Keller left New York admist failure, but reestablished himself with America’s best restaurant, California’s “French Laundry”. But thankfully, he’s returned and brought with him the same “magic” that made French Laundry as highly reputed as it is. The “food” at Per Se is designed to be pleasurable for the palate – but also to challenge the diner’s conventional assumptions. This is “thinking” cuisine, though it never becomes as esoteric as the adventures of WD-50. At Per Se, “taste” still reigns supreme. To visit Per Se, is to witness “perfection” – cooking turned ecstasy.

From the moment you pass through the automatic frosted glass “door”, it’s apparent you’ve entered a different, and perhaps better, world. The luxurious “lounge” is a huge open space, but manages to still feel comfortable and airy. Central Park’s foliage rustles, viewable from every table in the restaurant. The “staff” operates with the polished decorum of an Edith Wharton socialite – but without the arrogance and stuffy pretension of many lesser restaurants. Even the “bathrooms” are models of perceptive ingenuity – refuges of tranquility in the midst of New York’s hectic avenues.

Per Se’s “menu” changes nightly, with three separate tasting menus to choose from – the chef’s tasting, the five-course tasting, and the vegetable tasting. The menu is beautifully explained and each of the “tastings” entice as if daubed in a French perfumed aphrodisiac. Many of the dishes are imaginative take-offs of more common entrees – the vegetarian menu including a “Red Rice and Beans” with haricot verts and cranberry beans; the five course offered a “Grilled Cheese Sandwich” with tomato marmalade. Per Se’s adaptations evoke a clever play on gourmet food – it reminds us how much we enjoy less labor intensive fair (Keller has stated his love of Burger King) and makes us see our “favorites” in a completely new light. All in all, it is this aspect of Per Se that most delighted us, as it engaged both mind and tongue.

After extensive “deliberation”, “Danny” and “I” both selected the nine course chef’s tasting, while “Libby” went with the nine courses of vegetables. As we watched the immaculate service bring revelation after revelation to the tables around us, our excitement only compounded. It felt like my first night in New York all over again.

In an article in The New York Times on Chicago’s Moto restaurant (unfortunately, I was unable to locate the link), Per Se was mentioned for the novelty of its non-alcoholic wine pairings. Practically every restaurant that serves a tasting menu offers wine pairings to match, but Per Se’s “pairings” came in a different and more unique variety. With each course, we were given a beverage – ranging from grape juice to steamed milk – which complimented the tastes in the dish. Libby’s “Red Rice and Beans” was completed by a lime margarita. My foie gras with a gossamer grape juice that was finer than most wines. We all marveled over the creativity and the way our food was enhanced, yet another sign of why Per Se is perhaps New York’s “premier” restaurant.

Before our first courses even arrived, I could have been satisfied. The one dish I wanted to have at Per Se more than any other was Keller’s signature “Ice Cream Cone”. An unsweetened “cone” filled with crème fresh and salmon tartare was every bit as wonderful as I had imagined. Akin to a Philadelphia Maki, the flavors in this “dessert” hybrid convinced me that I will never look at a lox and cream cheese bagel the same way again – even if it comes from Russ and Daughters.

A team of waiters then presented our preliminary dishes. The single dish Danny had been speaking about constantly in the weeks leading up to Per Se, was the “Pearl and Oysters”. Fortunately for all of us (as he probably would have cried otherwise) it was on the menu the night of our visit. The heavenly tastes in this course are more difficult to describe than its appearance – reminiscent of a shucked oyster shell, fresh oysters rest atop a sabayon of pearl tapioca, all of which is crowned by some of the world’s finest caviar. What made this appetizer so special was the way the ingredients coalesced, without competing. The caviar was shockingly unsalty and for the first time, I understood why this gourmet staple is so highly regarded. The freshness of the oysters and caviar can only be compared to top-tier sushi. And when combined with the buttery tapioca sabayon produced an enjoyment similar to bringing the best aspects of clam chowder and a summer on the Eastern coast together.

Next came the terrine of duck. Per Se easily could have told me the dish was chocolate and I would have believed them. The richness of the duck “foie gras”, coupled with the bitter pickled flavors of ramps and dry, texturally complex pistachio crumbles could not have been better. Charlie Trotter might have stopped serving foie gras, but luckily Per Se has no such qualms – even if this was only a “take” on the standard serving.

Our waiter informed us that the crispy Mo’i is a Hawaiian fish, renowned in Hawaiian mythology as being “fit” only for the gods. I could see why. If turkey jerky could swim, it would be this fish. As salty and crisp as a scene from Kushner’s Angels in America, the Mo’i left me wanting more and more. The medley of vegetables provided the needed neutral base so that the fish could come to the fore.

The Modern’s lobster in herb folly had been the greatest use of a claw since Michelle Pfifer played catwoman. Per Se went one better. This was Maine without the bib. The way the meat literally softened liked warmed snow upon first bite was astonishing. The firm white beans reminded me of the Modern again, this time the Chatham Cod, and considering that is my favorite dish of the year, the comparison is very favorable. But just as the conversation at our table soared with each new flavor and Danny’s birthday “merriment” became more and more apparent, so too did the food. The “pork loin” which followed was basically Arthur Bryant’s on acid. Joining the flavors of Texas and Kansas City red-sauce barbeque with a revamped version of collard greens consisting of wilted dandelion greens, this was Per Se’s mischievous intelligence in gaudy neon lights.

Promises are made to be broken, and I decided to forget my non-beef vow for one night to engage in Per Se’s veal tenderloin. This dish doffed its hat to chateaubriand, with mushrooms and a jazzed up “béarnaise sauce” to round out the allusion. But the real star was the veal – as pink as pork but as tender as a soft cheese. The veal segue-wayed into the cheese platter, which came with beets instead of the more traditional figs or dried fruit. The combination was masterful, as the beets acerbity translated nicely with the sharp rigidity of the cheese and tangy bite supplied by the horseradish.

Even the sorbet was extraordinary. The plating was artful if not suggestive. An orbital circle of raspberry syrup enabled the planets of delicate pineapple sorbet, subtle rosewater gelee, and luscious tamarind sponge a clear path on which to rotate. The lofty presentation would have been pompous if the tastes were any less successful. It being Danny’s birthday, the staff was even kind enough to serve us a complimentary “Coffee and Doughnuts”, which turned out to be my most beloved tasting of the evening. Instead of coffee, there was a froth covered chocolate mousse. The “donut” – well let’s just say Krispy Kreme and Dunkin Donuts would declare bankruptcy if America’s “cops” ever got a taste of Keller’s “fried sweetness”.

Finally, there was the sweet oblivion that was “dessert”. In a “deconstruction” to make Derrida jump like the Lucky Charms mascot, Per Se undid a Snickers bar into its more utopian components. Peanut and chocolate smears underlined the plate, upon which a chocolate “log” and nougat ice cream teamed with a caramel foundation, the “diving board” from which the whole dessert “sprung”. I was wowed, I was amazed. In stoner movies, weed fiends revel in the way they can taste individual flavors in complex foods. That was how I felt eating this “Snickers”, each flavor was maximized to its fullest. There is no way the actual candy could ever attain the heights this dish hit.

I have written in numerous reviews about my jealousy of Libby’s vegetarian based orders. At Per Se, this green blindness came to a head. I only tried three of her dishes, but it was enough to confirm my suspicions that her tasting “might” (I fear the truth) have been better than mine. Her “Garganelli Oreganata” mimicked the pepper and salt boldness of Cacio e Pepe’s signature dish. Her artichoke “Croquetas” made me dream of days in Spain – or Tia Pol. But even more astounding was the “Moelleux Aux Amandes”, her dessert, and a plate of white chocolate and yogurt flavors so pure as to make even the palest of Vermeer’s models blush. Once again, Libby had demonstrated the intriguing possibilities of non-meat based food; and she had shown women might not have a sixth sense, but they certainly have an elevated sense of taste.

Per Se was the culmination of multiple streams in my life. It was the highlight of my New York dining experiences and I doubt anything will be able to equal it. It was the peak of a weekend spent with the only person who could ever make St. Louis seem like a “city” worth living in. But mostly, it was the apex of a friendship that began three years ago, but it took New York to bring to fruition – and no quotes are needed when I say happy birthday to my best friend. Per Se is the “best”. And on my best friend’s birthday, where else could we possibly have “gone”?

RATING: 11/10 (possible only in the case of Per Se)

2005-06-09T19:12:00.000-04:00

Everything Is Illuminated, by Jonathan Safran Foer