Restaurant 49: Cacio e Pepe

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)

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

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)

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

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

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)

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

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)

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)

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

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

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

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

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)

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)

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