Clockwise from top left: Poetic flowers for an unpoetic post, Clinton St. Biscuit, Hazelnut Biscotti, Angel Food Cake with Berries.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Clinton St. Baking Co. Photos (Just Desserts)
Clockwise from top left: Poetic flowers for an unpoetic post, Clinton St. Biscuit, Hazelnut Biscotti, Angel Food Cake with Berries.
Just Desserts 2: Clinton St. Baking Co. (remix)
RESTAURANT: Clinton St. Baking Co.
LOCATION: 4 Clinton St.
DATE: May 9, 2005
DESSERT: Biscuit, Hazelnut Biscotti, shared order of Angel Food Cake with Masticated Berries BEVERAGE: Tap Water
PRICE: $6.50
“Clinton St”
***prepare to be underwhelmed
I had been to Clinton St. for the pancakes one time before
This time I came strictly for the biscuit…well, and the dessert du jour
The biscuit was feathery, flaky, and buttery just like a biscuit should be
So damn tasty, oh, if only Pillsbury had as nearly as good a recipe
But though it was huge and it really should have been enough
I couldn’t resist trying the angel food cake, a dessert I love
Even lighter than the biscuit and with fresh whipped cream like woah(!)
This shouldn’t be a seasonal special but a menu staple fo sho
Now I know I ain’t street and that I really can’t rhyme
But the berries and biscotti forced me to jot down a line
Masticated (not masturbated) meant these berries were a little smashed
All the same to me, so frickin’ tasty, they were gone in a flash
The biscotti packed a nutty crunch perfect for coffee dipping
I ain’t lying to you, for desserts Clinton St certainly isn’t tripping
Another successful visit to this homey, comfortable place
Baked goods consistently able to put a smile on my unpoetic face
(wow that was a horrorshow)
RATING: 7.5/10
LOCATION: 4 Clinton St.
DATE: May 9, 2005
DESSERT: Biscuit, Hazelnut Biscotti, shared order of Angel Food Cake with Masticated Berries BEVERAGE: Tap Water
PRICE: $6.50
“Clinton St”
***prepare to be underwhelmed
I had been to Clinton St. for the pancakes one time before
This time I came strictly for the biscuit…well, and the dessert du jour
The biscuit was feathery, flaky, and buttery just like a biscuit should be
So damn tasty, oh, if only Pillsbury had as nearly as good a recipe
But though it was huge and it really should have been enough
I couldn’t resist trying the angel food cake, a dessert I love
Even lighter than the biscuit and with fresh whipped cream like woah(!)
This shouldn’t be a seasonal special but a menu staple fo sho
Now I know I ain’t street and that I really can’t rhyme
But the berries and biscotti forced me to jot down a line
Masticated (not masturbated) meant these berries were a little smashed
All the same to me, so frickin’ tasty, they were gone in a flash
The biscotti packed a nutty crunch perfect for coffee dipping
I ain’t lying to you, for desserts Clinton St certainly isn’t tripping
Another successful visit to this homey, comfortable place
Baked goods consistently able to put a smile on my unpoetic face
(wow that was a horrorshow)
RATING: 7.5/10
Shake Shack Photos
Clockwise from top left: Shack Shake in Madison Square Park, The Menu and order line, Shroom Burger, Hopscotch Concrete and burger.
Restaurant 18: Shake Shack
RESTAURANT: Shake Shack
LOCATION: Madison Square Park, SE Corner
DATE: May 9, 2005
FOOD: “Shroom” Burger, Hopscotch Concrete (hot caramel sauce, chocolate toffee, vahlrona chocolate chunks) w/ salted peanuts.
BEVERAGE: Tap Water
PRICE: $11.50
April is the cruelest month – for the weather, but also because Shack Shake’s extended hours didn’t start until May. That meant Danny Meyer’s Madison Square Park burger joint was open while I was at work, closed when I left (while the stand was open on weekends, the lines are notoriously long). But April showers bring May’s hours and my first visit to Shake Shack.
NY Metro, TimeOut NY, bloggers galore, seems like everyone and their mother loves Shake Shack’s burgers and numerous outlets have named it the best in New York. Sucks for me. The hot dogs are all beef as well, so that left the ‘Shroom Burger as my only option. In the end though, I was the big winner. I’ll leave the cows to the rest of y’all. This was the best non-beef burger I’d ever had.
Portobellos are meaty mushrooms. But facts are facts and most Portobello burgers I’ve tried in the past, are, well…they leave something to be desired (like meat). Not so Shake Shack’s. One of Meyer’s gastrointestinal savants must have figured out that non-beef eaters don’t like their burgers to have a mushy outside anymore than the rest of society. But most veggie burgers are as soggy as an Englishman’s disposition. The answer to this situation? Like so much in life – the deep fryer.
Fried like a crab cake (and using the same concept as Dinosaur’s fried green tomatoes), the Portobello burger is surrounded by a firm coating which provides a crunch missing in others’ veggie renditions. But the inside makes this burger, a luscious combination of chopped mushroom, onion, seasonings and melted cheese. The cheese is an insightful addition, bursting forth upon first bite. It gushed out, saturating bun and mushroom in its semi-liquidity. Throw in Shake Shack’s thousand island dressing like special sauce and this is a burger even Dr. Atkins could love. I should have ordered a second, but in a rare moment of self-control decided against it.
Along with my burger, I ordered the Hopscotch concrete with salted peanuts slapped on to boot. The vanilla custard was solid, neither too runny nor too thick. While the chocolate chunks were too bulky and the chocolate toffee got lost in the shuffle, the concrete as a whole was delicious. The custard of Kopf’s in Milwaukee and Ted Drewes (review upcoming) in St. Louis are better, but Shake Shack did a noble imitation of a very Midwestern dessert.
So as the temperatures climb and the days outlast the night, Shake Shack becomes a more and more appealing way to spend a summer night. I know I’ll be back for the burgers – the Portobello burgers that is. And to all those clamoring for cow, I’ll paraphrase Marie Antoinette and say, let them eat beef.
RATING: 7.7/10
LOCATION: Madison Square Park, SE Corner
DATE: May 9, 2005
FOOD: “Shroom” Burger, Hopscotch Concrete (hot caramel sauce, chocolate toffee, vahlrona chocolate chunks) w/ salted peanuts.
BEVERAGE: Tap Water
PRICE: $11.50
April is the cruelest month – for the weather, but also because Shack Shake’s extended hours didn’t start until May. That meant Danny Meyer’s Madison Square Park burger joint was open while I was at work, closed when I left (while the stand was open on weekends, the lines are notoriously long). But April showers bring May’s hours and my first visit to Shake Shack.
NY Metro, TimeOut NY, bloggers galore, seems like everyone and their mother loves Shake Shack’s burgers and numerous outlets have named it the best in New York. Sucks for me. The hot dogs are all beef as well, so that left the ‘Shroom Burger as my only option. In the end though, I was the big winner. I’ll leave the cows to the rest of y’all. This was the best non-beef burger I’d ever had.
Portobellos are meaty mushrooms. But facts are facts and most Portobello burgers I’ve tried in the past, are, well…they leave something to be desired (like meat). Not so Shake Shack’s. One of Meyer’s gastrointestinal savants must have figured out that non-beef eaters don’t like their burgers to have a mushy outside anymore than the rest of society. But most veggie burgers are as soggy as an Englishman’s disposition. The answer to this situation? Like so much in life – the deep fryer.
Fried like a crab cake (and using the same concept as Dinosaur’s fried green tomatoes), the Portobello burger is surrounded by a firm coating which provides a crunch missing in others’ veggie renditions. But the inside makes this burger, a luscious combination of chopped mushroom, onion, seasonings and melted cheese. The cheese is an insightful addition, bursting forth upon first bite. It gushed out, saturating bun and mushroom in its semi-liquidity. Throw in Shake Shack’s thousand island dressing like special sauce and this is a burger even Dr. Atkins could love. I should have ordered a second, but in a rare moment of self-control decided against it.
Along with my burger, I ordered the Hopscotch concrete with salted peanuts slapped on to boot. The vanilla custard was solid, neither too runny nor too thick. While the chocolate chunks were too bulky and the chocolate toffee got lost in the shuffle, the concrete as a whole was delicious. The custard of Kopf’s in Milwaukee and Ted Drewes (review upcoming) in St. Louis are better, but Shake Shack did a noble imitation of a very Midwestern dessert.
So as the temperatures climb and the days outlast the night, Shake Shack becomes a more and more appealing way to spend a summer night. I know I’ll be back for the burgers – the Portobello burgers that is. And to all those clamoring for cow, I’ll paraphrase Marie Antoinette and say, let them eat beef.
RATING: 7.7/10
Dinosaur Barbeque Photos
Row 1: Inside Dinosaur, Extreme Sampler, one of the many old horror movie posters on Dinosaur's walls; Rows 2-3: Rhubarb pie, views of Harlem near Dinosaur.
Restaurant 17: Dinosaur Barbeque
RESTAURANT: Dinosaur Barbeque
LOCATION: 646 W. 131 St., New York, NY
DATE: May 8, 2005
FOOD: Appetizers: Mild and Hot Chicken Wings, Fried Green Tomatoes (Original), Drunken Spicy Shrimp Boil; Entrée: Sample Extreme (1/2 Chicken, ½ Rack of Ribs, Pulled Pork (substitution for Brisket)) with Cornbread, Macaroni & Cheese, and French Fries; Dessert: Rhubarb Pie with Vanilla Ice Cream
BEVERAGE: Three of Dinosaur home brewed ales, Decaf Coffee
PRICE: Unknown
Pigs are disgusting, filthy animals, sired from putrescent loins into a life of contaminated breaths drawn in squalid sties of pollution.
But they sure do taste good.
Dinosaur Barbeque in Harlem, an offshoot from the original Syracuse locations opened by two bikers, marinates their porkers’ ribs in a dry spice rub for up to 24 hours before slow roasting them to a tender perfection. New York is frequently criticized for its sub-par barbeque, but travel a little north of Manhattan’s ubiquitous Dallas BBQs and Texas Rotisseries and you’ll find there’s good barbeque to be had in the city. Harlem now has two distinguished exiles of America’s south – Bill Clinton and Dinosaur’s barbeque.
Three blocks away, the smell of smoke permeates the air. By the time I walked in the door on Mother’s Day Sunday, my mouth was already salivating. Luckily, Dinosaur’s wide selection of draft beers offer plenty of ways to quench your thirst and awaken your hunger. Once seated, our waitress, Strawberry, informed us she was a mother herself and quickly gave Mrs. Goldberg a high five. The celebration was underway.
Come hungry or don’t come at all should really be Dinosaur’s mantra. While the portions are far from grotesquely large, it’s hard not to keep eating until you engorged self bears an uncanny resemblance to a late in life Marlon Brando (what, too soon? Come on, the fat jokes were okay before he died). But though the ribs are the offer you can’t refuse, the traditional appetizers and desserts are the rub, the dishes you assume are random fillers, but end up being anything but.
The drunken shrimp, boiled in beer and Cajun spices, come with a habanero cocktail sauce, a combination that reminds one of how great non-Emeril New Orleans cuisine can be. The same can be said for the fried green tomatoes, pecorino cheese topping the crisp encasing which surround the succulent, melt-in-your mouth tomato interior. Even the wings are amazing (and I am not a wings fan), most notably the honey flavor covering the mild variety, sweet and salt mixing in a Texas-sky sized swath of taste.
But seriously, on to what we came for – the ribs. “Falling off the bone” is to meat reviews what “genius” is to literary criticism, but in Dinosaur’s case, the moniker actually applies. Gently nudge the meat on the half-rack that comes with the “Extreme Sampler” (enough food to feed the entire population of many Mississippi towns or one Houston (“fattest city in America five years running”) child. Neither Jordan, Alexis or I came anywhere close to finishing the meal – but Strawberry kindly provided Dino-bags) and the pork practically jumps from bone to plate. In reality, it seems the bones on Dinosaur’s ribs are no more than temporary kebab skewers, a device used merely to get the roasted delicacy to the table in the easiest manner possible. While I am no barbeque expert, these are hands down the best tasting ribs I’ve ever eaten, charcoal and ketchup-based glaze exploding with a wide spectrum of spicy, slightly saccharine, and smoky flavors (apparently all adjectives are required to begin in an “s”). The pulled pork is also incredibly tender and would be great on a sandwich. The chicken is less memorable, but still worth ordering if for nothing else than an additional way to sop up Dinosaur’s marvelous sauces. On a previous visit I ordered the baked beans (very good) and salt potatoes (not my thing). This time, I opted for the crunchy and delightful fries and gooey masterpiece that is the Mac & Cheese.
Despite not having room for dessert, I ordered it anyway, deciding as soon as I heard the words “Strawberry & Rhubarb Pie” leave Strawberry’s mouth. Rose Water’s crumble had been great, but Dinosaur’s pie (more like a crumble itself) was amazing. Served a la mode, the pie was like a good southern style tea, sweet and bitter at the same time.
So thank God for pigs. In a room bedecked with mothers and families adorned in their Sunday best, Dinosaur was a dazzling way to spend Mother’s Day. From perfect ribs, to a smiling and garrulous wait staff, to a beautiful view of the river, Dinosaur had a little bit of everything. Upon leaving, stomach and mind were united in satisfaction – on this day, there was nothing more I could’ve possibly wanted.
**** And a Happy Mother’s Day to my mom. Sorry I couldn’t be there. Hope the coffee was at least a passable substitute.
RATING: 8.0/10
LOCATION: 646 W. 131 St., New York, NY
DATE: May 8, 2005
FOOD: Appetizers: Mild and Hot Chicken Wings, Fried Green Tomatoes (Original), Drunken Spicy Shrimp Boil; Entrée: Sample Extreme (1/2 Chicken, ½ Rack of Ribs, Pulled Pork (substitution for Brisket)) with Cornbread, Macaroni & Cheese, and French Fries; Dessert: Rhubarb Pie with Vanilla Ice Cream
BEVERAGE: Three of Dinosaur home brewed ales, Decaf Coffee
PRICE: Unknown
Pigs are disgusting, filthy animals, sired from putrescent loins into a life of contaminated breaths drawn in squalid sties of pollution.
But they sure do taste good.
Dinosaur Barbeque in Harlem, an offshoot from the original Syracuse locations opened by two bikers, marinates their porkers’ ribs in a dry spice rub for up to 24 hours before slow roasting them to a tender perfection. New York is frequently criticized for its sub-par barbeque, but travel a little north of Manhattan’s ubiquitous Dallas BBQs and Texas Rotisseries and you’ll find there’s good barbeque to be had in the city. Harlem now has two distinguished exiles of America’s south – Bill Clinton and Dinosaur’s barbeque.
Three blocks away, the smell of smoke permeates the air. By the time I walked in the door on Mother’s Day Sunday, my mouth was already salivating. Luckily, Dinosaur’s wide selection of draft beers offer plenty of ways to quench your thirst and awaken your hunger. Once seated, our waitress, Strawberry, informed us she was a mother herself and quickly gave Mrs. Goldberg a high five. The celebration was underway.
Come hungry or don’t come at all should really be Dinosaur’s mantra. While the portions are far from grotesquely large, it’s hard not to keep eating until you engorged self bears an uncanny resemblance to a late in life Marlon Brando (what, too soon? Come on, the fat jokes were okay before he died). But though the ribs are the offer you can’t refuse, the traditional appetizers and desserts are the rub, the dishes you assume are random fillers, but end up being anything but.
The drunken shrimp, boiled in beer and Cajun spices, come with a habanero cocktail sauce, a combination that reminds one of how great non-Emeril New Orleans cuisine can be. The same can be said for the fried green tomatoes, pecorino cheese topping the crisp encasing which surround the succulent, melt-in-your mouth tomato interior. Even the wings are amazing (and I am not a wings fan), most notably the honey flavor covering the mild variety, sweet and salt mixing in a Texas-sky sized swath of taste.
But seriously, on to what we came for – the ribs. “Falling off the bone” is to meat reviews what “genius” is to literary criticism, but in Dinosaur’s case, the moniker actually applies. Gently nudge the meat on the half-rack that comes with the “Extreme Sampler” (enough food to feed the entire population of many Mississippi towns or one Houston (“fattest city in America five years running”) child. Neither Jordan, Alexis or I came anywhere close to finishing the meal – but Strawberry kindly provided Dino-bags) and the pork practically jumps from bone to plate. In reality, it seems the bones on Dinosaur’s ribs are no more than temporary kebab skewers, a device used merely to get the roasted delicacy to the table in the easiest manner possible. While I am no barbeque expert, these are hands down the best tasting ribs I’ve ever eaten, charcoal and ketchup-based glaze exploding with a wide spectrum of spicy, slightly saccharine, and smoky flavors (apparently all adjectives are required to begin in an “s”). The pulled pork is also incredibly tender and would be great on a sandwich. The chicken is less memorable, but still worth ordering if for nothing else than an additional way to sop up Dinosaur’s marvelous sauces. On a previous visit I ordered the baked beans (very good) and salt potatoes (not my thing). This time, I opted for the crunchy and delightful fries and gooey masterpiece that is the Mac & Cheese.
Despite not having room for dessert, I ordered it anyway, deciding as soon as I heard the words “Strawberry & Rhubarb Pie” leave Strawberry’s mouth. Rose Water’s crumble had been great, but Dinosaur’s pie (more like a crumble itself) was amazing. Served a la mode, the pie was like a good southern style tea, sweet and bitter at the same time.
So thank God for pigs. In a room bedecked with mothers and families adorned in their Sunday best, Dinosaur was a dazzling way to spend Mother’s Day. From perfect ribs, to a smiling and garrulous wait staff, to a beautiful view of the river, Dinosaur had a little bit of everything. Upon leaving, stomach and mind were united in satisfaction – on this day, there was nothing more I could’ve possibly wanted.
**** And a Happy Mother’s Day to my mom. Sorry I couldn’t be there. Hope the coffee was at least a passable substitute.
RATING: 8.0/10
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Sullivan Street Bakery Photos
Clockwise from top left: Houston Street Subway Station, Sullivan Street Bakery, Pizza Funghi, Pizza Patate.
Restaurant 16: Sullivan Street Bakery
RESTAURANT: Sullivan Street Bakery
LOCATION: 73 Sullivan Street
DATE: May 8, 2005
FOOD: Slice of Pizza Patate (Potato Pizza), Slice of Pizza Funghi (Mushroom Pizza)
BEVERAGE: None
PRICE: $5.00
Bread or Pizza?
Thin, crackery crust, layered toppings, comes in slices – all signs point to pizza.
But there’s no sauce. And no cheese. So really, it’s just an open-faced sandwich and open-faced sandwiches are always served on a piece of…BREAD. Must be bread.
Sullivan Street Bakery calls this pizza though. The roasted potatoes on this slice are lightly dosed in extra virgin olive oil and fresh sprigs of rosemary, a few stray white onions adding balance to this delicious au-gratin express. And on this slice, the cremini mushrooms are chopped into miniature cubes, hinted with thyme and seasoned perfectly with salt and pepper. The mushrooms would be great even without the pizza crust…
But isn’t this a bakery? And everything else they serve is bread. That raisin loaf looks stellar. Will have to wait for another visit, unfortunately. This is bread. Has to be. It was served at room temperature, wasn’t heated at all. Just like bread. But it would have been better hot. And maybe you’re supposed to take it home and heat it there. Definitely better hot. Pizza…
But, it came in a bread bag for god’s sake, it’s gotta be bread.
Isn’t pizza dough a form of bread? Could this be a game of semantics?
In my English classes, semantics never tasted like this. Wow. The olive oil on these slices is…wow.
Maybe another bite will make this easier.
No answers on that front. Decide which one is better. That’ll be something at least. The mushroom is superior. Clearly. Well wait, nope it’s the potato. That rosemary is amazing. But what about the thyme? Maybe it’s the mushroom? Another bite of the potato should settle the uncertainty.
Nope. Still unclear. But damn it tastes good. If only all mysteries were this mouthwatering. And all for five dollars. Maybe enough cash for another. That’ll help. One more, everything will come into focus…
RATING: 7.9/10
LOCATION: 73 Sullivan Street
DATE: May 8, 2005
FOOD: Slice of Pizza Patate (Potato Pizza), Slice of Pizza Funghi (Mushroom Pizza)
BEVERAGE: None
PRICE: $5.00
Bread or Pizza?
Thin, crackery crust, layered toppings, comes in slices – all signs point to pizza.
But there’s no sauce. And no cheese. So really, it’s just an open-faced sandwich and open-faced sandwiches are always served on a piece of…BREAD. Must be bread.
Sullivan Street Bakery calls this pizza though. The roasted potatoes on this slice are lightly dosed in extra virgin olive oil and fresh sprigs of rosemary, a few stray white onions adding balance to this delicious au-gratin express. And on this slice, the cremini mushrooms are chopped into miniature cubes, hinted with thyme and seasoned perfectly with salt and pepper. The mushrooms would be great even without the pizza crust…
But isn’t this a bakery? And everything else they serve is bread. That raisin loaf looks stellar. Will have to wait for another visit, unfortunately. This is bread. Has to be. It was served at room temperature, wasn’t heated at all. Just like bread. But it would have been better hot. And maybe you’re supposed to take it home and heat it there. Definitely better hot. Pizza…
But, it came in a bread bag for god’s sake, it’s gotta be bread.
Isn’t pizza dough a form of bread? Could this be a game of semantics?
In my English classes, semantics never tasted like this. Wow. The olive oil on these slices is…wow.
Maybe another bite will make this easier.
No answers on that front. Decide which one is better. That’ll be something at least. The mushroom is superior. Clearly. Well wait, nope it’s the potato. That rosemary is amazing. But what about the thyme? Maybe it’s the mushroom? Another bite of the potato should settle the uncertainty.
Nope. Still unclear. But damn it tastes good. If only all mysteries were this mouthwatering. And all for five dollars. Maybe enough cash for another. That’ll help. One more, everything will come into focus…
RATING: 7.9/10
Gobo Photos
Row 1: Washington Square on the way to Gobo, Gobo's watching Buddha, bread and sweet potato spread; Row 2: Wheat Grass shot, New England rolls, Yam & Yucca Fries; Row 3: Butternut Squash Risotto, Green Tea Noodles, Inside Entrance to Gobo.
Restaurant 15: Gobo (Infinite Feast XVII)
RESTAURANT: Gobo
LOCATION: 401 Avenue of the Americas
DATE: May 7, 2005
FOOD: Cranberry Walnut Bread with Sweet Potato Spread (complimentary); Split the following: New England Rolls; White Bean, Root Vegetable and Pumpkin Soup; Yam & Yucca Fries; Green Tea Noodle with Vegan Bolognese Sauce; Butternut Squash Risotto with Toasted Almonds; Carrot Cake with Hard Sake Sauce.
BEVERAGE: 2 oz. shot of Wheat Grass with Lemon
PRICE: $42.00
Flower power, hippies, and free love aren’t as prevalent in 21st century Manhattan as Vietnam War era California (well maybe the free love part, at least let’s hope). But if you needed any further confirmation that the 60s are officially over, the vegan-gone-elegant food of Gobo hammers the point home one final time. Apparently, the baby boomers have beaten the ideals of the Beat Generation into a bloodied, moneyed pulp.
Gobo, located in the West Village, is truly the perfect restaurant for the area. No peace signs or yin-yangs grace the walls, but there is a large Buddha statue resting over the open kitchen, surveying the customers on his way to enlightenment. The atmosphere is somberly tranquil but unromantic, more Zen temple then L’Impero love shack. Gobo seems like a “Sex in the City” restaurant, offering above average vegetarian Asian food stir-fried in West Village wealthy faux-bohemianism. While Gobo can’t provide a transcendent experience, it does prove that going out for vegetarian doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice taste.
I chose Gobo to match the Far-East eclectic influences of Cloud Atlas. Like Mitchell’s luminous novel, Gobo dabbles in multiple genres, crossing the cultural boundaries of Korea, China, Japan, and Pacific Rim to create a more universal aesthetic. But whereas Cloud Atlas is one display of virtuosity after another, Gobo doesn’t quite reach this level of fluent multi-lingualism, doing many things well, but nothing exceptional.
The menu caters to sharers, so Danny and I had no problem sampling a multitude of dishes. The house bread is crusty, thick and delicious, one slice a multi-grain variety, the other a cranberry-walnut to rival (but not quite measure up to) the Modern’s. The Moroccan spiced sweet potato spread accompaniment makes the bread a meal in and of itself, and was a great way to jump start the taste-buds. The pumpkin and bean soup we began with was a drab disappointment though, tasting like the canned vegetable broth which served as the base of many an elementary school soup calamity. I didn’t taste nearly enough of the pumpkin which should have been the featured attraction of the medley.
But the New England rolls and yucca & yam fries that followed quickly made me forget the soup. The fries came with a kicked up dip somewhere between cocktail and sweet and sour sauce. The contrasting textures of the yam and yucca were also interesting, though the yucca was a bit too papery and tough at times, while the yam fries were pure gold (of the non Yukon variety). Filled with soy ham, crunchy vegetables and served in red tortillas, the New England rolls were Mexican in appearance, Far Pacific in flavor, but a success anywhere.
Our entrees came with as many ups and downs as Joan Rivers’ career. The green tea noodles with a vegan Bolognese sauce reminded me of lasagna stripped of everything but sauce, and were excellent, the soy mimicking beef as well as a bean derivative product can. The green tea was more apparent in the color of the noodles than in their flavor but I enjoyed this course nonetheless. The risotto, however, was a study in Moby Dick duality, mildly creamy and sweet in one bite, and mushy and Congee Village porridge like in the next. The kitchen forgot to include the toasted almonds in our order which are supposed to come atop the rice (many of the eaters around us ordered the dish and the almonds were remembered) and Danny and I both agreed this would have made the dish much better, as a hard crunch was needed to offset the rather limp risotto. I don’t think soy milk and soy cheese are suitable substitutes for real and milk and cheese, at least in Italian dishes.
Dessert presented a wide spectrum of possibilities, but unfortunately I selected the poorly. My carrot cake should have been called a loaf, as it was overly firm and as dense as a fruit cake. The nondescript and tasteless sake hard sauce softened the cake, but in a way that freezer burn leaves a frozen waffle mushy even after toasting. Danny’s hazelnut napoleon was a much better choice, sweet hazelnut puree sandwiched between thin wafers.
I also endured a shot of Wheat Grass, ordered more for its novelty than any expectation of pleasure. Its smell of fresh cut grass (was that lawn mower gasoline as well?) was enough to turn my stomach, but its crabgrass taste was something like the gymnastics lesson I took at age four – once, but never, NEVER again.
Gobo is Confucius turned Renaissance man, ready to try its luck in every field rather than perfect one. And while the vegan cooking comes with a dose of yuppie, Gobo is worth a visit, if for nothing else then to at least see for a night how the non-carnivorous live. Gobo succeeds in making it temporarily possible to imagine being a vegetarian, to learn the various gradations of tofu, to contemplate embracing a life of soy and whole grains like Hugh Heffner embraces silicon - but just for a moment. Babbo is located nearly across the street and I as I left Gobo, I suddenly developed a hankering for some beef cheek ravioli.
RATING: 7.0/10
LOCATION: 401 Avenue of the Americas
DATE: May 7, 2005
FOOD: Cranberry Walnut Bread with Sweet Potato Spread (complimentary); Split the following: New England Rolls; White Bean, Root Vegetable and Pumpkin Soup; Yam & Yucca Fries; Green Tea Noodle with Vegan Bolognese Sauce; Butternut Squash Risotto with Toasted Almonds; Carrot Cake with Hard Sake Sauce.
BEVERAGE: 2 oz. shot of Wheat Grass with Lemon
PRICE: $42.00
Flower power, hippies, and free love aren’t as prevalent in 21st century Manhattan as Vietnam War era California (well maybe the free love part, at least let’s hope). But if you needed any further confirmation that the 60s are officially over, the vegan-gone-elegant food of Gobo hammers the point home one final time. Apparently, the baby boomers have beaten the ideals of the Beat Generation into a bloodied, moneyed pulp.
Gobo, located in the West Village, is truly the perfect restaurant for the area. No peace signs or yin-yangs grace the walls, but there is a large Buddha statue resting over the open kitchen, surveying the customers on his way to enlightenment. The atmosphere is somberly tranquil but unromantic, more Zen temple then L’Impero love shack. Gobo seems like a “Sex in the City” restaurant, offering above average vegetarian Asian food stir-fried in West Village wealthy faux-bohemianism. While Gobo can’t provide a transcendent experience, it does prove that going out for vegetarian doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice taste.
I chose Gobo to match the Far-East eclectic influences of Cloud Atlas. Like Mitchell’s luminous novel, Gobo dabbles in multiple genres, crossing the cultural boundaries of Korea, China, Japan, and Pacific Rim to create a more universal aesthetic. But whereas Cloud Atlas is one display of virtuosity after another, Gobo doesn’t quite reach this level of fluent multi-lingualism, doing many things well, but nothing exceptional.
The menu caters to sharers, so Danny and I had no problem sampling a multitude of dishes. The house bread is crusty, thick and delicious, one slice a multi-grain variety, the other a cranberry-walnut to rival (but not quite measure up to) the Modern’s. The Moroccan spiced sweet potato spread accompaniment makes the bread a meal in and of itself, and was a great way to jump start the taste-buds. The pumpkin and bean soup we began with was a drab disappointment though, tasting like the canned vegetable broth which served as the base of many an elementary school soup calamity. I didn’t taste nearly enough of the pumpkin which should have been the featured attraction of the medley.
But the New England rolls and yucca & yam fries that followed quickly made me forget the soup. The fries came with a kicked up dip somewhere between cocktail and sweet and sour sauce. The contrasting textures of the yam and yucca were also interesting, though the yucca was a bit too papery and tough at times, while the yam fries were pure gold (of the non Yukon variety). Filled with soy ham, crunchy vegetables and served in red tortillas, the New England rolls were Mexican in appearance, Far Pacific in flavor, but a success anywhere.
Our entrees came with as many ups and downs as Joan Rivers’ career. The green tea noodles with a vegan Bolognese sauce reminded me of lasagna stripped of everything but sauce, and were excellent, the soy mimicking beef as well as a bean derivative product can. The green tea was more apparent in the color of the noodles than in their flavor but I enjoyed this course nonetheless. The risotto, however, was a study in Moby Dick duality, mildly creamy and sweet in one bite, and mushy and Congee Village porridge like in the next. The kitchen forgot to include the toasted almonds in our order which are supposed to come atop the rice (many of the eaters around us ordered the dish and the almonds were remembered) and Danny and I both agreed this would have made the dish much better, as a hard crunch was needed to offset the rather limp risotto. I don’t think soy milk and soy cheese are suitable substitutes for real and milk and cheese, at least in Italian dishes.
Dessert presented a wide spectrum of possibilities, but unfortunately I selected the poorly. My carrot cake should have been called a loaf, as it was overly firm and as dense as a fruit cake. The nondescript and tasteless sake hard sauce softened the cake, but in a way that freezer burn leaves a frozen waffle mushy even after toasting. Danny’s hazelnut napoleon was a much better choice, sweet hazelnut puree sandwiched between thin wafers.
I also endured a shot of Wheat Grass, ordered more for its novelty than any expectation of pleasure. Its smell of fresh cut grass (was that lawn mower gasoline as well?) was enough to turn my stomach, but its crabgrass taste was something like the gymnastics lesson I took at age four – once, but never, NEVER again.
Gobo is Confucius turned Renaissance man, ready to try its luck in every field rather than perfect one. And while the vegan cooking comes with a dose of yuppie, Gobo is worth a visit, if for nothing else then to at least see for a night how the non-carnivorous live. Gobo succeeds in making it temporarily possible to imagine being a vegetarian, to learn the various gradations of tofu, to contemplate embracing a life of soy and whole grains like Hugh Heffner embraces silicon - but just for a moment. Babbo is located nearly across the street and I as I left Gobo, I suddenly developed a hankering for some beef cheek ravioli.
RATING: 7.0/10
Monday, May 09, 2005
Veselka Photos
Clockwise from top left: Veselka on 2nd Avenue and 9th street; the salt haven that is Bigos (topped with mashed potatoes); Apple Crumb Cake a la mode; Beet and Horseradish salad.
Restaurant 14: Veselka
RESTAURANT: Veselka
LOCATION: 144 2nd Ave.
DATE: May 6, 2005
FOOD: Bigos with mashed potatoes, beet and horseradish salad. Apple crumb cake with vanilla ice cream
BEVERAGE: Decaf coffee
PRICE: $24.00
Excuse me the bloat gloat, but I can put away. My wiry, 160 pound frame and chicken legs (as labeled by my mother and Libby) have never been able to stop me from eating tremendous amounts of foods. Whether it was the seven slices of sausage and mushroom pie I devoured at Di Fara’s or the nickname “Fat American Bastard” Danny so thoughtfully gave me after an all you can eat sushi binge at Bay Ridge, I’ve never had a problem with eating too little. I’ve frequently compared myself to the rat in psychology textbooks that keeps eating because doctors have given him drugs that suppress the hormone indicating fullness. He just eats and eats, fatter and fatter, until he dies. If only the same would happen to the mice in my apartment.
So it’s a rare and seldom moment that a restaurant portion bests my appetite. Veselka’s bigos, however, beat me. I should have been more prepared, as any selection that a menu describes as “A Meal Fit For A Hunter” won’t be Mary Kate Olsen-esque fair (I hope that’s the right one, I can never keep those two talented actresses straight).
I love Veselka and it’s my favorite late night food spot in the city. Danny and I had been obsessed with the bigos dish since seeing it on the menu in July during our first post-drinking visit. What could a meal fit for a hunter invovle, we asked ourselves? We finally decided to try it after our Vintage Bar Crawl. Everything I’ve ordered at Veselka in the past, from the blueberry pancakes, to the pierogies, to the meatless Ukranian special, has been excellent. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about the bigos.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve fired a gun once in my life and so really have no idea what it takes to be a hunter, but I can’t imagine why even a Boston Marathon runner would need as much sodium as bigos provides. I imagined bigos would be a Brunswick stew like concoction, but instead the kielbasa, roast pork, sauerkraut, and onions arrived stewed solely in their own juices, with almost no sauce whatsoever. Unless, of course, you count salt as a sauce, which after eating the bigos, I just might have to consider doing. The bigos had all the elements to be a really tasty dish, as Veselka’s kielbasa on its own is a wonderful relative to the brats I grew up on. But this was like a Kelly Clarkson song that hadn’t been mixed right (though I’m not sure if any are). Even the delicious beet salad and mashed potatoes of almost purely spuds failed to make the bigos anything better than alright. The bigos wasn't awful, in fact the meat by itself would have been a dish of hearty heaven. But taken together, I won’t be ordering the bigos the next time I’m at Veselka at 3 a.m, that is for sure.
I woke up with a stomachache and an extreme thirst the morning a.b. (after bigos). Neither Danny nor I wanted to criticize the dish too severely, as it maybe the best bigos this side of the Ukraine, but just not something either of our palates quite comprehend and Veselka has been like the dog I was never allowed to have, consistently faithful.
To avoid complete disappointment, I ordered the apple crumb cake for dessert, which I’d had before and knew I liked. It had stayed the same. Flaky and buttery at once, like a Sunday coffee cake, with pieces of apples layered on the top and when served a la mode, downright sinfully good. My taste buds might have been desensitized by the bigos, but perhaps the best quality of the crumb cake was that, as far as I could tell, it contained little, if any salt.
RATING: 5.2/10
LOCATION: 144 2nd Ave.
DATE: May 6, 2005
FOOD: Bigos with mashed potatoes, beet and horseradish salad. Apple crumb cake with vanilla ice cream
BEVERAGE: Decaf coffee
PRICE: $24.00
Excuse me the bloat gloat, but I can put away. My wiry, 160 pound frame and chicken legs (as labeled by my mother and Libby) have never been able to stop me from eating tremendous amounts of foods. Whether it was the seven slices of sausage and mushroom pie I devoured at Di Fara’s or the nickname “Fat American Bastard” Danny so thoughtfully gave me after an all you can eat sushi binge at Bay Ridge, I’ve never had a problem with eating too little. I’ve frequently compared myself to the rat in psychology textbooks that keeps eating because doctors have given him drugs that suppress the hormone indicating fullness. He just eats and eats, fatter and fatter, until he dies. If only the same would happen to the mice in my apartment.
So it’s a rare and seldom moment that a restaurant portion bests my appetite. Veselka’s bigos, however, beat me. I should have been more prepared, as any selection that a menu describes as “A Meal Fit For A Hunter” won’t be Mary Kate Olsen-esque fair (I hope that’s the right one, I can never keep those two talented actresses straight).
I love Veselka and it’s my favorite late night food spot in the city. Danny and I had been obsessed with the bigos dish since seeing it on the menu in July during our first post-drinking visit. What could a meal fit for a hunter invovle, we asked ourselves? We finally decided to try it after our Vintage Bar Crawl. Everything I’ve ordered at Veselka in the past, from the blueberry pancakes, to the pierogies, to the meatless Ukranian special, has been excellent. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about the bigos.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve fired a gun once in my life and so really have no idea what it takes to be a hunter, but I can’t imagine why even a Boston Marathon runner would need as much sodium as bigos provides. I imagined bigos would be a Brunswick stew like concoction, but instead the kielbasa, roast pork, sauerkraut, and onions arrived stewed solely in their own juices, with almost no sauce whatsoever. Unless, of course, you count salt as a sauce, which after eating the bigos, I just might have to consider doing. The bigos had all the elements to be a really tasty dish, as Veselka’s kielbasa on its own is a wonderful relative to the brats I grew up on. But this was like a Kelly Clarkson song that hadn’t been mixed right (though I’m not sure if any are). Even the delicious beet salad and mashed potatoes of almost purely spuds failed to make the bigos anything better than alright. The bigos wasn't awful, in fact the meat by itself would have been a dish of hearty heaven. But taken together, I won’t be ordering the bigos the next time I’m at Veselka at 3 a.m, that is for sure.
I woke up with a stomachache and an extreme thirst the morning a.b. (after bigos). Neither Danny nor I wanted to criticize the dish too severely, as it maybe the best bigos this side of the Ukraine, but just not something either of our palates quite comprehend and Veselka has been like the dog I was never allowed to have, consistently faithful.
To avoid complete disappointment, I ordered the apple crumb cake for dessert, which I’d had before and knew I liked. It had stayed the same. Flaky and buttery at once, like a Sunday coffee cake, with pieces of apples layered on the top and when served a la mode, downright sinfully good. My taste buds might have been desensitized by the bigos, but perhaps the best quality of the crumb cake was that, as far as I could tell, it contained little, if any salt.
RATING: 5.2/10
Vintage Bar Crawl Photos
Row 1: Loreley's Beer and Bretzels, a pieta on the way to Chumley's, wall of draft beer at Chumley's; Row 2: Honoring NYC's firefighters at Chumley's, the secret entrance, Ear Inn, above the bar at Ear Inn; Row 3: Don't ask for this beer at Ear Inn (they don't really serve it), McSorley's, Light and Dark, McSorley's needs a maid; Row 4: McSorley's presidential walls, Bedford entrance to Chumley's, Hemingway and the like at Chumley's, outside a church (apparently Jesus would drink).
Tour 2: Vintage Bar Crawl
TOUR: Vintage Bar Crawl
BARS: Loreley, Chumley’s, Ear Inn, McSorley’s
DATE: May 6, 2005
On Friday night the weather was as inconsistent as Vladimir Putin’s relationship with democracy. But despite the vacillations of rain and wind, Danny and I set out on a Vintage Bar Crawl to let off a little work week stress. We vowed not to go above 14th street (as there are really very few reasons to ever go above Union Square) and to start at Loreley, despite the fact that this German restaurant can in no way be considered a vintage bar (we considered their authentic Bretzels the best absorption for massive amounts of alcohol). But even though our rules were a bit nebulous, our purpose was not.
We had been to Loreley (7 Rivington) for dinner on a previous occasion, but this time we focused exclusively on the massive .5L beer steins (they also serve full liter steins, but anyone that likes fruit based martinis as much as I do, is in no way man enough for a full liter of German beer). And, of course, the Bretzels ($5). The Bretzels lived up to my memory of them, soft and doughy on the inside, but with the crisp baked exterior of New York bagels. These bready salt snacks went nicely with the Spaten Lager ($6) recommended to me by our waitress. It was no wonder why Loreley was packed.
But young men go west and so we did too, heading to Chumley’s (86 Bedford St.) and the merge of alcoholism and the New York literary scene of old. Chumley’s gets my endorsement as the best vintage bar we visited. Its atmosphere of literary unpretentious mixed with a fratastic crowd that in any other place might have bothered me, but here, oddly, didn’t. However, it was the bar itself that exceeded expectations. The secret entrance on Pamela Court adds an element of adventure to any bender. Not to mention that the homemade beer I tried, “Wing and A Prayer Wheat” ($6), was outstanding, light, crisp (I sound like a commercial), and accented with a lemon wedge whose acidity cut into the hops nicely.
The Ear Inn followed (326 Spring St.), a prime contender for oldest bar in Manhattan status. Unlike Chumley’s and Loreley, the beer selection wasn’t all that distinctive, but I ended up liking the rather chill feel and eclectic, slightly older clientele of Ear Inn more than I would’ve thought. We both opted for Boddington’s Pub Ale ($6 (noticing a price theme here?)) on tap, watched the Wizards win their first playoff series during my lifetime, and used the provided crayons to engage in some childhood nostalgia all across the paper tabletops. Ear Inn has survived all these years for a reason. It’s casual and comfortable without a hint of pretension.
Finally we landed on McSorley’s (15 E. 7th St.) sawdust floors. McSorley’s long-standing reputation needs little elaboration here, but I will add my approval (as if they need it) for the “Twinkie”-sized “light and dark” beers ($4), which contrary to other’s reports, tasted very different. I preferred the dark beer which was not overly bitter as dark beers so frequently are. The dust covered wall and ceiling fixtures, the white-apron wearing bartenders, and overall “I love the Irish (but had Colin Farell)”pub authenticity was the best way to end this vintage evening. Maybe we hadn’t gone back in time, but we had proved Friday night escapes can take many forms.
BARS: Loreley, Chumley’s, Ear Inn, McSorley’s
DATE: May 6, 2005
On Friday night the weather was as inconsistent as Vladimir Putin’s relationship with democracy. But despite the vacillations of rain and wind, Danny and I set out on a Vintage Bar Crawl to let off a little work week stress. We vowed not to go above 14th street (as there are really very few reasons to ever go above Union Square) and to start at Loreley, despite the fact that this German restaurant can in no way be considered a vintage bar (we considered their authentic Bretzels the best absorption for massive amounts of alcohol). But even though our rules were a bit nebulous, our purpose was not.
We had been to Loreley (7 Rivington) for dinner on a previous occasion, but this time we focused exclusively on the massive .5L beer steins (they also serve full liter steins, but anyone that likes fruit based martinis as much as I do, is in no way man enough for a full liter of German beer). And, of course, the Bretzels ($5). The Bretzels lived up to my memory of them, soft and doughy on the inside, but with the crisp baked exterior of New York bagels. These bready salt snacks went nicely with the Spaten Lager ($6) recommended to me by our waitress. It was no wonder why Loreley was packed.
But young men go west and so we did too, heading to Chumley’s (86 Bedford St.) and the merge of alcoholism and the New York literary scene of old. Chumley’s gets my endorsement as the best vintage bar we visited. Its atmosphere of literary unpretentious mixed with a fratastic crowd that in any other place might have bothered me, but here, oddly, didn’t. However, it was the bar itself that exceeded expectations. The secret entrance on Pamela Court adds an element of adventure to any bender. Not to mention that the homemade beer I tried, “Wing and A Prayer Wheat” ($6), was outstanding, light, crisp (I sound like a commercial), and accented with a lemon wedge whose acidity cut into the hops nicely.
The Ear Inn followed (326 Spring St.), a prime contender for oldest bar in Manhattan status. Unlike Chumley’s and Loreley, the beer selection wasn’t all that distinctive, but I ended up liking the rather chill feel and eclectic, slightly older clientele of Ear Inn more than I would’ve thought. We both opted for Boddington’s Pub Ale ($6 (noticing a price theme here?)) on tap, watched the Wizards win their first playoff series during my lifetime, and used the provided crayons to engage in some childhood nostalgia all across the paper tabletops. Ear Inn has survived all these years for a reason. It’s casual and comfortable without a hint of pretension.
Finally we landed on McSorley’s (15 E. 7th St.) sawdust floors. McSorley’s long-standing reputation needs little elaboration here, but I will add my approval (as if they need it) for the “Twinkie”-sized “light and dark” beers ($4), which contrary to other’s reports, tasted very different. I preferred the dark beer which was not overly bitter as dark beers so frequently are. The dust covered wall and ceiling fixtures, the white-apron wearing bartenders, and overall “I love the Irish (but had Colin Farell)”pub authenticity was the best way to end this vintage evening. Maybe we hadn’t gone back in time, but we had proved Friday night escapes can take many forms.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Book 5: William Carlos Williams Selected Poems, edited by Charles Tomlinson
Paperback: 302 pages
Publisher: New Directions Publishing Corporation (June 1, 1985)
The poetry of William Carlos Williams is difficult for literary scholars to place into a distinct sect or “school”. The physician-poet who inspired the Beat generation with his words, has a greater affinity to Ginsberg than to the poets of his own era, Eliot or Stevens for example. Williams' work fails to assimilate with even one of his closest admirers and friends, Ezra Pound, though the two share in their desires to experiment with form and style. Williams’ poetry is a conflicting menagerie of imagination, avant-garde forms, and soulful ruminations on the power of the mind. He was one of the first American poets who stayed home rather than turning to Europe for inspiration and elevated colloquial, everyday language to art. His body of work stands as a testament to the devotion an individual can feel towards the written word and the power language contains.
Perhaps Williams was aware of some of the key problematic elements in his work. Like many great artists, he admits the urge to create came to him from unknown forces. In “Apology” when he writes, “Why do I write today?/The beauty of/the terrible faces/of our nonentities/stirs me to it" touches on the artist's alienation from knowing where his art emerges from. This urge often leads him to a doctoral self-examination and deconstruction. But the most important strand in the poetry is an ever fervent defense of poetry’s beauty and utility, even in the modern world. Williams poetry can be political, as in “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower,” when he touches about nuclear energy with such lines as, “The mere picture/of the exploding bomb/fascinates us/so that we cannot wait/to prostrate ourselves/before it.” What can mere words to in the face of this destruction? Does poetry still have a place in a contemporary world bent on self—annihilation? For Williams, the answer is yes.
Ultimately, it is in his defense of the scope of poetry that Williams is his most powerful. He is a man that believed in words and believed the will of the mind was the greatest source of strength in the world. Poetry is all around us, but it is for the poet’s mind to decipher nature’s codes. “Paterson”, his longest poem and a piece that at some points seems to spiral out of control, still retains a core of integrity that exemplifies the poet’s work. The world is the poet’s to interpret Williams elucidates with “…The birds/and leaves are designed to be woven/in his mind eating and.../altogether for his purposes.” The world might not have been made explicitely for the poet's pen, but the poet is free to interpret it this way.
Williams poetry illustrates how language can shape what it describes in the same way that the mind shapes the way in which we perceive the “things” of the world. Williams frequently uses form to highlight this parallel relationship, as in “The Red Wheel Barrow”, where words are revealed slowly, sometimes with only one to a line, a divergent perception from the more immediate facility of the mind. The mind and poet, however, are kin – neither is objective, but rather insert their perspective into the view of life. However, subjectivity doesn’t mean the death null for certainty. We must look to the world and its objects for understanding as the resounding phrase, “No end but among words/looking to the past,/plaintive and unschooled,/wanting a discipline” and later in the same poem, “The Sound of Waves”, “…words blowing in/taking the shape of stone/Past that, past the image”. Language in general and poetry specifically, are our best tools to decipher the world, a place at once mysterious, awful, wretched, beautiful, and sublime.
In “A Sort of a Song”, Williams expresses this idea most clearly, writing, “…-through metaphor to reconcile/the people and the stones./Compose. (No ideas/but in things) Invent!” He wants us to use words, metaphors, descriptions. He extols common people because of their commonness, as in his loving description of a poor woman eating plums. Beauty surrounds us, we just have to see it for what it is. This is an avant-garde notion, that now, seems less artsy than humanistic. This idea seems even more important today, in a world filled with images, and the way we can absorb these ubiquituous flashes without the active participation of our mind. Words force us to construct, force us to think for ourselves. Williams poetry may be a lament for the prominence that poetry has lost, but it’s also a justification for its continued place in our society, even with the medium of television – and, decades later, it remains a deeply moving testimony at that.
Publisher: New Directions Publishing Corporation (June 1, 1985)
The poetry of William Carlos Williams is difficult for literary scholars to place into a distinct sect or “school”. The physician-poet who inspired the Beat generation with his words, has a greater affinity to Ginsberg than to the poets of his own era, Eliot or Stevens for example. Williams' work fails to assimilate with even one of his closest admirers and friends, Ezra Pound, though the two share in their desires to experiment with form and style. Williams’ poetry is a conflicting menagerie of imagination, avant-garde forms, and soulful ruminations on the power of the mind. He was one of the first American poets who stayed home rather than turning to Europe for inspiration and elevated colloquial, everyday language to art. His body of work stands as a testament to the devotion an individual can feel towards the written word and the power language contains.
Perhaps Williams was aware of some of the key problematic elements in his work. Like many great artists, he admits the urge to create came to him from unknown forces. In “Apology” when he writes, “Why do I write today?/The beauty of/the terrible faces/of our nonentities/stirs me to it" touches on the artist's alienation from knowing where his art emerges from. This urge often leads him to a doctoral self-examination and deconstruction. But the most important strand in the poetry is an ever fervent defense of poetry’s beauty and utility, even in the modern world. Williams poetry can be political, as in “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower,” when he touches about nuclear energy with such lines as, “The mere picture/of the exploding bomb/fascinates us/so that we cannot wait/to prostrate ourselves/before it.” What can mere words to in the face of this destruction? Does poetry still have a place in a contemporary world bent on self—annihilation? For Williams, the answer is yes.
Ultimately, it is in his defense of the scope of poetry that Williams is his most powerful. He is a man that believed in words and believed the will of the mind was the greatest source of strength in the world. Poetry is all around us, but it is for the poet’s mind to decipher nature’s codes. “Paterson”, his longest poem and a piece that at some points seems to spiral out of control, still retains a core of integrity that exemplifies the poet’s work. The world is the poet’s to interpret Williams elucidates with “…The birds/and leaves are designed to be woven/in his mind eating and.../altogether for his purposes.” The world might not have been made explicitely for the poet's pen, but the poet is free to interpret it this way.
Williams poetry illustrates how language can shape what it describes in the same way that the mind shapes the way in which we perceive the “things” of the world. Williams frequently uses form to highlight this parallel relationship, as in “The Red Wheel Barrow”, where words are revealed slowly, sometimes with only one to a line, a divergent perception from the more immediate facility of the mind. The mind and poet, however, are kin – neither is objective, but rather insert their perspective into the view of life. However, subjectivity doesn’t mean the death null for certainty. We must look to the world and its objects for understanding as the resounding phrase, “No end but among words/looking to the past,/plaintive and unschooled,/wanting a discipline” and later in the same poem, “The Sound of Waves”, “…words blowing in/taking the shape of stone/Past that, past the image”. Language in general and poetry specifically, are our best tools to decipher the world, a place at once mysterious, awful, wretched, beautiful, and sublime.
In “A Sort of a Song”, Williams expresses this idea most clearly, writing, “…-through metaphor to reconcile/the people and the stones./Compose. (No ideas/but in things) Invent!” He wants us to use words, metaphors, descriptions. He extols common people because of their commonness, as in his loving description of a poor woman eating plums. Beauty surrounds us, we just have to see it for what it is. This is an avant-garde notion, that now, seems less artsy than humanistic. This idea seems even more important today, in a world filled with images, and the way we can absorb these ubiquituous flashes without the active participation of our mind. Words force us to construct, force us to think for ourselves. Williams poetry may be a lament for the prominence that poetry has lost, but it’s also a justification for its continued place in our society, even with the medium of television – and, decades later, it remains a deeply moving testimony at that.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Kittichai Photos
Row 1: Lychee Martini, Ginger Lemongrass Highball, Rock Shrimp; Row 2: Chocolate Ribs, Sea Bass, Pineapple Rice; Row 3: Wall of bottled flowers, Bird Cage Aquarium, Outside Kittichai at 60 Thompson St.
Restaurant 13: Kittichai
RESTAURANT: Kittichai
LOCATION: 60 Thompson St.
DATE: May 2, 2005
FOOD: Family Style Sharing of the following: Appetizers - Chocolate back ribs marinated in Thai spices; Crispy rock shrimp, grilled eggplant, chili lime juice; Salad of banana blossom, artichokes, and roasted chili vinaigrette; Limestone tartlet with Northern Style minced chicken, dried chili and coriander; Entrees – Baked Chilean sea bass marinated in yellow salted beans with morning glory; Chiang Mai honey glazed duck with champagne mango and micro bok choy; Wok-fried chicken with roasted cashew nuts, dried chili and green onion. Sides – Jasmine rice; Pineapple fried rice with sweet sausage and shredded egg.
BEVERAGE: Kittichai lychee martini; Ginger lemongrass highball
PRICE: Unknown – Work related dinner
The buzz around Kittichai is unbelievable. The Thai-fusion restaurant seems to be able to please all diners – the most nitpicking foodies to those dabbling in Thai cuisine for the first time. Before my visit on Monday night, I knew the dish recommendations of everyone from Frank Bruni to random bloggers. The only thing about Kittichai I hadn’t heard was a complaint. Apparently, Chocolate ribs and jasmine rice would have been great for the Rodney King debacle – they seem to make us all get along.
Kittichai’s layout is stunning, a postmodern coalescing of Asian and European influences. However, the architecture is there to work with the food, not to out-do it. Fluorescent pastel flowers, candle lit tables, a bird cage that is really a fish tank – these elements combine to set the mood for innovative cuisine like an Iron and Wine song melds perfectly with the feel of a rainy Sunday.
Extreme cocktails seem to radiate with the same neon glow as the elaborate tropical wall displays. Both of the drinks I had were complicated blends of fruit, alcohol and Asian flavors that worked well as a team. The lychee martini was sweet, but not sickly so (as the Longan juice at Zabb was), and had a distinct lime tartness to downplay the sugar. The ginger lemongrass highball was one of the best drinks I’ve had in New York, a lively fraternizing of gin and Cointreau with ginger and lemongrass. The incorporation of the ginger in a beverage made this special, the result a refreshing oblivion, a temporary reprieve for the tongue from American syrup puckering and straight liquor fire.
As we had a party of nine people, we ordered family style and shared around the table. Of the appetizers, I still can’t get over the Chocolate back ribs. These pork ribs were unabashedly chocolate but definitively Thai spiced. The meat practically fell off the bone and the dark chocolate was tangy and only as sweet as Texas barbeque sauce, which allowed for this dish to start a meal and not immediately end it. Patrick commented that the chocolate sauce was a bit rich and it would be difficult to eat a lot of the ribs. There were certainly multiple pieces of Godiva in the covering and for some, the chocolate might be too much, but as an appetizer, you can have two or three of these ribs and be fine for the rest of the meal. The rest of the appetizers generally were also delightful. The minced chicken was the best of the bunch, similar to Moo Shu Pork (sans Plum sauce), while the coin sized crispy rock shrimp snap, crackle and popped with a fried exterior and a subtle chili tang. The banana salad was an overdone Nicholas Sparks-esque disappointment, all glittery overwrought presentation, but little substance to back it up.
The entrees demanded as much attention as the opening volley of tapas. The table’s unanimous favorite was the sea bass, a dish beautifully simple and seemingly unadulterated yet so dense it flavor I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me. Howard loved the short rib green curry and I have to admit that I momentarily reconsidered my no-beef vow upon witnessing the dish. I was pleasantly surprised by the duck, which I had heard mediocre reviews about. I found it tender and non-fatty, its aromatic honey broth a tremendous coupling. The chicken was similar to chicken and cashews, but with a red pepper spice wallop that left us all gasping for water. The sausage and pineapple rice was a luminous side, encased as it was in a halved pineapple. Scooping out the fruit’s flesh made the rice even more equatorially inspired. I would have liked the sausage to be a bit more prominent, but the rice was more balancing act than pork showcase.
Praise may thicken the air around Kittichai like Bangkok smog, but so far at least the kitchen isn’t resting on its laurels. Kittichai is that rare restaurant that feeds (bad pun I know) on hype rather than succumbing to it. This is all the better for the rest of us, who just have to show up, eat, lick our fingers, and leave the restaurant in a chili-spiced delirium. Let people say what they will.
RATING: 8.3/10
LOCATION: 60 Thompson St.
DATE: May 2, 2005
FOOD: Family Style Sharing of the following: Appetizers - Chocolate back ribs marinated in Thai spices; Crispy rock shrimp, grilled eggplant, chili lime juice; Salad of banana blossom, artichokes, and roasted chili vinaigrette; Limestone tartlet with Northern Style minced chicken, dried chili and coriander; Entrees – Baked Chilean sea bass marinated in yellow salted beans with morning glory; Chiang Mai honey glazed duck with champagne mango and micro bok choy; Wok-fried chicken with roasted cashew nuts, dried chili and green onion. Sides – Jasmine rice; Pineapple fried rice with sweet sausage and shredded egg.
BEVERAGE: Kittichai lychee martini; Ginger lemongrass highball
PRICE: Unknown – Work related dinner
The buzz around Kittichai is unbelievable. The Thai-fusion restaurant seems to be able to please all diners – the most nitpicking foodies to those dabbling in Thai cuisine for the first time. Before my visit on Monday night, I knew the dish recommendations of everyone from Frank Bruni to random bloggers. The only thing about Kittichai I hadn’t heard was a complaint. Apparently, Chocolate ribs and jasmine rice would have been great for the Rodney King debacle – they seem to make us all get along.
Kittichai’s layout is stunning, a postmodern coalescing of Asian and European influences. However, the architecture is there to work with the food, not to out-do it. Fluorescent pastel flowers, candle lit tables, a bird cage that is really a fish tank – these elements combine to set the mood for innovative cuisine like an Iron and Wine song melds perfectly with the feel of a rainy Sunday.
Extreme cocktails seem to radiate with the same neon glow as the elaborate tropical wall displays. Both of the drinks I had were complicated blends of fruit, alcohol and Asian flavors that worked well as a team. The lychee martini was sweet, but not sickly so (as the Longan juice at Zabb was), and had a distinct lime tartness to downplay the sugar. The ginger lemongrass highball was one of the best drinks I’ve had in New York, a lively fraternizing of gin and Cointreau with ginger and lemongrass. The incorporation of the ginger in a beverage made this special, the result a refreshing oblivion, a temporary reprieve for the tongue from American syrup puckering and straight liquor fire.
As we had a party of nine people, we ordered family style and shared around the table. Of the appetizers, I still can’t get over the Chocolate back ribs. These pork ribs were unabashedly chocolate but definitively Thai spiced. The meat practically fell off the bone and the dark chocolate was tangy and only as sweet as Texas barbeque sauce, which allowed for this dish to start a meal and not immediately end it. Patrick commented that the chocolate sauce was a bit rich and it would be difficult to eat a lot of the ribs. There were certainly multiple pieces of Godiva in the covering and for some, the chocolate might be too much, but as an appetizer, you can have two or three of these ribs and be fine for the rest of the meal. The rest of the appetizers generally were also delightful. The minced chicken was the best of the bunch, similar to Moo Shu Pork (sans Plum sauce), while the coin sized crispy rock shrimp snap, crackle and popped with a fried exterior and a subtle chili tang. The banana salad was an overdone Nicholas Sparks-esque disappointment, all glittery overwrought presentation, but little substance to back it up.
The entrees demanded as much attention as the opening volley of tapas. The table’s unanimous favorite was the sea bass, a dish beautifully simple and seemingly unadulterated yet so dense it flavor I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me. Howard loved the short rib green curry and I have to admit that I momentarily reconsidered my no-beef vow upon witnessing the dish. I was pleasantly surprised by the duck, which I had heard mediocre reviews about. I found it tender and non-fatty, its aromatic honey broth a tremendous coupling. The chicken was similar to chicken and cashews, but with a red pepper spice wallop that left us all gasping for water. The sausage and pineapple rice was a luminous side, encased as it was in a halved pineapple. Scooping out the fruit’s flesh made the rice even more equatorially inspired. I would have liked the sausage to be a bit more prominent, but the rice was more balancing act than pork showcase.
Praise may thicken the air around Kittichai like Bangkok smog, but so far at least the kitchen isn’t resting on its laurels. Kittichai is that rare restaurant that feeds (bad pun I know) on hype rather than succumbing to it. This is all the better for the rest of us, who just have to show up, eat, lick our fingers, and leave the restaurant in a chili-spiced delirium. Let people say what they will.
RATING: 8.3/10
Monday, May 02, 2005
Nora's Photos
Clockwise from top left: Mushroom soup; Moroccan inspired lamb; Ginger Strawberry Shortcake; Ginger Creme Brulee
Nora's Photos
Clockwise from top left: Nora's in NW Washington; The back of the menu highlights the restaurant's commitment to organic food; Beet and goat cheese salad; Wine...and its effects.
Restaurant 12: Nora's
RESTAURANT: Nora’s
LOCATION: 2132 Florida Ave, NW Washington, DC
DATE: April 29, 2005
FOOD: Warm Wild Mushroom Soup served tableside with a Lobster Croquette; Spinach with Roasted Beets, Goat Cheese, Shaved Red Onion, Aged Sherry Vinaigrette; Spring Leg of Lamb in Garden Herb Crust with Chickpea Tabbouleh, Baby Zucchini, Tomato Confit, Olive Jus; Ginger Creme Brulee with Pumpkin Seed Brittle; Ginger Shortcake with Strawberries and Whipped Cream;
BEVERAGE: ½ bottle of Gewuztraimer; Glass of House Red Wine
PRICE: Ask my mom and give a happy birthday to my father
Traditionally, my dad likes his birthday to be a bit anti-climatic. Unlike the rest of the family, he, true to his humble Wisconsin background, desires only a home-cooked meal completed with fresh strawberry-rhubarb pie. But, because we now see each other so infrequently, we decided to take his birthday show on the road and sample a culinary showcase of Washington, D.C. We had originally intended to go the Mid-east Mezze focused up-and-comer, Zaytinya, but after my six hour fiasco on the Chinatown bus and a great deal of collective hunger, we didn’t want to wait an hour before even being seated. My mom remembered loving Nora’s on a previous visit, so we all fell ass-backwards into a thoroughly delightful meal at the country’s first officially designated organic restaurant. How do I know this (not the ass-backwards part, of course, which I’m all too familiar with, but the organic aspect)? Nora’s commitment to organic ingredients occupies the entire backside of the restaurant’s menu, including this historical tidbit, “In April 1999, Nora received organic certification - the first restaurant ever to achieve this designation - meaning that 95% or more of all ingredients used in the restaurant must come from certified organic farmers, growers and suppliers.” Clearly, Nora’s focuses on serving only the best to their customers. For the most part, Nora’s succeeds in this mission marvelously.
To my mind, fresh mushrooms are the food equivalent of mixed-genre literature. Countless variety, innumerable combinations, and the unforgettable and mind-blowing fact that you’re eating fungus(!!) make these rubbery forest growths as eclectic as Cormac McCarthy’s prose. One such permutation is mushroom soup, which apparently Nora’s has decided to reinvent and perfect just because they can. My first course was spectacular from start to finish, from the opening stanza of the soup being poured tableside from a tea kettle-like device, to the first liquid bliss spoonful, to the unexpected explosion of the lobster croquette that I had saved to the near end. The lobster biscuit, outfitted with corn kernels, seemed to tip its hat to New England’s chowder and put the soup in a broader perspective. The soup was an act of devotion, looking and tasting like fresh mushrooms, without the fatty tongue deadening that heavily cream soups typically have, Nora’s foray into the forage closer to sautéed chanterelles than Campbell’s condensed.
My father, mother and I were about as united as Michael Moore and Rush Limbaugh on the salad course, each of us opting for something different. I went with the spinach, goat cheese and beet salad, with a sweet and tangy sherry vinaigrette and red onions. The salad was above average, but missing some key components to be truly great. Firstly, it would have been well accompanied by the crackle of some walnuts (or more adventurous sunflower seeds). Secondly, the cheese on all three of our salads came in huge blocks. This resulted in a lack of integration with the greens, reminding me that a good salad is only as good as the sum of its parts. No one ingredient should dominant the others, but with huge cheese chunks, it was hard to avoid this. My mom had the same complaint about her salad’s Roquefort triangle that went largely uneaten.
On the entrees, though, Nora’s rebounded like Ben Wallace. My mom went with the succulent scallops, tenderly grilled and excellent. I cannot vouch for the halibut which my father ordered, other than to say that he enjoyed it so much his plate was empty before he thought of offering the rest of the table a nibble. However, I was more than content with my choice, getting the Mid-East flavors I had missed from Zaytinya in Nora’s Moroccan spring leg of lamb with chickpea tabbouleh. North African spices flitted through this Casablanca fusion of American and Mid-east cuisines, the lamb hearty enough to make even Bogart happy to stay in the desert. The chickpea puree was impressive as well, akin to hummus, but without an overwhelming garlic plunge, and a silky consistency allowing for a perfect spread or dip across the lamb’s vermillion meat.
My dessert, the ginger strawberry shortcake, was disappointing. The cake itself was too dense, more like a dried out buttermilk biscuit than an appetizing dessert. While the strawberries and cream were alright, I didn’t taste even a hint of ginger until my final two bites of the dish, spending the rest of the time wondering if the kitchen had perhaps forgotten the headline ingredient altogether. However, my mom had ordered astutely, selecting the ginger crème brulee with pumpkin seed brittle and I ended up devouring half of this dessert. The ginger they forgot in the shortcake, the kitchen remembered in the crème brulee and the taste was refreshing and light, like a Chinatown ginger rock candy. The pumpkin seed brittle would be an ideal post-Halloween indulgence and the dual crunches of the brittle and the brulee’s scorched top were an awesome combination, especially when paired with the ginger cream.
Thus, despite a few minor lapses, overall Nora’s cannot be described as anything but astounding. I would happily order the soup, lamb or crème brulee again and it’s remarkable to see that a restaurant can passionately dedicate itself to nutritional concerns and still manage to whip-up innovative and delicious creations. Nora's was a great way to ring in my dad's __ (let's leave it up to the imagination, shall we?) year, a menu not overly daring, but nowhere near boringly mundane and for palate's of all sophistications. In a Washington food scene that has in my experience fallen far short of New York’s, Nora’s excellence measures up anywhere.
RATING: 7.7/10
LOCATION: 2132 Florida Ave, NW Washington, DC
DATE: April 29, 2005
FOOD: Warm Wild Mushroom Soup served tableside with a Lobster Croquette; Spinach with Roasted Beets, Goat Cheese, Shaved Red Onion, Aged Sherry Vinaigrette; Spring Leg of Lamb in Garden Herb Crust with Chickpea Tabbouleh, Baby Zucchini, Tomato Confit, Olive Jus; Ginger Creme Brulee with Pumpkin Seed Brittle; Ginger Shortcake with Strawberries and Whipped Cream;
BEVERAGE: ½ bottle of Gewuztraimer; Glass of House Red Wine
PRICE: Ask my mom and give a happy birthday to my father
Traditionally, my dad likes his birthday to be a bit anti-climatic. Unlike the rest of the family, he, true to his humble Wisconsin background, desires only a home-cooked meal completed with fresh strawberry-rhubarb pie. But, because we now see each other so infrequently, we decided to take his birthday show on the road and sample a culinary showcase of Washington, D.C. We had originally intended to go the Mid-east Mezze focused up-and-comer, Zaytinya, but after my six hour fiasco on the Chinatown bus and a great deal of collective hunger, we didn’t want to wait an hour before even being seated. My mom remembered loving Nora’s on a previous visit, so we all fell ass-backwards into a thoroughly delightful meal at the country’s first officially designated organic restaurant. How do I know this (not the ass-backwards part, of course, which I’m all too familiar with, but the organic aspect)? Nora’s commitment to organic ingredients occupies the entire backside of the restaurant’s menu, including this historical tidbit, “In April 1999, Nora received organic certification - the first restaurant ever to achieve this designation - meaning that 95% or more of all ingredients used in the restaurant must come from certified organic farmers, growers and suppliers.” Clearly, Nora’s focuses on serving only the best to their customers. For the most part, Nora’s succeeds in this mission marvelously.
To my mind, fresh mushrooms are the food equivalent of mixed-genre literature. Countless variety, innumerable combinations, and the unforgettable and mind-blowing fact that you’re eating fungus(!!) make these rubbery forest growths as eclectic as Cormac McCarthy’s prose. One such permutation is mushroom soup, which apparently Nora’s has decided to reinvent and perfect just because they can. My first course was spectacular from start to finish, from the opening stanza of the soup being poured tableside from a tea kettle-like device, to the first liquid bliss spoonful, to the unexpected explosion of the lobster croquette that I had saved to the near end. The lobster biscuit, outfitted with corn kernels, seemed to tip its hat to New England’s chowder and put the soup in a broader perspective. The soup was an act of devotion, looking and tasting like fresh mushrooms, without the fatty tongue deadening that heavily cream soups typically have, Nora’s foray into the forage closer to sautéed chanterelles than Campbell’s condensed.
My father, mother and I were about as united as Michael Moore and Rush Limbaugh on the salad course, each of us opting for something different. I went with the spinach, goat cheese and beet salad, with a sweet and tangy sherry vinaigrette and red onions. The salad was above average, but missing some key components to be truly great. Firstly, it would have been well accompanied by the crackle of some walnuts (or more adventurous sunflower seeds). Secondly, the cheese on all three of our salads came in huge blocks. This resulted in a lack of integration with the greens, reminding me that a good salad is only as good as the sum of its parts. No one ingredient should dominant the others, but with huge cheese chunks, it was hard to avoid this. My mom had the same complaint about her salad’s Roquefort triangle that went largely uneaten.
On the entrees, though, Nora’s rebounded like Ben Wallace. My mom went with the succulent scallops, tenderly grilled and excellent. I cannot vouch for the halibut which my father ordered, other than to say that he enjoyed it so much his plate was empty before he thought of offering the rest of the table a nibble. However, I was more than content with my choice, getting the Mid-East flavors I had missed from Zaytinya in Nora’s Moroccan spring leg of lamb with chickpea tabbouleh. North African spices flitted through this Casablanca fusion of American and Mid-east cuisines, the lamb hearty enough to make even Bogart happy to stay in the desert. The chickpea puree was impressive as well, akin to hummus, but without an overwhelming garlic plunge, and a silky consistency allowing for a perfect spread or dip across the lamb’s vermillion meat.
My dessert, the ginger strawberry shortcake, was disappointing. The cake itself was too dense, more like a dried out buttermilk biscuit than an appetizing dessert. While the strawberries and cream were alright, I didn’t taste even a hint of ginger until my final two bites of the dish, spending the rest of the time wondering if the kitchen had perhaps forgotten the headline ingredient altogether. However, my mom had ordered astutely, selecting the ginger crème brulee with pumpkin seed brittle and I ended up devouring half of this dessert. The ginger they forgot in the shortcake, the kitchen remembered in the crème brulee and the taste was refreshing and light, like a Chinatown ginger rock candy. The pumpkin seed brittle would be an ideal post-Halloween indulgence and the dual crunches of the brittle and the brulee’s scorched top were an awesome combination, especially when paired with the ginger cream.
Thus, despite a few minor lapses, overall Nora’s cannot be described as anything but astounding. I would happily order the soup, lamb or crème brulee again and it’s remarkable to see that a restaurant can passionately dedicate itself to nutritional concerns and still manage to whip-up innovative and delicious creations. Nora's was a great way to ring in my dad's __ (let's leave it up to the imagination, shall we?) year, a menu not overly daring, but nowhere near boringly mundane and for palate's of all sophistications. In a Washington food scene that has in my experience fallen far short of New York’s, Nora’s excellence measures up anywhere.
RATING: 7.7/10
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Moto Photos
Clockwise from top left: The bicycle hanging outside Moto; Hewes stop on the J M Z line; Moto, below the tracks; Brooklyn night.
Just Desserts 1: Moto
RESTAURANT: Moto
LOCATION: 394 Broadway Brooklyn
DATE: April 26, 2005
DESSERT: Warm Date Cake with fresh whipped cream
BEVERAGE: None
PRICE: $6.00
I first became aware of Moto after watching “Eat This New York,” a documentary account of the opening of the restaurant located above the J M Z tracks in Brooklyn. Watching the trials and tribulations of two Minnesota restaurateurs in their attempt to get Moto from dream stage to reality was an eye-opening experience on just how cutthroat the restaurant industry can be. Luckily, Moto finally opened (quite a few months behind schedule) and the result is a place with a wonderfully relaxed atmosphere and excellent, simply done bistro style food.
Exiting the subway at the Hewes Street stop, you’re bound to think you too a wrong turn somewhere. How could this be the location of a restaurant? But above jail-like barred windows hangs a bicycle – and this is Moto. After managing with the massive iron door, you find a candle lit interior of dark, somber hues. The lax vibe immediately penetrates and mellows. On my visit late Tuesday night, I was even fortunate to hear a Klemzer triplet strumming out some Yiddish tunes, begging the question, why would you want to live anywhere but New York, eclectic capital of the world?
Danny and I had come once before during the afternoon to have a drink at the bar (wine and beer only) and split an order of the grilled donuts. This time, however, we had a mission. Rumors of the taste orgy available in the form of Moto’s warm date cake had been spreading like wild fire and we needed first hand verification. All I can say is, even if Moto were in the ass-crack of New Jersey, it’d be worth traveling to for this cake.
The cake is a rich purplish brown, the color of gingerbread and molasses. It comes surrounded by a moat of toffee sauce which should be available at every ice cream parlor nationwide. Real whipped cream (Danny commented on how aerosol cans and Cool Whip can make you forget how delicious real whipped cream can be) floats in the toffee sea as airy as a Shakespearean sonnet. But the cake itself is the masterpiece. Dates are usually regulated to a second-tier flavor in foods, co-mingled of with an overabundance of nuts. But Moto’s cake proves the date is no Scottie Pippen, riding on the coattails of Michael Jordan walnuts. It can carry a dessert all on its own (there are no nuts in Moto’s cake. Coincidence? I think not).
The cake’s flavor is a mix between an English pudding and coffee cake with the texture of Red Velvet cake. The sauce and cake are like twins separated at birth, reunited in dessert bliss. Every bite is consistent and luxuriously smooth. It was extremely difficult to not order a second piece.
My second dessert-only visit confirmed that I need to go to Moto for a full meal. The inexpensive menu offers up Panini (which looked especially good), salads, and even a few entrees. So the next time I’m possessed by an urge to lose a few hours in a chill, European revelry, Moto will be my first stop. Maybe I’ll even ride a bike there (but most likely not). Regardless, the cake is worth the trip alone.
RATING: 8.4/10
LOCATION: 394 Broadway Brooklyn
DATE: April 26, 2005
DESSERT: Warm Date Cake with fresh whipped cream
BEVERAGE: None
PRICE: $6.00
I first became aware of Moto after watching “Eat This New York,” a documentary account of the opening of the restaurant located above the J M Z tracks in Brooklyn. Watching the trials and tribulations of two Minnesota restaurateurs in their attempt to get Moto from dream stage to reality was an eye-opening experience on just how cutthroat the restaurant industry can be. Luckily, Moto finally opened (quite a few months behind schedule) and the result is a place with a wonderfully relaxed atmosphere and excellent, simply done bistro style food.
Exiting the subway at the Hewes Street stop, you’re bound to think you too a wrong turn somewhere. How could this be the location of a restaurant? But above jail-like barred windows hangs a bicycle – and this is Moto. After managing with the massive iron door, you find a candle lit interior of dark, somber hues. The lax vibe immediately penetrates and mellows. On my visit late Tuesday night, I was even fortunate to hear a Klemzer triplet strumming out some Yiddish tunes, begging the question, why would you want to live anywhere but New York, eclectic capital of the world?
Danny and I had come once before during the afternoon to have a drink at the bar (wine and beer only) and split an order of the grilled donuts. This time, however, we had a mission. Rumors of the taste orgy available in the form of Moto’s warm date cake had been spreading like wild fire and we needed first hand verification. All I can say is, even if Moto were in the ass-crack of New Jersey, it’d be worth traveling to for this cake.
The cake is a rich purplish brown, the color of gingerbread and molasses. It comes surrounded by a moat of toffee sauce which should be available at every ice cream parlor nationwide. Real whipped cream (Danny commented on how aerosol cans and Cool Whip can make you forget how delicious real whipped cream can be) floats in the toffee sea as airy as a Shakespearean sonnet. But the cake itself is the masterpiece. Dates are usually regulated to a second-tier flavor in foods, co-mingled of with an overabundance of nuts. But Moto’s cake proves the date is no Scottie Pippen, riding on the coattails of Michael Jordan walnuts. It can carry a dessert all on its own (there are no nuts in Moto’s cake. Coincidence? I think not).
The cake’s flavor is a mix between an English pudding and coffee cake with the texture of Red Velvet cake. The sauce and cake are like twins separated at birth, reunited in dessert bliss. Every bite is consistent and luxuriously smooth. It was extremely difficult to not order a second piece.
My second dessert-only visit confirmed that I need to go to Moto for a full meal. The inexpensive menu offers up Panini (which looked especially good), salads, and even a few entrees. So the next time I’m possessed by an urge to lose a few hours in a chill, European revelry, Moto will be my first stop. Maybe I’ll even ride a bike there (but most likely not). Regardless, the cake is worth the trip alone.
RATING: 8.4/10
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Mercadito Photos
Clockwise from top left: Tres Citricos Margarita; Ceviche de Pulpo; Tacos de Camaron; Arroz y Frijoles.
Restaurant 11: Mercadito
RESTAURANT: Mercadito
LOCATION: 179 Avenue B
DATE: April 27, 2005
FOOD: Tacos De Camaron with Avocado and Roasted Garlic Chili Chipotle Mojo; Arroz y Frijoles; Ceviche de Pulpo (Octopus, White Sweet Potato, Jicama, Pico de Gallo, Lemon-Chile Gualijo Broth); Side of Chorizo; a few Fried Plantains
DRINK: Margarita de Tres Citricos (Torado, Orange, Grapefuit, Lemon, Habanero)
PRICE: $37.00
Of the few words I still remember from the four years of high school Spanish I so poorly mumbled my way through, is a comprehensive vocabulary of Mexican food. Mercadito’s menu doesn’t really require a knowledge of Spanish, but if you speak it as awfully as I do, you can at least amuse the waitress with your hacked pronunciations when you order. Even with my linguistic limitations, I can describe the food at Mercadito accurately: muy bien y excellente (I apologize to all those who speak the language of Borges, Marquez and Shakira for this pitiful butchering).
Mercadito is a crawl space of a restaurant, tucked away in the inaccessible by subway twilight zone that is Alphabet City. But it’s worth the journey, as the kitchen creates outstanding Mexican tapas. They also make some of the best margaritas in the city, which is how I began the evening. The “Tres Citricos” margaritas, like all the other blended drinks on the menu, is made entirely with mashed fruit and liquor – no genetically modified corn syrup in these cocktails. But the best aspect of the “Tres Citricos” margarita wasn’t even the fruit or the tequila. It was the habanero. I had certainly never had a drink mixed with a hot pepper, but the combination was sublime. The habanero buzzes the lips, pushing against the typical sweetness of the fruit. Taking sips at various points in the meal, I would get random hits of heat, which only added to the spices of the food.
Mercadito and Taco Bell are both Mexican food in the same way as Nabakov and Mary Higgins Clark are both mystery writers. Mercadito is Mexican food done right. Everything at the restaurant focuses on bold dishes prepared with an eye on aesthetic presentation, bringing in bright, equatorial colors. Alex and I started by splitting the octopus ceviche. This was my first ceviche, which might not have been a wise idea. For this was an amazing mix of chewy octopus, white sweet potato, and citrus flavors mimicking my margarita and will be hard for other contenders to measure up to. Scooped onto flatbread, one bite brought a myriad of ingredients into seamless integration, a symbiotic relationship to make the animal kingdom jealous. Nothing overwhelmed anything else and the dish was refreshing in the way lemonade cools during a blazing summer afternoon. Garfield, a native of the Caribbean, and no newcomer to ceviches, found this opening as pleasing as Alex and I did.
Fish tacos are one of the world’s best foods when they’re done right. It should almost go without saying that Mercadito manipulates fish wrapped in tortillas like Bill Frist and Tom Delay manipulate the Christian right wing for votes – very successfully. While I would have tried any of the tacos on the menu, Alex and I went with the house specialty, the shrimp and avocado. The shrimp came covered in a brick red chipotle garlic sauce, a not overly spicy smattering that soaked into the tortilla delightfully. The bite-size shrimp was tender and cooked perfectly. Mercadito even did the afterthoughts well, the rice and beans surprisingly better than most Mexican restaurant offerings. The fried plantains that Garfield and Eddie ordered were also delicious. I would recommend avoiding the chorizo, which was served like ground beef and was incredibly greasy, leaving a large pool of oil on the plate. But this was the only thing we had that wasn’t exceptional.
Our waitress had enough cheer to cause even Bukowski to smile. But she couldn’t cover up for a kitchen that seemed to forget our order, as we had to wait nearly forty minutes for even the first courses. Mercadito is a tiny restaurant, so I can see how this can happen, but it’s not the customer’s fault if the chef’s are besieged. This would be my main criticism of a restaurant that otherwise was wonderful, amber lighting creating a peaceful interior fit for the fine cuisine.
Food brings people together. So it’s nice to see that Mexican has gone the way of small plates, the better to sample with a group of friends. And at a place like Mercadito, where there are so many intriguing and unique flavors to taste, there’s no reason not to share.
RATING: 8.0/10
LOCATION: 179 Avenue B
DATE: April 27, 2005
FOOD: Tacos De Camaron with Avocado and Roasted Garlic Chili Chipotle Mojo; Arroz y Frijoles; Ceviche de Pulpo (Octopus, White Sweet Potato, Jicama, Pico de Gallo, Lemon-Chile Gualijo Broth); Side of Chorizo; a few Fried Plantains
DRINK: Margarita de Tres Citricos (Torado, Orange, Grapefuit, Lemon, Habanero)
PRICE: $37.00
Of the few words I still remember from the four years of high school Spanish I so poorly mumbled my way through, is a comprehensive vocabulary of Mexican food. Mercadito’s menu doesn’t really require a knowledge of Spanish, but if you speak it as awfully as I do, you can at least amuse the waitress with your hacked pronunciations when you order. Even with my linguistic limitations, I can describe the food at Mercadito accurately: muy bien y excellente (I apologize to all those who speak the language of Borges, Marquez and Shakira for this pitiful butchering).
Mercadito is a crawl space of a restaurant, tucked away in the inaccessible by subway twilight zone that is Alphabet City. But it’s worth the journey, as the kitchen creates outstanding Mexican tapas. They also make some of the best margaritas in the city, which is how I began the evening. The “Tres Citricos” margaritas, like all the other blended drinks on the menu, is made entirely with mashed fruit and liquor – no genetically modified corn syrup in these cocktails. But the best aspect of the “Tres Citricos” margarita wasn’t even the fruit or the tequila. It was the habanero. I had certainly never had a drink mixed with a hot pepper, but the combination was sublime. The habanero buzzes the lips, pushing against the typical sweetness of the fruit. Taking sips at various points in the meal, I would get random hits of heat, which only added to the spices of the food.
Mercadito and Taco Bell are both Mexican food in the same way as Nabakov and Mary Higgins Clark are both mystery writers. Mercadito is Mexican food done right. Everything at the restaurant focuses on bold dishes prepared with an eye on aesthetic presentation, bringing in bright, equatorial colors. Alex and I started by splitting the octopus ceviche. This was my first ceviche, which might not have been a wise idea. For this was an amazing mix of chewy octopus, white sweet potato, and citrus flavors mimicking my margarita and will be hard for other contenders to measure up to. Scooped onto flatbread, one bite brought a myriad of ingredients into seamless integration, a symbiotic relationship to make the animal kingdom jealous. Nothing overwhelmed anything else and the dish was refreshing in the way lemonade cools during a blazing summer afternoon. Garfield, a native of the Caribbean, and no newcomer to ceviches, found this opening as pleasing as Alex and I did.
Fish tacos are one of the world’s best foods when they’re done right. It should almost go without saying that Mercadito manipulates fish wrapped in tortillas like Bill Frist and Tom Delay manipulate the Christian right wing for votes – very successfully. While I would have tried any of the tacos on the menu, Alex and I went with the house specialty, the shrimp and avocado. The shrimp came covered in a brick red chipotle garlic sauce, a not overly spicy smattering that soaked into the tortilla delightfully. The bite-size shrimp was tender and cooked perfectly. Mercadito even did the afterthoughts well, the rice and beans surprisingly better than most Mexican restaurant offerings. The fried plantains that Garfield and Eddie ordered were also delicious. I would recommend avoiding the chorizo, which was served like ground beef and was incredibly greasy, leaving a large pool of oil on the plate. But this was the only thing we had that wasn’t exceptional.
Our waitress had enough cheer to cause even Bukowski to smile. But she couldn’t cover up for a kitchen that seemed to forget our order, as we had to wait nearly forty minutes for even the first courses. Mercadito is a tiny restaurant, so I can see how this can happen, but it’s not the customer’s fault if the chef’s are besieged. This would be my main criticism of a restaurant that otherwise was wonderful, amber lighting creating a peaceful interior fit for the fine cuisine.
Food brings people together. So it’s nice to see that Mexican has gone the way of small plates, the better to sample with a group of friends. And at a place like Mercadito, where there are so many intriguing and unique flavors to taste, there’s no reason not to share.
RATING: 8.0/10
Nonna Photos
Clockwise from top left: Nonna, on the upper west side; Arancini; Zeppolis; Seafood Linguini.
Restaurant 10: Nonna
RESTAURANT: Nonna
LOCATION: 520 Columbus Ave
DATE: April 24, 2005
FOOD: Sunday Night Feast (6 Course Prix Fixe) – Arancini (Rice Balls); Caesar Salad; Ricotta Stuffed Baked Eggplant; Linguini & Clams; Zeppolis with Honey.
BEVERAGE: Half a bottle Agricole Vallone Puglia 2000; Decaf Cappucino
PRICE: $45.00
Compliments are tricky beasts. They seem to prove Einstein’s theory of relativity in and of themselves. No better example is the distinctly New York slightly backhanded praise of modification which runs, “It’s good…for the upper west side.” As I learned at Nonna, good for the upper west side is the culinary equivalent of “Stephen King is great…if you like horror novels.” I think Stephen King is a mediocre writer (The Shining yes, The Green Mile, good God no). So too was Nonna.
New York Metro, my favorite New York food information source, had recommended Nonna’s Sunday Feast in their Best of New York guide. Nonna, then, marks the first time I’ve disagreed with the magazine’s food section. Nonna was certainly not horrendous. In fact, I doubt you could have a bad meal at Nonna. But I also doubt that you could have a truly great one either.
Nonna’s Sunday dinner is six courses (sauce and pasta counting as separate courses). Arancini arrived first, fried rice balls filled with cheese. The dish had no integration, as each ingredient could be tasted separately, but failed to combine in a unified whole. It also lacked any discernable spices. Homemade Caesar salad came next, again without enough pizzazz to really warrant attention, a hospital cafeteria plate of lettuce. We were then served the stuffed eggplant, which was actually quite excellent, crispy eggplant, parmagiana style, stuffed with a mound of slightly melted ricotta cheese. The eggplant showed the kitchen has potential, as did the linguine with clams, shrimp and mussels that was the main course. The broth had a light finesse, no goopy puddles of oil or butter anywhere to be seen. The pasta was also loaded with seafood, a surprise for a fixed menu meal that costs only $19. The noodles were slightly overcooked, but overall, this was the second strong course in a row. Dessert, zeppolis with honey, were very average, and I longed for the delectable sfogliatelle of Veniero’s even as I plumbed Nonna’s Italian donuts.
Our waiter was congenial and he had no problem substituting the linguini for the beef dominated meat course. Overall though, the meal felt very rushed. The dishes all arrived one on top of another, especially at the beginning of the meal. This meant that by the time I finished the Caesar salad and rice balls, I only was able to have one bite of the eggplant before it became lukewarm. I associate Sunday night dinners with a casual ease, an unhurried dining to savor the last few moments of weekend freedom before the work week starts up again. Nonna’s service didn’t allow for such pacing.
I also had heard that reservations were a must. They weren’t. We arrived twenty minutes later than our reservation, but the restaurant was only half full. Now, in this type of scenario, I’m always willing to assume blame for being tardy and allow a crowded restaurant to seat other patrons in front of me. But if the restaurant isn’t full, I see no reason why showing up late should matter. When we arrived at Nonna, the hostess commented on our delay, even as my eyes scanned over numerous empty tables. I failed to see what had merited such an attitude. Perhaps she’s only working as a hostess to support her soon to be realized dreams of actress stardom. Right.
Perhaps Nonna was a fitting way to end the day of the Godfather. I had refused to watch the final installment in the trilogy because it’s such an awful movie, and though I admire her skills as a director, Sophie Coppola as an actress is unwatchable. The final Godfather can’t live up to its predecessors. The same is true of Nonna. In a city with Italian wunderkind like Mario Batali and L’Impero’s Scott Conant, and restaurants like Otto, Babbo, Cacio e Pepe (I could go on), Nonna fails by comparison. Once you know how well Italian can be done, it’s very hard (and counterintuitive) to go back to middling variations…even if you are on the upper west side.
RATING: 6.0/10
LOCATION: 520 Columbus Ave
DATE: April 24, 2005
FOOD: Sunday Night Feast (6 Course Prix Fixe) – Arancini (Rice Balls); Caesar Salad; Ricotta Stuffed Baked Eggplant; Linguini & Clams; Zeppolis with Honey.
BEVERAGE: Half a bottle Agricole Vallone Puglia 2000; Decaf Cappucino
PRICE: $45.00
Compliments are tricky beasts. They seem to prove Einstein’s theory of relativity in and of themselves. No better example is the distinctly New York slightly backhanded praise of modification which runs, “It’s good…for the upper west side.” As I learned at Nonna, good for the upper west side is the culinary equivalent of “Stephen King is great…if you like horror novels.” I think Stephen King is a mediocre writer (The Shining yes, The Green Mile, good God no). So too was Nonna.
New York Metro, my favorite New York food information source, had recommended Nonna’s Sunday Feast in their Best of New York guide. Nonna, then, marks the first time I’ve disagreed with the magazine’s food section. Nonna was certainly not horrendous. In fact, I doubt you could have a bad meal at Nonna. But I also doubt that you could have a truly great one either.
Nonna’s Sunday dinner is six courses (sauce and pasta counting as separate courses). Arancini arrived first, fried rice balls filled with cheese. The dish had no integration, as each ingredient could be tasted separately, but failed to combine in a unified whole. It also lacked any discernable spices. Homemade Caesar salad came next, again without enough pizzazz to really warrant attention, a hospital cafeteria plate of lettuce. We were then served the stuffed eggplant, which was actually quite excellent, crispy eggplant, parmagiana style, stuffed with a mound of slightly melted ricotta cheese. The eggplant showed the kitchen has potential, as did the linguine with clams, shrimp and mussels that was the main course. The broth had a light finesse, no goopy puddles of oil or butter anywhere to be seen. The pasta was also loaded with seafood, a surprise for a fixed menu meal that costs only $19. The noodles were slightly overcooked, but overall, this was the second strong course in a row. Dessert, zeppolis with honey, were very average, and I longed for the delectable sfogliatelle of Veniero’s even as I plumbed Nonna’s Italian donuts.
Our waiter was congenial and he had no problem substituting the linguini for the beef dominated meat course. Overall though, the meal felt very rushed. The dishes all arrived one on top of another, especially at the beginning of the meal. This meant that by the time I finished the Caesar salad and rice balls, I only was able to have one bite of the eggplant before it became lukewarm. I associate Sunday night dinners with a casual ease, an unhurried dining to savor the last few moments of weekend freedom before the work week starts up again. Nonna’s service didn’t allow for such pacing.
I also had heard that reservations were a must. They weren’t. We arrived twenty minutes later than our reservation, but the restaurant was only half full. Now, in this type of scenario, I’m always willing to assume blame for being tardy and allow a crowded restaurant to seat other patrons in front of me. But if the restaurant isn’t full, I see no reason why showing up late should matter. When we arrived at Nonna, the hostess commented on our delay, even as my eyes scanned over numerous empty tables. I failed to see what had merited such an attitude. Perhaps she’s only working as a hostess to support her soon to be realized dreams of actress stardom. Right.
Perhaps Nonna was a fitting way to end the day of the Godfather. I had refused to watch the final installment in the trilogy because it’s such an awful movie, and though I admire her skills as a director, Sophie Coppola as an actress is unwatchable. The final Godfather can’t live up to its predecessors. The same is true of Nonna. In a city with Italian wunderkind like Mario Batali and L’Impero’s Scott Conant, and restaurants like Otto, Babbo, Cacio e Pepe (I could go on), Nonna fails by comparison. Once you know how well Italian can be done, it’s very hard (and counterintuitive) to go back to middling variations…even if you are on the upper west side.
RATING: 6.0/10
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Otto Photos
Clockwise from top left: Gelato so good it has to be pictured twice; Pane Frattau pizza; Funghi and Taleggio pizza.
Otto Photos
Clockwise from top left: Otto on Fifth Avenue; Quartino of blush wine; Butternut Squash Penne; Calamari.
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