Babbo
110 Waverly Place (bet. MacDougal & 6th)
New York, NY 10011
212-614-6670
If you want good Italian outside of Italy there is only one place to go, and that place is New York City. When you are there it is perhaps impossible to walk five blocks without coming across an Italian place, and amongst all that quantity there is some quite amazing quality. Insieme and Felidia in midtown, Fiamma in Soho, and Del Posto in Chelsea are all fabulous places to hunker down with a good plate of pasta, mop up the sauce with freshly made bread and wash it all down with a rustic red wine. Apparently Scarpetta in the West Village is worth trying as well. But if you want an experience that is good and true and one that you will remember for months and years to come, then you must go to Babbo.
Babbo is the flagship restaurant of one Mario Batali – he of Molto Mario! fame – who also owns a whole host of other places in New York. Yet Babbo seems to be the one he loves best, and it shows most markedly – from the intimidating menu of dishes, through the excellent wine list, to the faultless and convivial service. Here, more than in his other restaurants, Batali indulges his love of variety meats. It is an offal lover’s paradise – showcasing everything from testa to beef cheek, lamb’s brain to goose liver.
It has been almost two years since I went to Babbo, and it speaks volumes that Morgan and I still remember that night – he more vividly than I. I was in New York for my birthday, and had rounded up Camille, Morgan and Elisabeth for dinner. Thinking back, I realise it must have been a last-minute trip, for we had no reservations and our plan was to show up early and wait for a table. There are four tables by the bar at the front of the restaurant for which no reservations are taken, and whether you can walk in and wait for one of those tables depends on how early you show up that evening and stake your claim for them.
I remember meeting Morgan early for a drink and then stopping by Camille’s house – Morgan fretting all the while that we should have just gone to Babbo and staked the place out. As 8 o’clock rolled around he took on that despondent air of a gambler whose last chances are fading fast before his eyes. He did not have much hope of being seated given that we were going to be walking in at what he considered a late hour, and his head was already racing through the possible alternatives, while his heart steeling itself for the disappointment of having to settle for something else.
But then an amazing thing happened that restored his faith in the restaurant gods. We were in a taxi not quite five blocks away when Elisabeth called, saying that she had just stepped into the restaurant and that they could seat the 4 of us immediately, but only if we were all there. I remember her nonchalant tone as she asked our whereabouts, and I don’t think she realised just how big a deal it was because she asked innocently, “Should we take the table?” I also don’t remember if I thought to control the volume of my voice as I yelled at her to take it, take it, whatever you do, for the love of God take it.
We were there momentarily, and there were lots of hugs all around. I would have given the hostess a hug too if it had been socially acceptable. We had what was quite possibly the worst table in the house, but the fact remains that we had walked into Babbo at 8 o’clock without a reservation, and were seated immediately.
Babbo is housed in one of the converted brick townhouses on Waverly Place, and while it doesn’t have the sprawl and elegance of Del Posto, nor the sleek chic of Fiamma – it more than makes up for it with its amber-hued, rustic interior. Tables are set in close proximity to each other, and the restaurant is always packed. The feeling you get is one of coming back to a cabin or a hostel after a long day of hiking or skiing, and finding other hikers or skiers already putting their feet up and kicking back with their beverages. You half expect someone to hand you a hot chocolate, and judging from the smiling faces and warm, generous manner of the waitstaff, that might not be too far-fetched an idea.
The service at Babbo is one of the best I have ever experienced, and I think that stems from not only the technical expertise (which shall be elaborated upon shortly) but also the hospitality of everyone associated with the restaurant. For lack of a better description, it seemed as if everyone, from the hostess to the waitress, from the sommelier to the busboy – everyone felt a simple joy at being able to be part of our night out. It didn’t seem like they treated their duties as a job or a means to pay the rent. Truly, they were entertaining us, and glad to be doing it too.
But what we were there for was the food, and it did not disappoint. The food at Babbo is simple, by New York standards. The pastas are well-made and cooked to al dente doneness. None of the dishes have too many ingredients, and whatever is on the plate is adorned with no more vinaigrette or sauce than it needs. Eating the food at Babbo is uncomplicated, and consists of no more than putting a fork to the food and bringing it to your mouth. But what a pleasurable experience that proved to be.
Morgan started with an antipasto of testa – pig’s head boiled and deboned before it is braised with white wine, carrots and onions, then forced into a gelatin mold and sliced thinly a la salumi. It was served with pickled pearl onions, topped with toasted mustard seeds and came drizzled in a thyme vinaigrette. He offered me a bite of it, which was how I could tell that he liked it. After all these years of eating with Morgan I had come to realise that he only shared his food when it was good and he wanted you to try some. If it was not good he ate it all himself.
I don’t remember my antipasto but I do remember my pasta dish, Chianti-stained pappardelle with wild boar ragu. Like everything else it was simple, hearty, reached into the deepest depths of your being and told you everything was going to be okay. Camille and Elisabeth shared the pumpkin “lune” with sage and amaretti, which I did not try. Morgan followed the testa with lamb’s brain “Francobolli”, with lemon and sage, and admired its simplicity. The brains were mild and subtle and not too offensive, yet Camille still shied away from it with a look of naked terror on her face.
We ordered a bottle of Sauvignon, Ronco delle Mele from Venica & Venica. I forget the year but I remember that when the server brought the glasses to us we saw that there was already liquid in the glass. When we asked, she explained that it was their custom to pour a drop of the wine into the glasses when they were brought to the table, so that the glass would be infused with the aroma of the wine. When I poked my nose into the glass I saw immediately what she meant – the glass was filled with a heady bouquet, intense to a degree that full glasses never were. It presented a bouquet that was pure and easy to digest, to pick apart and to enjoy. When you smell a full glass of wine there are a lot of competing flavours that are often too complex for an amateur such as myself to isolate and identify. With that glass, filled only with one drop of the wine – I smelt grapefruit, I smelt grass and I smelt peach, and I smelt them all clearly and distinctly.
When it came time to select another bottle we signalled for the sommelier, who came over almost immediately. We explained our price range and talked a little bit about what kind of reds we liked. He had a couple of recommendations and started into them before we interrupted him – wanting to also tell him what each of us was eating for dinner. Upon hearing this he smiled and said, “I already know what you are having for dinner, I went and looked at your ticket before I came over.” At this point we knew we were in good hands, and that further debate was unnecessary, so we went with the first option he presented.
Sadly, I do not remember what wine it was, but it must have been good because I do remember feeling very happy that Elisabeth did not drink – for that meant more for the rest of us. I also remember Elisabeth’s grouper entrée being the standout. I did not have much faith in the fish dishes at a place renowned more for its pastas and organ meats, but her grouper, with charred leeks and a pancetta vinaigrette, was simple and delicious. I had the duck, which was very solid, and Camille had the beef braised in Barolo with porcini mushrooms. Morgan deviated from his one-man crusade to eat the heads off any animals in his path and got the grilled quail with “Scorzonera alla Romana” and saba – which he said could have been a little hotter but enjoyed heartily anyway. It came with salsify – one of his favourite root vegetables (and one of mine) – which had been roasted in Sambuca and which pleased him greatly.
There are many things I like about Babbo. I like its simplicity, I like its neighbourhood feel. I like the hospitality of its staff and their attention to detail. I like the fact that compared with many of the finer dining establishments in the city, Babbo is a little less expensive. It pains me a little bit that I will not be spending my birthday there this year, so let me just say that among the few places that are in my opinion must-visits in the Big Apple (the Met and the No Malice Palace to name just two), Babbo ranks somewhere up there.
Showing posts with label new york. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new york. Show all posts
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Monday, September 22, 2008
Rose Water and Counter
We often write glowing reviews of places on this blog, sometimes pointing out minor criticisms. After a recent negative experience I was reflecting on some of my lesser adventures in dining.
Most recently I had a very negative experience at the restaurant Rose Water in Park Slope. As Jason once said to me "I am not impressed." I'd heard a lot of good things about this spot, and they are well known for their brunch (it is Park Slope after all.) So, since we were attempting to branch out it seemed like a good option. Just the opposite. I'm usually prepared to give a restaurant a lot of slack, but this spot totally rubbed me the wrong way. Problem number one, we were told it would be 20-25 minutes for a table, which is fine. However, we were not seated for 45 minutes, during which time I went from hungry to famished. As far as I could tell they were very understaffed, so that their ability to turn over tables was pretty much done for. Second problem: the room is not attractive, nay, not even a little. Third: Fruitfly infestation. They were all over the banquette and wall. I know they can be hard to get rid of, but that was unappetizing. Fourth: Their coffee was very, very bad. I know when I go to a diner that the coffee will be bad, but in a kind of bad in a good way sort of thing. This was just bad. Fifth: The food was not very good. My duck confit sandwich was quite greasy, which, once again I would expect this from a crappy breakfast, but this was a $14 sandwich. One wants a little more when it's twice as expensive. The "romesco" sauce was not good; it tasted like Goya brand tomato sauce. The sandwich was smothered with cheese, and the greens on it were totally wilted. I ate it, on account of being famished, but I can't say I enjoyed it. I should give credit where credit is due however and say that the side order of pancakes we ordered, with nectarines, pistachios and cardamom butter was quite good. In summary, I can not recommend this place, and will not be returning.
Counter, in the East Village is a "Vegetarian Bistro". Not to put too fine a point on it: this place blows. If I meet someone who has been there twice I will punch them in the teeth. The simple fact that I spent time and (someone else's) money there drives me crazy. Not only was the food vegetarian, which is not necessarily a deal breaker, it was absolutely miserable. If this restaurant were a dog I would shoot it, a la Old Yeller, to put it out of its rabid, horrible misery and to keep it from hurting any friends and loved ones who live nearby.
Most recently I had a very negative experience at the restaurant Rose Water in Park Slope. As Jason once said to me "I am not impressed." I'd heard a lot of good things about this spot, and they are well known for their brunch (it is Park Slope after all.) So, since we were attempting to branch out it seemed like a good option. Just the opposite. I'm usually prepared to give a restaurant a lot of slack, but this spot totally rubbed me the wrong way. Problem number one, we were told it would be 20-25 minutes for a table, which is fine. However, we were not seated for 45 minutes, during which time I went from hungry to famished. As far as I could tell they were very understaffed, so that their ability to turn over tables was pretty much done for. Second problem: the room is not attractive, nay, not even a little. Third: Fruitfly infestation. They were all over the banquette and wall. I know they can be hard to get rid of, but that was unappetizing. Fourth: Their coffee was very, very bad. I know when I go to a diner that the coffee will be bad, but in a kind of bad in a good way sort of thing. This was just bad. Fifth: The food was not very good. My duck confit sandwich was quite greasy, which, once again I would expect this from a crappy breakfast, but this was a $14 sandwich. One wants a little more when it's twice as expensive. The "romesco" sauce was not good; it tasted like Goya brand tomato sauce. The sandwich was smothered with cheese, and the greens on it were totally wilted. I ate it, on account of being famished, but I can't say I enjoyed it. I should give credit where credit is due however and say that the side order of pancakes we ordered, with nectarines, pistachios and cardamom butter was quite good. In summary, I can not recommend this place, and will not be returning.
Counter, in the East Village is a "Vegetarian Bistro". Not to put too fine a point on it: this place blows. If I meet someone who has been there twice I will punch them in the teeth. The simple fact that I spent time and (someone else's) money there drives me crazy. Not only was the food vegetarian, which is not necessarily a deal breaker, it was absolutely miserable. If this restaurant were a dog I would shoot it, a la Old Yeller, to put it out of its rabid, horrible misery and to keep it from hurting any friends and loved ones who live nearby.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Allen and Delancey
I have so much to say and I feel a great rush to say it all... Hopefully I can get all the writing done well, quickly enough before it fades. Even now, the memories of my ridiculously extravagant meal at Allen and Delancey are starting fade. This is perhaps the saddest part of dining out. It is a transient pleasure, one that will never shine with the same luster in recollection as it did while you were savoring every bite. Jason somehow got us a two-top at this extremely chic and desirable location for 8:30 about two weeks ago.
I'll start with the room: I found it extremely beautiful, well lit with a ton a candles... (who doesn't look good, or at least better, by candlelight?) The deep dark reds contrasted nicely with the dark hard woods and brick in the room. We were given, arguably, the worst table in the restaurant... the hostess had to walk all of 5 feet from the entrance to seat us... but such is life. Funnily, she still gave us a formal little "If you'll just follow me this way, I'll show you to your table" (or some such). Still, it was a good vantage point for watching and smelling food go by and scoping out the number of people in the room who were richer than me. Jason thought it was a little hard to read the menu, but de gustibus non disputandum est. I found it strange that they had only one bathroom, but I found it strangely awesome when the hostess noticed me looking longingly at the line for it and invited me to use the employee's restroom in the belly of the beast. I got to go down the service stairs and check out there back rooms, get a look into the dish washing operation, if not much else, of the kitchen, and I took a peek into the office, where Neil Ferguson was at the computer and on the telephone. Very, very cool. And I got to use the bathroom.
The food: Was sensational. I started with the rabbit terrine and then moved up to the duck breast and foie gras. Jason had the sea scallops and then the veal cannelloni, trotters, sweet breads, etc. I thought that everything was extremely well seasoned... perfectly salted. I particularly enjoyed my terrine, I think I noticed the inclusion of a trace quantity of liver which really made the plate. I was given some grilled bread to eat it on but found that I didn't even need it, that's how delicious it was. I should actually mention the table bread they provided, because it was absolutely amazing. The roll: good god was that salty and delicious. As for my duck, the foie gras was appropriately luscious, though I thought the breast could have been a bit more succulent. Looking back at Frank Bruni's review, he made a similar complaint about the duck in his otherwise extremely positive review. I didn't get a good sense of Jason's dishes, and maybe he will comment a little on them in this blog, but my one bite of the cannelloni was delicious... I think it would have been fun to try the three different types of veal separately and then try them in combinations. We also had the Peach Strudel with Sweet Corn Ice Cream and blackberry sauce. Delicious: nice textural contrasts, and the sweet corn ice cream was absolutely stunning.
The wine: We began with a stellar bottle of white, though Jason usually favors red. (Perhaps he was humoring me, knowing that I like to start with white and move up.) It was a Condrieu, and while unfortunately I didn't write down my notes, I remember getting some white flowers, plenty of minerality and acid, I recall it as a relatively full white, though certainly subtle and well structured. I thought it a nice lead in to our absolutely sensational and now legendary (in my book) Valdicava '99 Brunello di Montalcino. This wine absolutely stole the show. It had amazing structure, balance and a lengthy finish. To me, the sign of a great wine is that it changes noticeably throughout the drinking process. This wine kept us talking, smelling, tasting and enjoying for quite a long time and I'm sure it would have continued to do so if we were men of extreme patience. Not to mince words, I loved this wine. It began with rose petals and anise, moved to apricots and smoke, and finally gave way to intense plum and slate-like minerality. Thank goodness we, or rather Jason, decided to bring this with him rather than buy off the list, since it would have been an (even larger) small fortune. However, I couldn't approve of giving the waiter and the sommelier a taste of it, since I wanted it all for myself.
On the whole this restaurant will bear my highest recommendation; particularly if Warren Buffett happens to be in town and taking you out to dinner.
I'll start with the room: I found it extremely beautiful, well lit with a ton a candles... (who doesn't look good, or at least better, by candlelight?) The deep dark reds contrasted nicely with the dark hard woods and brick in the room. We were given, arguably, the worst table in the restaurant... the hostess had to walk all of 5 feet from the entrance to seat us... but such is life. Funnily, she still gave us a formal little "If you'll just follow me this way, I'll show you to your table" (or some such). Still, it was a good vantage point for watching and smelling food go by and scoping out the number of people in the room who were richer than me. Jason thought it was a little hard to read the menu, but de gustibus non disputandum est. I found it strange that they had only one bathroom, but I found it strangely awesome when the hostess noticed me looking longingly at the line for it and invited me to use the employee's restroom in the belly of the beast. I got to go down the service stairs and check out there back rooms, get a look into the dish washing operation, if not much else, of the kitchen, and I took a peek into the office, where Neil Ferguson was at the computer and on the telephone. Very, very cool. And I got to use the bathroom.
The food: Was sensational. I started with the rabbit terrine and then moved up to the duck breast and foie gras. Jason had the sea scallops and then the veal cannelloni, trotters, sweet breads, etc. I thought that everything was extremely well seasoned... perfectly salted. I particularly enjoyed my terrine, I think I noticed the inclusion of a trace quantity of liver which really made the plate. I was given some grilled bread to eat it on but found that I didn't even need it, that's how delicious it was. I should actually mention the table bread they provided, because it was absolutely amazing. The roll: good god was that salty and delicious. As for my duck, the foie gras was appropriately luscious, though I thought the breast could have been a bit more succulent. Looking back at Frank Bruni's review, he made a similar complaint about the duck in his otherwise extremely positive review. I didn't get a good sense of Jason's dishes, and maybe he will comment a little on them in this blog, but my one bite of the cannelloni was delicious... I think it would have been fun to try the three different types of veal separately and then try them in combinations. We also had the Peach Strudel with Sweet Corn Ice Cream and blackberry sauce. Delicious: nice textural contrasts, and the sweet corn ice cream was absolutely stunning.
The wine: We began with a stellar bottle of white, though Jason usually favors red. (Perhaps he was humoring me, knowing that I like to start with white and move up.) It was a Condrieu, and while unfortunately I didn't write down my notes, I remember getting some white flowers, plenty of minerality and acid, I recall it as a relatively full white, though certainly subtle and well structured. I thought it a nice lead in to our absolutely sensational and now legendary (in my book) Valdicava '99 Brunello di Montalcino. This wine absolutely stole the show. It had amazing structure, balance and a lengthy finish. To me, the sign of a great wine is that it changes noticeably throughout the drinking process. This wine kept us talking, smelling, tasting and enjoying for quite a long time and I'm sure it would have continued to do so if we were men of extreme patience. Not to mince words, I loved this wine. It began with rose petals and anise, moved to apricots and smoke, and finally gave way to intense plum and slate-like minerality. Thank goodness we, or rather Jason, decided to bring this with him rather than buy off the list, since it would have been an (even larger) small fortune. However, I couldn't approve of giving the waiter and the sommelier a taste of it, since I wanted it all for myself.
On the whole this restaurant will bear my highest recommendation; particularly if Warren Buffett happens to be in town and taking you out to dinner.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Rhapsody in Blue
Blue Hill
75 Washington Place (at Sixth Ave)
New York, NY 10011
212-539-1776
I first heard of Dan Barber when I read this article in this New York Times (“Chaos Theory”, NYT August 7 2005), where he describes first-hand the idiosyncrasies of Daniel Bouley and a subsequent lesson in respecting food and its preparation. I was sold, and went on to read more about Mr Barber and his flagship Blue Hill at Stone Barns, its sister restaurant in Manhattan, and all the work he has done to promote awareness of issues such as sustainability and nutrition in the way we eat. Coming from a country with such a scarcity of natural resources that it grows little to none of the food it consumes, the idea of eating locally and responsibly resonates with me. It made perfect sense that I would one day make the pilgrimage to Blue Hill, that bastion of farm-fresh flavour – and I finally made the trip this past weekend.
Kellyn and Brian had decided a long while ago that they would visit the Big Apple this past weekend, and for weeks had pestered Hunter and myself to tag along. I made the pretense of holding out – I had been travelling for work quite a bit and wanted to spend the weekends at home – but in reality I had a free roundtrip Amtrak ticket and had been meaning to go up for a while. Some of my favourite people in the world live in New York, and Reed’s latest move to the city meant that one more had joined the ranks. I finally caved, took the train up on Friday and arranged for dinner with Morgan, Reed and Camille. We all enjoy a good meal, and upon consultation with Camille, I decided that this was where we would have it.
Named after the Barbers’ family farm in the Berkshires, Blue Hill at Stone Barns and its Manhattan counterpart both practice the art of showcasing what is primary about the ingredients – its original flavours and colours – and letting them speak for themselves. Barber and his team take care not to drown their food in sauce, and show amazing restraint in seasoning and dressing their dishes. This is nowhere better exemplified in the amuse-geule that was laid out for us – cherry tomatoes, almost naked in their simplicity. Morgan poked at them to see if anything had been done to them – a sprinkle of sea salt, maybe, a drizzle of olive oil – but if it had, we were none the wiser.
Reed had called dibs on the “This Morning’s Farm Egg” appetiser long before we had even set foot in the restaurant and it worked out well that there was something else for everyone. I ordered a half portion of the creamy farro, which came in an intensely sweet tomato sauce and topped with braised belly and crispy jowl. It seemed a little incongruous that one of the healthiest of grains should be paired with one of the fattiest of proteins, but that was the last thing on my mind as I slurped it all down. Camille had what was probably the standout of the appetizers, a chilled corn soup that was almost overpowering in its taste and freshness.
(Wine tasting notes – Jean Foillard, Cote du Py, Gamay, Morgon, Burgundy, France 2006: An earthy Beaujolais, not too overpowering. Sweet, spicy black cherries. A nice middle-to-heavyweight wine with tremendous versatility in pairing with food.)
Before I had made up my mind on the entrees, Camille had picked the pork and Morgan the lamb and I was left with no other meats. Both the fish dishes looked intriguing, and I finally settled on the wolf fish. The wolf fish, as I learned, was an eel-like white fish similar to a catfish and just as ugly – but it had a strong texture and would stand up better to the reds that we were drinking. It was paired with spring vegetables and toasted spices, which made the wine taste more complex.
(Wine tasting notes – Frecciarossa, “Giorgio Odero”, Pinot Nero, Oltrepo’ Pavese, Italy 2005: Excellent garnet colour and legs that went on forever. Hints of balsamic, dark fruits – plums, blackberries. Absolutely delicious.)
It was sobering to think that most of the ingredients that went into our meal had come from a farm just 30 miles north of where we sat, and some – like the egg that Reed ate – might even have just been harvested that day. The freshness of the ingredients was certainly evident, and it was an exciting challenge in itself to pick out all the individual flavours of the ingredients. For a palate that is not particularly cultured, like mine, it was tough because my tongue kept searching for that added flavouring, that extra pat of butter or bouillon, or – horrors – MSG. What it found in the end was ten times better, a natural intensity of flavour that is often masked through too much manipulation on the part of the chef. Like I said during the meal, a tomato in August is a beautiful thing.
75 Washington Place (at Sixth Ave)
New York, NY 10011
212-539-1776
I first heard of Dan Barber when I read this article in this New York Times (“Chaos Theory”, NYT August 7 2005), where he describes first-hand the idiosyncrasies of Daniel Bouley and a subsequent lesson in respecting food and its preparation. I was sold, and went on to read more about Mr Barber and his flagship Blue Hill at Stone Barns, its sister restaurant in Manhattan, and all the work he has done to promote awareness of issues such as sustainability and nutrition in the way we eat. Coming from a country with such a scarcity of natural resources that it grows little to none of the food it consumes, the idea of eating locally and responsibly resonates with me. It made perfect sense that I would one day make the pilgrimage to Blue Hill, that bastion of farm-fresh flavour – and I finally made the trip this past weekend.
Kellyn and Brian had decided a long while ago that they would visit the Big Apple this past weekend, and for weeks had pestered Hunter and myself to tag along. I made the pretense of holding out – I had been travelling for work quite a bit and wanted to spend the weekends at home – but in reality I had a free roundtrip Amtrak ticket and had been meaning to go up for a while. Some of my favourite people in the world live in New York, and Reed’s latest move to the city meant that one more had joined the ranks. I finally caved, took the train up on Friday and arranged for dinner with Morgan, Reed and Camille. We all enjoy a good meal, and upon consultation with Camille, I decided that this was where we would have it.
Named after the Barbers’ family farm in the Berkshires, Blue Hill at Stone Barns and its Manhattan counterpart both practice the art of showcasing what is primary about the ingredients – its original flavours and colours – and letting them speak for themselves. Barber and his team take care not to drown their food in sauce, and show amazing restraint in seasoning and dressing their dishes. This is nowhere better exemplified in the amuse-geule that was laid out for us – cherry tomatoes, almost naked in their simplicity. Morgan poked at them to see if anything had been done to them – a sprinkle of sea salt, maybe, a drizzle of olive oil – but if it had, we were none the wiser.
Reed had called dibs on the “This Morning’s Farm Egg” appetiser long before we had even set foot in the restaurant and it worked out well that there was something else for everyone. I ordered a half portion of the creamy farro, which came in an intensely sweet tomato sauce and topped with braised belly and crispy jowl. It seemed a little incongruous that one of the healthiest of grains should be paired with one of the fattiest of proteins, but that was the last thing on my mind as I slurped it all down. Camille had what was probably the standout of the appetizers, a chilled corn soup that was almost overpowering in its taste and freshness.
(Wine tasting notes – Jean Foillard, Cote du Py, Gamay, Morgon, Burgundy, France 2006: An earthy Beaujolais, not too overpowering. Sweet, spicy black cherries. A nice middle-to-heavyweight wine with tremendous versatility in pairing with food.)
Before I had made up my mind on the entrees, Camille had picked the pork and Morgan the lamb and I was left with no other meats. Both the fish dishes looked intriguing, and I finally settled on the wolf fish. The wolf fish, as I learned, was an eel-like white fish similar to a catfish and just as ugly – but it had a strong texture and would stand up better to the reds that we were drinking. It was paired with spring vegetables and toasted spices, which made the wine taste more complex.
(Wine tasting notes – Frecciarossa, “Giorgio Odero”, Pinot Nero, Oltrepo’ Pavese, Italy 2005: Excellent garnet colour and legs that went on forever. Hints of balsamic, dark fruits – plums, blackberries. Absolutely delicious.)
It was sobering to think that most of the ingredients that went into our meal had come from a farm just 30 miles north of where we sat, and some – like the egg that Reed ate – might even have just been harvested that day. The freshness of the ingredients was certainly evident, and it was an exciting challenge in itself to pick out all the individual flavours of the ingredients. For a palate that is not particularly cultured, like mine, it was tough because my tongue kept searching for that added flavouring, that extra pat of butter or bouillon, or – horrors – MSG. What it found in the end was ten times better, a natural intensity of flavour that is often masked through too much manipulation on the part of the chef. Like I said during the meal, a tomato in August is a beautiful thing.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Peaches
How can I say enough good things about this restaurant?
Peaches, a restaurant deep into the (former?) jungle that is Bed-Stuy, is just the sort of restaurant that an emerging neighborhood needs. I'm extraordinarily pleased that I got to eat there in its infancy and I hope to see how it develops.
Allow me to set the scene:
Yesterday, while I was setting up the restaurant, the bartender, Greg, gets a call on his cell. It's his special lady, who had just been at a supermarket in Bed-Stuy, in front of which someone pulled a handgun and fired 4 shots. Apparently everyone and their mom hit the deck both indoors and outside. No one called the police; in the middle of the day.
Blocks away (actually quite a few blocks, Bed-Stuy is a large neighborhood by NYC standards), Craig and Ben are serving up some ridiculously reasonably priced grub to what appears to be the adoration of the neighborhood. I knew of their work from the Smoke Joint, a BBQ spot close to the very fine restaurant at which I toil. I like their work and I like their investment in Brooklyn and Bed-Stuy.
Both were formerly cooks at some very choice restaurants in Manhattan, but when they went for ownership they went for Brooklyn and they went for BBQ. Both seem a step back from pretentious and a step back from expensive: an ideal combination for mere mortals like myself.
Part of why I wanted to try this restaurant was motivated by my own greed for a bargain. For now it is still BYOB. This makes such a difference; it's just insane. I brought a bottle of vinho verde and a bottle of gruner veltliner. Both were delicious, both were reasonably priced for their quality, $8 and $18 respectively. I could easily have been whacked between $60 and $90 (if not much more) for the same wines on a Manhattan list.
What we ate:
Apps:
Watermelon salad, arugula, shallots, lemon ginger dressing
Fried green tomatoes with remoulade
Asparagus salad with buttermilk dressing
Entrees:
Blackened Tilapia with summer squash and tomato
Andouille and Crawfish Gumbo
Dessert:
Peach Cobbler
Brownie a la mode
Every dish was extremely delicious. I could have small criticisms, but with a final bill of $50, how could anyone complain?
If you live anywhere even vaguely nearby, go there (preferably in the next 8 weeks, pre-liquor license,) eat well, tip well, and stumble home.
Peaches, a restaurant deep into the (former?) jungle that is Bed-Stuy, is just the sort of restaurant that an emerging neighborhood needs. I'm extraordinarily pleased that I got to eat there in its infancy and I hope to see how it develops.
Allow me to set the scene:
Yesterday, while I was setting up the restaurant, the bartender, Greg, gets a call on his cell. It's his special lady, who had just been at a supermarket in Bed-Stuy, in front of which someone pulled a handgun and fired 4 shots. Apparently everyone and their mom hit the deck both indoors and outside. No one called the police; in the middle of the day.
Blocks away (actually quite a few blocks, Bed-Stuy is a large neighborhood by NYC standards), Craig and Ben are serving up some ridiculously reasonably priced grub to what appears to be the adoration of the neighborhood. I knew of their work from the Smoke Joint, a BBQ spot close to the very fine restaurant at which I toil. I like their work and I like their investment in Brooklyn and Bed-Stuy.
Both were formerly cooks at some very choice restaurants in Manhattan, but when they went for ownership they went for Brooklyn and they went for BBQ. Both seem a step back from pretentious and a step back from expensive: an ideal combination for mere mortals like myself.
Part of why I wanted to try this restaurant was motivated by my own greed for a bargain. For now it is still BYOB. This makes such a difference; it's just insane. I brought a bottle of vinho verde and a bottle of gruner veltliner. Both were delicious, both were reasonably priced for their quality, $8 and $18 respectively. I could easily have been whacked between $60 and $90 (if not much more) for the same wines on a Manhattan list.
What we ate:
Apps:
Watermelon salad, arugula, shallots, lemon ginger dressing
Fried green tomatoes with remoulade
Asparagus salad with buttermilk dressing
Entrees:
Blackened Tilapia with summer squash and tomato
Andouille and Crawfish Gumbo
Dessert:
Peach Cobbler
Brownie a la mode
Every dish was extremely delicious. I could have small criticisms, but with a final bill of $50, how could anyone complain?
If you live anywhere even vaguely nearby, go there (preferably in the next 8 weeks, pre-liquor license,) eat well, tip well, and stumble home.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Wish List: Places Where I'd Like to Eat
If wishes were fishes...
Here are a couple places I'm looking forward to eating in the coming months; wind, tide and funds allowing.
James, in Prospect Heights www.jamesrestaurantny.com
The Good Fork, in Red Hook www.goodfork.com
Peaches, in Bed-Stuy (do or die) no website yet.
The Grocery, in Carroll Gardens thegroceryrestaurant.com
Lupa, Manhattan www.luparestaurant.com
Ali's Kebab Cafe, Astoria, Queens, no website.
(Dive) Bars where I want to get my drink on:
Farrell's Bar and Grill, Windsor Terrace
Montero's, Atlantic Ave.
Sunny's Bar, Red Hook
Hank's, Atlantic Ave.
Frank's Cocktail Lounge, Fort Greene
O'Connor's, Park Slope
Here are a couple places I'm looking forward to eating in the coming months; wind, tide and funds allowing.
James, in Prospect Heights www.jamesrestaurantny.com
The Good Fork, in Red Hook www.goodfork.com
Peaches, in Bed-Stuy (do or die) no website yet.
The Grocery, in Carroll Gardens thegroceryrestaurant.com
Lupa, Manhattan www.luparestaurant.com
Ali's Kebab Cafe, Astoria, Queens, no website.
(Dive) Bars where I want to get my drink on:
Farrell's Bar and Grill, Windsor Terrace
Montero's, Atlantic Ave.
Sunny's Bar, Red Hook
Hank's, Atlantic Ave.
Frank's Cocktail Lounge, Fort Greene
O'Connor's, Park Slope
Saturday, July 19, 2008
El Malecon Restaurant
A beloved classic that stands as a salty, greasy, shiny symbol of the Dominican diaspora, El Malecon has become famous for their rotisserie chicken. [Do not confuse this with the word marecon, which has an entirely different meaning and is not a restaurant at all.] I happened to be in Washington Heights for some Center for an Urban Future research and I knew that I had to make a stop at this landmark. There were many, many options for Dominican food in that 'hood but this is the classic.
I am sorry to say that I was disappointed. There are two fundamental issues with roasting a chicken,
Number 1: Getting a crispy skin.
Number 2: How to get the white breast meat and the dark leg and thigh meat to be properly cooked.
Malecon's chicken was a tour de force in the first department, with a crisp, salty, spicy skin that crackled in my mouth. Unfortunately, while the leg and thigh were both delicious (I love meat on the bone) the breast was dry and bland. My preferred method at home involves an extremely long resting time to let that dark meat come up to temp, followed by a quick run under the broiler to reheat the bird and get that skin the way it ought to be.
In sum, next time I'm going to ignore the hype, and am going to follow my gut to "Elsa, La ReinaDel
I am sorry to say that I was disappointed. There are two fundamental issues with roasting a chicken,
Number 1: Getting a crispy skin.
Number 2: How to get the white breast meat and the dark leg and thigh meat to be properly cooked.
Malecon's chicken was a tour de force in the first department, with a crisp, salty, spicy skin that crackled in my mouth. Unfortunately, while the leg and thigh were both delicious (I love meat on the bone) the breast was dry and bland. My preferred method at home involves an extremely long resting time to let that dark meat come up to temp, followed by a quick run under the broiler to reheat the bird and get that skin the way it ought to be.
In sum, next time I'm going to ignore the hype, and am going to follow my gut to "Elsa, La Reina
Monday, May 12, 2008
Di Fara Pizza
Di Fara Pizza
1424 Ave. J, Midwood,
Many visitors to my fair city never leave the
Much has been made of Di Fara's pizza on Avenue J in a little-known or visited neighborhood called Midwood: it has been called the best pizza in
Part of what's so great about Di Fara's is its total lack of pretension. The place is basically a dive. It has a very unassuming facade, and looks, as Jason would say, as though it was last cleaned on the 5th of never. There were probably about 20 people waiting when we arrived at
At last, an hour and twenty five minutes later, at about
Sunday, March 30, 2008
New York, New York
Eleven Madison Park
11 Madison Ave (at 24th St)
New York, NY 10010
212-889-0905
A couple of months ago, at dinner with my team from work, we happened upon the conversation topic of restaurants in New York. None of us lived there, and at an hour’s drive Michael was probably the closest, but the common consensus was – for fear of stating the obvious – that New York offered dining options that were far superior to our respective cities. I love DC, but in my opinion it just cannot compare. The sheer quantity and quality of fine dining in a city where everyone is a gourmand is something worth celebrating. So we decided that since we would find ourselves in the city in two weeks, we would throw caution to the wind, and go out for a nice meal.
I was charged with the task of picking a place, and to be honest I probably spent more time thinking about it than necessary. It was kind of like picking your fantasy baseball team, or your March Madness bracket. You check your watch and suddenly it’s four o’clock and you are nowhere near a decision. The occasion – and, more importantly, our budget – did not warrant a trip to one of the “holy quartet”: Per Se, Le Bernardin, Alain Ducasse or Daniel, but everything else was on the table, pardon the pun.
The list was long and distinguished, and I could fill pages upon pages just writing about my decision process, but that wouldn’t be very exciting, would it? Suffice to say that we wound up going to Eleven Madison Park. I had heard good things about it especially after the arrival of Daniel Humm as head chef, and the space was supposed to be excellent. It had not been my first choice but life is full of compromises. You do what you can and you do what you must, and you try not to lose too much of yourself along the way. In this case I hardly lost much by making this compromise.
I arrived on time, which as I have said many times before and will no doubt do so many times again, is early by my company standards. Very early, in fact. I had time for a pre-dinner glass of wine and opted for a glass of the house Châteauneuf du Pape. I don’t remember what it was but I remember not being impressed. I was impressed though, by the dining room. To enter, you walk through revolving doors into a vestibule that gives you no clue and in no way prepares you for the opulence of the dining room. I remember walking in and doing a double-take, pausing to take it all in. It was American Art Deco with a soaring ceiling and 35-foot windows, and was adorned with floral arrangements that belied that often-understated virtue that is so critical to class and taste – restraint. I thought to myself that this space had found its calling (or vice versa), for I could not think of many other things I wanted to do in that room other than eat, and eat well.
Morgan had trailed for a day in the kitchen at Eleven Madison, and remarked to me that Chef Humm ran a tight ship in the kitchen, and was very precise. That precision translated into the rest of the restaurant, with shiny flatware arranged just so on crisp white tablecloths and not a hair out of place. But where the precision shone through the most was the food. Clean lines and cubic shapes dominated the presentation and plates were sauced with care and meticulous exactitude. In a bizarre way it made you want to play with your food, just to mess things up, which I must confess made the meal more enjoyable.
The amuse-bouches threatened to dampen the evening, for out of a bite-sized selection of tuna tartare, sweetbread, and foie gras only the latter took my breath away. But the appetizers and entrées more than made up for the misstep. The beets in the beet salad came cubed (a cute touch), and the gnocchi came with just the right amount of sauce – another nod to the precision of the kitchen. I had never had gnocchi paired with seafood before (it came with shrimp and calamari in a Meyer lemon-based sauce), and the acidity of the sauce and seafood complemented the earthiness of the pasta perfectly.
I had the rabbit for an entrée, but I do not remember much of it because I was hit with the biggest pang of food envy ever known to mankind. Tom and Brody had ordered the Muscovy duck for two, glazed with lavender honey, and after I tried a slice the rest of my meal suddenly became bland and unpalatable. People have remarked that I close my eyes when I enjoy my food but as I ate the duck my eyes were wide open and remained that way for a long while as I muttered, “Wow.” over and over to myself, silently.
I have often wondered if other people’s food only tastes better because you only get one bite of it, but whatever the case I was extremely jealous and mildly bitter. The only reason that I had passed over the duck was because I’d had duck only two nights before (at an establishment not anywhere near the quality of Eleven Madison, unfortunately). But all is not lost. There is fortunately, in my experience, only one cure for this dreaded condition – to come back to the restaurant.
Next time I’m definitely getting the duck.
Wine Tasting Notes:
Gros Frere et Sœur, Clos Vougeot Musigni, 2005 (Jason’s choice)
I’d had this wine before at another similarly opulent dinner at Le Paradou in DC, and had been very impressed, so when I saw it on the wine list it almost picked itself. When he brought it over the sommelier remarked that this was one of his favourites, to which I scoffed, “You must tell that to everyone.” Thankfully he did not take offense at my spot of glibness, but went on to rather earnestly convince me that he really did like the wine. By the end of the conversation I was ready to buy insurance from him. The wine itself was medium to full-bodied, with a great nose and a long smooth finish. It had notes of the dark fruit that I am such a fan of – plums, cherries, blackberries – and also musk and oak. It was a little young, but showed signs of opening into a very lovely, very typically French wine.
Domaine du Vieux Télégraphe, Châteauneuf du Pape, 2000 (Michael’s choice)
I was introduced to Châteauneuf du Pape by Saskia, and have been a fan ever since. In keeping with the French theme Michael picked out this bottle. It was a small step down from the body and structure of the Burgundy that we’d had earlier but still entirely enjoyable. It had the same dark fruit but was sweeter, more fruit-forward and less tannic than the previous wine.
Domaine de la Grange des Peres, 2003 (Brody’s choice)
This was surprisingly very, very good. I don’t know why I had expected so little from it, but I was very, very surprised. In a good way. For the price (it was the cheapest of the three), it was an excellent bottle. Very well rounded and hit every part of your tongue and taste buds with a harmonious balance of sweetness, acidity and tannins. Some wines are good to taste, some wines are good to savour, and some wines are good for just drinking. This one was all three.
11 Madison Ave (at 24th St)
New York, NY 10010
212-889-0905
A couple of months ago, at dinner with my team from work, we happened upon the conversation topic of restaurants in New York. None of us lived there, and at an hour’s drive Michael was probably the closest, but the common consensus was – for fear of stating the obvious – that New York offered dining options that were far superior to our respective cities. I love DC, but in my opinion it just cannot compare. The sheer quantity and quality of fine dining in a city where everyone is a gourmand is something worth celebrating. So we decided that since we would find ourselves in the city in two weeks, we would throw caution to the wind, and go out for a nice meal.
I was charged with the task of picking a place, and to be honest I probably spent more time thinking about it than necessary. It was kind of like picking your fantasy baseball team, or your March Madness bracket. You check your watch and suddenly it’s four o’clock and you are nowhere near a decision. The occasion – and, more importantly, our budget – did not warrant a trip to one of the “holy quartet”: Per Se, Le Bernardin, Alain Ducasse or Daniel, but everything else was on the table, pardon the pun.
The list was long and distinguished, and I could fill pages upon pages just writing about my decision process, but that wouldn’t be very exciting, would it? Suffice to say that we wound up going to Eleven Madison Park. I had heard good things about it especially after the arrival of Daniel Humm as head chef, and the space was supposed to be excellent. It had not been my first choice but life is full of compromises. You do what you can and you do what you must, and you try not to lose too much of yourself along the way. In this case I hardly lost much by making this compromise.
I arrived on time, which as I have said many times before and will no doubt do so many times again, is early by my company standards. Very early, in fact. I had time for a pre-dinner glass of wine and opted for a glass of the house Châteauneuf du Pape. I don’t remember what it was but I remember not being impressed. I was impressed though, by the dining room. To enter, you walk through revolving doors into a vestibule that gives you no clue and in no way prepares you for the opulence of the dining room. I remember walking in and doing a double-take, pausing to take it all in. It was American Art Deco with a soaring ceiling and 35-foot windows, and was adorned with floral arrangements that belied that often-understated virtue that is so critical to class and taste – restraint. I thought to myself that this space had found its calling (or vice versa), for I could not think of many other things I wanted to do in that room other than eat, and eat well.
Morgan had trailed for a day in the kitchen at Eleven Madison, and remarked to me that Chef Humm ran a tight ship in the kitchen, and was very precise. That precision translated into the rest of the restaurant, with shiny flatware arranged just so on crisp white tablecloths and not a hair out of place. But where the precision shone through the most was the food. Clean lines and cubic shapes dominated the presentation and plates were sauced with care and meticulous exactitude. In a bizarre way it made you want to play with your food, just to mess things up, which I must confess made the meal more enjoyable.
The amuse-bouches threatened to dampen the evening, for out of a bite-sized selection of tuna tartare, sweetbread, and foie gras only the latter took my breath away. But the appetizers and entrées more than made up for the misstep. The beets in the beet salad came cubed (a cute touch), and the gnocchi came with just the right amount of sauce – another nod to the precision of the kitchen. I had never had gnocchi paired with seafood before (it came with shrimp and calamari in a Meyer lemon-based sauce), and the acidity of the sauce and seafood complemented the earthiness of the pasta perfectly.
I had the rabbit for an entrée, but I do not remember much of it because I was hit with the biggest pang of food envy ever known to mankind. Tom and Brody had ordered the Muscovy duck for two, glazed with lavender honey, and after I tried a slice the rest of my meal suddenly became bland and unpalatable. People have remarked that I close my eyes when I enjoy my food but as I ate the duck my eyes were wide open and remained that way for a long while as I muttered, “Wow.” over and over to myself, silently.
I have often wondered if other people’s food only tastes better because you only get one bite of it, but whatever the case I was extremely jealous and mildly bitter. The only reason that I had passed over the duck was because I’d had duck only two nights before (at an establishment not anywhere near the quality of Eleven Madison, unfortunately). But all is not lost. There is fortunately, in my experience, only one cure for this dreaded condition – to come back to the restaurant.
Next time I’m definitely getting the duck.
Wine Tasting Notes:
Gros Frere et Sœur, Clos Vougeot Musigni, 2005 (Jason’s choice)
I’d had this wine before at another similarly opulent dinner at Le Paradou in DC, and had been very impressed, so when I saw it on the wine list it almost picked itself. When he brought it over the sommelier remarked that this was one of his favourites, to which I scoffed, “You must tell that to everyone.” Thankfully he did not take offense at my spot of glibness, but went on to rather earnestly convince me that he really did like the wine. By the end of the conversation I was ready to buy insurance from him. The wine itself was medium to full-bodied, with a great nose and a long smooth finish. It had notes of the dark fruit that I am such a fan of – plums, cherries, blackberries – and also musk and oak. It was a little young, but showed signs of opening into a very lovely, very typically French wine.
Domaine du Vieux Télégraphe, Châteauneuf du Pape, 2000 (Michael’s choice)
I was introduced to Châteauneuf du Pape by Saskia, and have been a fan ever since. In keeping with the French theme Michael picked out this bottle. It was a small step down from the body and structure of the Burgundy that we’d had earlier but still entirely enjoyable. It had the same dark fruit but was sweeter, more fruit-forward and less tannic than the previous wine.
Domaine de la Grange des Peres, 2003 (Brody’s choice)
This was surprisingly very, very good. I don’t know why I had expected so little from it, but I was very, very surprised. In a good way. For the price (it was the cheapest of the three), it was an excellent bottle. Very well rounded and hit every part of your tongue and taste buds with a harmonious balance of sweetness, acidity and tannins. Some wines are good to taste, some wines are good to savour, and some wines are good for just drinking. This one was all three.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Für Elise
Union Square Cafe
21 E 16th St
New York, NY 10003
212-243-4020
Birthdays are a curious thing. I like mine, because it means people have to be nice to me – regardless of how badly I may treat them. I also like to celebrate mine by breaking bread with good friends. There is perhaps nothing more enjoyable than a good dinner with your nearest and dearest. The question remains though – do I break bread with them because they are my good friends, or am I good friends with them because we break bread together? A happy dilemma, but one nonetheless.
I was on the road for my birthday this year, but fortunately to New York City, that haven of fabulous restaurants and home to some of my favourite people in this world. Morgan could not make it for dinner, but Camille, Emi and Elisabeth all indulged me on my special day as I finally made it to Union Square Café – a mainstay of the dining scene I had wanted to try for quite some time.
It was early when I got into the taxicab to go to the restaurant, but as I sat in the back of the car I grew curiously anxious and got the way I feel when I am late to an engagement. Every stop at every light felt interminable, and the silence in the car was almost oppressive. I got off a few blocks away from the restaurant on purpose so I could walk through Union Square, for there is a certain something about the neighborhood that lifts me no end. There is a growing bounce in my step as I near my destination, and with it my companions for the evening.
The hostess kept us standing at the front desk for just long enough to have a proper, light conversation; and not so long that we would get tired of waiting. This put me in a good mood as we were shown to what I thought was the best table in the house: a fourtop nestled in the corner of the room, with full view not only of everyone else in the room but also the entrance to the restaurant. One could see everyone coming and going in and out, but not be noticed at all in the bustle of the restaurant. It was prime people-watching space and I enjoyed it immensely. One would think that with good food and good company, there should be no need to keep looking around, but it is the human condition to, even when entirely satisfied, look around for someone who is perhaps having better food or better company or is enjoying themselves more than you are. I am no less human.
Elisabeth, apart from being one of the lights of my life, is also one of the most graceful people I know and has perfect posture. She sits up straight in her chair, and does this charming thing where she cocks her head gently forward when she cannot hear the conversation, listening intently and always smiling. She does not rest her hands or elbows on the table, and handles her cutlery in a wonderfully delicate manner and with expert finesse. She has a languid ease about her, and never looks the least bit awkward or ruffled. With friends as beautiful as these, who needs to people-watch?
So Elisabeth sat to my left, and Camille to my right, and they both had the arugula salad as an appetiser. It came smothered in fresh parmesan, which Elisabeth loves, and indeed it pleased her no end. Not technically a vegetable but an herb, arugula is nevertheless one of my favourite greens – it has a distinct peppery taste that works well with vinegar. But instead I had the homemade fettucine with roasted lobster and chanterelles in a basil and orange olive oil. Fresh pasta has such a sweet doughy goodness, I am ashamed that I do not make it from scratch more often. I am the world’s biggest fool for chanterelles and the orange was an interesting touch, and the dish was light and simple like all good pasta dishes should be. And like all good pasta dishes, it was gone too quickly.
Once I had seen it on the menu there was really only one choice – the duck – I was ever going to make for my main course. It was only fitting for a special occasion as this was – duck being quite possibly my favourite meat. I was a little wary at first – why does everyone pair duck with baby bak choy? Regardless, the duck came seasoned with lemon and pepper and could perhaps have afforded being done a little rarer, and it came in an intensely flavoured peach-fig chutney which was quite out of this world.
As we all plowed into the dessert that we shared – a peach tart made with some very buttery pastry – I could not help but wonder why the restaurant had had such longevity and become so well-loved by New Yorkers. The service was warm and hospitable, but there was little that was markedly unique about the restaurant and it did not lend itself to a particular personality. It was a little too large to be intimate and a little too small to be grandiose. I suppose, then, in conclusion: if you keep making food as good as Union Square Café does, then people will keep coming.
21 E 16th St
New York, NY 10003
212-243-4020
Birthdays are a curious thing. I like mine, because it means people have to be nice to me – regardless of how badly I may treat them. I also like to celebrate mine by breaking bread with good friends. There is perhaps nothing more enjoyable than a good dinner with your nearest and dearest. The question remains though – do I break bread with them because they are my good friends, or am I good friends with them because we break bread together? A happy dilemma, but one nonetheless.
I was on the road for my birthday this year, but fortunately to New York City, that haven of fabulous restaurants and home to some of my favourite people in this world. Morgan could not make it for dinner, but Camille, Emi and Elisabeth all indulged me on my special day as I finally made it to Union Square Café – a mainstay of the dining scene I had wanted to try for quite some time.
It was early when I got into the taxicab to go to the restaurant, but as I sat in the back of the car I grew curiously anxious and got the way I feel when I am late to an engagement. Every stop at every light felt interminable, and the silence in the car was almost oppressive. I got off a few blocks away from the restaurant on purpose so I could walk through Union Square, for there is a certain something about the neighborhood that lifts me no end. There is a growing bounce in my step as I near my destination, and with it my companions for the evening.
The hostess kept us standing at the front desk for just long enough to have a proper, light conversation; and not so long that we would get tired of waiting. This put me in a good mood as we were shown to what I thought was the best table in the house: a fourtop nestled in the corner of the room, with full view not only of everyone else in the room but also the entrance to the restaurant. One could see everyone coming and going in and out, but not be noticed at all in the bustle of the restaurant. It was prime people-watching space and I enjoyed it immensely. One would think that with good food and good company, there should be no need to keep looking around, but it is the human condition to, even when entirely satisfied, look around for someone who is perhaps having better food or better company or is enjoying themselves more than you are. I am no less human.
Elisabeth, apart from being one of the lights of my life, is also one of the most graceful people I know and has perfect posture. She sits up straight in her chair, and does this charming thing where she cocks her head gently forward when she cannot hear the conversation, listening intently and always smiling. She does not rest her hands or elbows on the table, and handles her cutlery in a wonderfully delicate manner and with expert finesse. She has a languid ease about her, and never looks the least bit awkward or ruffled. With friends as beautiful as these, who needs to people-watch?
So Elisabeth sat to my left, and Camille to my right, and they both had the arugula salad as an appetiser. It came smothered in fresh parmesan, which Elisabeth loves, and indeed it pleased her no end. Not technically a vegetable but an herb, arugula is nevertheless one of my favourite greens – it has a distinct peppery taste that works well with vinegar. But instead I had the homemade fettucine with roasted lobster and chanterelles in a basil and orange olive oil. Fresh pasta has such a sweet doughy goodness, I am ashamed that I do not make it from scratch more often. I am the world’s biggest fool for chanterelles and the orange was an interesting touch, and the dish was light and simple like all good pasta dishes should be. And like all good pasta dishes, it was gone too quickly.
Once I had seen it on the menu there was really only one choice – the duck – I was ever going to make for my main course. It was only fitting for a special occasion as this was – duck being quite possibly my favourite meat. I was a little wary at first – why does everyone pair duck with baby bak choy? Regardless, the duck came seasoned with lemon and pepper and could perhaps have afforded being done a little rarer, and it came in an intensely flavoured peach-fig chutney which was quite out of this world.
As we all plowed into the dessert that we shared – a peach tart made with some very buttery pastry – I could not help but wonder why the restaurant had had such longevity and become so well-loved by New Yorkers. The service was warm and hospitable, but there was little that was markedly unique about the restaurant and it did not lend itself to a particular personality. It was a little too large to be intimate and a little too small to be grandiose. I suppose, then, in conclusion: if you keep making food as good as Union Square Café does, then people will keep coming.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
My modern day Mecca
Williams-Sonoma
121 E 59th St
New York, NY 10022
917-369-1131
Café Lalo
201 W 83rd St
New York, NY 10024
212-496-6031
All was not good for the good guys this past weekend. To everyone who I may have affected with my black mood and grumpy demeanor, I wholeheartedly apologise. If you have ever lived in DC – or indeed any urban metropolitan area, but DC more than most – you will soon realise that it is a very transient place; no sooner do you find good people then they are lost to you, moving on to bigger and better things in their lives. Among others, Sarah left last weekend for good, and Amanda – albeit temporarily, to Ghana of all places – and this was not helped by the fact that Jeff, himself gone for quite some time now, wrote me an email from Barcelona detailing his drinking and debauchery.
So, understandably or not, I was a little down this past weekend. But rather my point is that eating for me, and shopping for others, is an art worthy enough to rank with the other methods by which man chooses to escape reality. What better way, then, to lift my mood than to combine the two with a trip to Williams-Sonoma, that mecca for modern-day chef wannabes? To be fair, it was a fortuitous trip to say the least – I was supposed to meet Elisabeth and Jacob for dinner when Elisabeth called to say they would be running late, and I could not think of a better way to spend 45 minutes in Columbus Circle than to browse the aisles of what could possibly be my favourite chain store.
The thing about walking around Williams-Sonoma is that I am continually amazed at how much is being mass-produced these days that nobody should really need. I mean, a garlic press? It’s already been invented, and it’s called the blade of a knife. I also am continually amazed at how ridiculously expensive this place is. Nevertheless, walking around gleaming pots and pans and flowery placemats does something to me. I am enervated no end, and start to scheme for the numerous meals that I will make next. It is, for me at least, like a groundswell of ideas and inspiration. Cast-iron pans make me want to make saffron paella with squid and other assorted seafood; griddles make me want to make buttermilk pancakes with blueberries. Espresso machines – things of beauty they are – set me off on reveries of espresso and latte and afogato and coffee cakes. The knife display makes me want to touch myself. I have to continually remind myself to wipe that spastic little-boy grin from my face.
Needless to say, I was sufficiently cheered up by the time Elisabeth danced into the store. (If you know Elisabeth, you will know that this is no exaggeration – the woman is so graceful that she does not walk, but rather waltzes.) And then it was off, to dinner!
Dinner itself was perhaps nothing to write home about – we ate at a kosher café where the food was prepared under the supervision of one Rabbi Avrohom Marmorstein. No one in our party was Jewish, so the selection was a little strange; but the conversation was charming and the company enchanting, and I blissfully forgot the fact that my soup was quite unsatisfactory and that I could, perhaps, have done a better job myself of the flounder stuffed with spinach and feta in an orange buerre-blanc.
But then Elisabeth took us to Café Lalo, on the Upper West Side, a neon-lit monstrosity of a dessert place whose claim to fame lies in that Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, in You’ve Got Mail, meet each other there for the first time after a courtship of online correspondence. Café Lalo is a café in the strictest Parisian sense of the word, right down to the paper tablemats and the tables bunched up against each other so you have to comport your ass and other extremities skillfully as you maneuver through the masses of chattering people going on about something or other. The only thing it lacks is the al fresco dining balcony with all the chairs facing outward for optimal people-watching. The French are a voyeuristic people.
And even though it is no Pastiche*, the dessert is delightful, and Jacob got us a pot of Russian Caravan, a blend of tea that he promised was “so smoky it’s like drinking a cigar”. I rather liked it myself. I sat across from Elisabeth, and she looked beautiful and radiant as she sat silently with a faraway look in her eyes and the barest hint of a smile, listening to Jacob. And for thirty glorious minutes in the company of these two dear friends, I forgot that I had to get up for work the next day.
-----------
*Pastiche is a dessert place in Providence, RI renowned for their fruit tarts - I swear there is opium in their vanilla custard - but the biggest mistake you can make there is getting the same thing twice. The true standout here, in my humble opinion, is the vanilla-bean cheesecake. I remember exactly where I was and who I was with the first time I tried this; and I'm sure they remember it too because I was moaning orgasmically and very audibly and in general attracting lots of dirty as well as amused looks. It is perhaps my favourite dessert place in the world and I will write about it someday.
***Footnote: Three weeks after this I went against everything that I stood for and bought myself a wholly unnecessary kitchen implement from Williams-Sonoma – a citrus fruit juicer. I know, it’s already been invented, and it’s called your right (or left) hand. But this thing is 18 inches of chrome and stainless steel magnificence, and has a very masculine beauty for a kitchen implement. I used it to squeeze a lemon for a dish I was making, and felt a rush of blood to my head. Two days later Clayton and I had freshly squeezed orange juice, and I felt very pleased with myself.
121 E 59th St
New York, NY 10022
917-369-1131
Café Lalo
201 W 83rd St
New York, NY 10024
212-496-6031
All was not good for the good guys this past weekend. To everyone who I may have affected with my black mood and grumpy demeanor, I wholeheartedly apologise. If you have ever lived in DC – or indeed any urban metropolitan area, but DC more than most – you will soon realise that it is a very transient place; no sooner do you find good people then they are lost to you, moving on to bigger and better things in their lives. Among others, Sarah left last weekend for good, and Amanda – albeit temporarily, to Ghana of all places – and this was not helped by the fact that Jeff, himself gone for quite some time now, wrote me an email from Barcelona detailing his drinking and debauchery.
So, understandably or not, I was a little down this past weekend. But rather my point is that eating for me, and shopping for others, is an art worthy enough to rank with the other methods by which man chooses to escape reality. What better way, then, to lift my mood than to combine the two with a trip to Williams-Sonoma, that mecca for modern-day chef wannabes? To be fair, it was a fortuitous trip to say the least – I was supposed to meet Elisabeth and Jacob for dinner when Elisabeth called to say they would be running late, and I could not think of a better way to spend 45 minutes in Columbus Circle than to browse the aisles of what could possibly be my favourite chain store.
The thing about walking around Williams-Sonoma is that I am continually amazed at how much is being mass-produced these days that nobody should really need. I mean, a garlic press? It’s already been invented, and it’s called the blade of a knife. I also am continually amazed at how ridiculously expensive this place is. Nevertheless, walking around gleaming pots and pans and flowery placemats does something to me. I am enervated no end, and start to scheme for the numerous meals that I will make next. It is, for me at least, like a groundswell of ideas and inspiration. Cast-iron pans make me want to make saffron paella with squid and other assorted seafood; griddles make me want to make buttermilk pancakes with blueberries. Espresso machines – things of beauty they are – set me off on reveries of espresso and latte and afogato and coffee cakes. The knife display makes me want to touch myself. I have to continually remind myself to wipe that spastic little-boy grin from my face.
Needless to say, I was sufficiently cheered up by the time Elisabeth danced into the store. (If you know Elisabeth, you will know that this is no exaggeration – the woman is so graceful that she does not walk, but rather waltzes.) And then it was off, to dinner!
Dinner itself was perhaps nothing to write home about – we ate at a kosher café where the food was prepared under the supervision of one Rabbi Avrohom Marmorstein. No one in our party was Jewish, so the selection was a little strange; but the conversation was charming and the company enchanting, and I blissfully forgot the fact that my soup was quite unsatisfactory and that I could, perhaps, have done a better job myself of the flounder stuffed with spinach and feta in an orange buerre-blanc.
But then Elisabeth took us to Café Lalo, on the Upper West Side, a neon-lit monstrosity of a dessert place whose claim to fame lies in that Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, in You’ve Got Mail, meet each other there for the first time after a courtship of online correspondence. Café Lalo is a café in the strictest Parisian sense of the word, right down to the paper tablemats and the tables bunched up against each other so you have to comport your ass and other extremities skillfully as you maneuver through the masses of chattering people going on about something or other. The only thing it lacks is the al fresco dining balcony with all the chairs facing outward for optimal people-watching. The French are a voyeuristic people.
And even though it is no Pastiche*, the dessert is delightful, and Jacob got us a pot of Russian Caravan, a blend of tea that he promised was “so smoky it’s like drinking a cigar”. I rather liked it myself. I sat across from Elisabeth, and she looked beautiful and radiant as she sat silently with a faraway look in her eyes and the barest hint of a smile, listening to Jacob. And for thirty glorious minutes in the company of these two dear friends, I forgot that I had to get up for work the next day.
-----------
*Pastiche is a dessert place in Providence, RI renowned for their fruit tarts - I swear there is opium in their vanilla custard - but the biggest mistake you can make there is getting the same thing twice. The true standout here, in my humble opinion, is the vanilla-bean cheesecake. I remember exactly where I was and who I was with the first time I tried this; and I'm sure they remember it too because I was moaning orgasmically and very audibly and in general attracting lots of dirty as well as amused looks. It is perhaps my favourite dessert place in the world and I will write about it someday.
***Footnote: Three weeks after this I went against everything that I stood for and bought myself a wholly unnecessary kitchen implement from Williams-Sonoma – a citrus fruit juicer. I know, it’s already been invented, and it’s called your right (or left) hand. But this thing is 18 inches of chrome and stainless steel magnificence, and has a very masculine beauty for a kitchen implement. I used it to squeeze a lemon for a dish I was making, and felt a rush of blood to my head. Two days later Clayton and I had freshly squeezed orange juice, and I felt very pleased with myself.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Tutto suona più bello in italiano
Lo Scalco
313 Church Street
New York, NY 10013
212-343-2900
There is something about finding out a restaurant is a husband-and-wife operation that raises it somewhat in my estimation. It is as if the discovery reassures me that there was something personal, some love and devotion, some true feeling that inspired the opening of the restaurant; that it is not just another addition to some restaurant mogul’s portfolio. That warms my heart. I have recently been working out of New York City – where there is no shortage of good eats – and had the good fortune this past week to dine at just such an establishment.
The interior of Lo Scalco is beautiful - sleek, modern white walls and touches of black and muted brown, with Beaux-Arts arches, elaborate chandeliers and a classy marble bar. Designed by the wife of the chef and owner, after whose family the restaurant is lovingly and respectfully named, its most charming feature is the piping. It is left exposed, and camouflaged wittily amidst other horizontal fixtures across the high ceilings, in a very Brutalist sort of way, and it gives an edge to the elegance of the room – an edge that is, arguably, replicated in the food.
Lo Scalco’s menu is organised by region; there is an antipasto, primo and secondo for each region, that you mix and match for your meal. There are also some staples which, our waiter proclaims, the restaurant has never been able to take off the menu due to popular demand. One of these is the cannelloni with ricotta and artichokes, which I wound up getting. It certainly lived up to the hype – it was light and smooth and yet still packed a punch. I followed that with the rabbit – which was smothered perhaps a tad too much in fresh rosemary for my liking, but enjoyable nonetheless. Quantities aside, the cooking unconditionally espoused one of the main tenets of Italian cuisine – to let quality ingredients speak for themselves.
When it comes down to it, maybe cooking isn’t so difficult after all. What is difficult is finding fresh, local, quality ingredients.
Midway through our meal the chef comes out of the kitchen for what I can only assume is his periodic ritual of walking around and making sure things are running smoothly. You can tell that he is a chef almost immediately, and not from his toque and apron – although those do help. There are certain characteristics that are particular to each profession, and the practitioners of these professions are almost always indelibly marked. He had in his manner and comportment a singular focus and intensity – when he was walking one could tell that the foremost thing in his mind at that particular moment was getting from point A to point B. I think this is borne of working with food, where despite the need in a kitchen to manage and process a million different things happening at once, a million different entrees being prepared at once – when it comes down to it a chef must focus all his energies, at any given nanosecond, on the task that is at hand. Be it whisking a sauce or stirring a risotto, that particular task – in the instant that it is being performed – is all-consuming and all-important. Lose focus, and the dish will invariably suffer. The great chef is one who can multi-task and yet still ensure that each individual task receives his undivided attention when he is performing it.
We had no wine that night – a pity and a crying shame – because there was still work to be done after, and miles to go before we slept. Yet Lo Scalco was a pleasant experience, aided by the fact that we walked in without a reservation. There are precious few restaurants of this quality, especially in New York, where one can do this. It certainly begged questioning, but I suspect that now that the Guide Michelin has awarded it a star; once the Times reviews it the rest of New York will be all over it.
***Footnote: Once again the curse of the commentator strikes - I have been informed that Lo Scalco will be closing its Tribeca location soon. Apparently there is a move on the cards, to a Midtown location, but well. Que sera, sera.
313 Church Street
New York, NY 10013
212-343-2900
There is something about finding out a restaurant is a husband-and-wife operation that raises it somewhat in my estimation. It is as if the discovery reassures me that there was something personal, some love and devotion, some true feeling that inspired the opening of the restaurant; that it is not just another addition to some restaurant mogul’s portfolio. That warms my heart. I have recently been working out of New York City – where there is no shortage of good eats – and had the good fortune this past week to dine at just such an establishment.
The interior of Lo Scalco is beautiful - sleek, modern white walls and touches of black and muted brown, with Beaux-Arts arches, elaborate chandeliers and a classy marble bar. Designed by the wife of the chef and owner, after whose family the restaurant is lovingly and respectfully named, its most charming feature is the piping. It is left exposed, and camouflaged wittily amidst other horizontal fixtures across the high ceilings, in a very Brutalist sort of way, and it gives an edge to the elegance of the room – an edge that is, arguably, replicated in the food.
Lo Scalco’s menu is organised by region; there is an antipasto, primo and secondo for each region, that you mix and match for your meal. There are also some staples which, our waiter proclaims, the restaurant has never been able to take off the menu due to popular demand. One of these is the cannelloni with ricotta and artichokes, which I wound up getting. It certainly lived up to the hype – it was light and smooth and yet still packed a punch. I followed that with the rabbit – which was smothered perhaps a tad too much in fresh rosemary for my liking, but enjoyable nonetheless. Quantities aside, the cooking unconditionally espoused one of the main tenets of Italian cuisine – to let quality ingredients speak for themselves.
When it comes down to it, maybe cooking isn’t so difficult after all. What is difficult is finding fresh, local, quality ingredients.
Midway through our meal the chef comes out of the kitchen for what I can only assume is his periodic ritual of walking around and making sure things are running smoothly. You can tell that he is a chef almost immediately, and not from his toque and apron – although those do help. There are certain characteristics that are particular to each profession, and the practitioners of these professions are almost always indelibly marked. He had in his manner and comportment a singular focus and intensity – when he was walking one could tell that the foremost thing in his mind at that particular moment was getting from point A to point B. I think this is borne of working with food, where despite the need in a kitchen to manage and process a million different things happening at once, a million different entrees being prepared at once – when it comes down to it a chef must focus all his energies, at any given nanosecond, on the task that is at hand. Be it whisking a sauce or stirring a risotto, that particular task – in the instant that it is being performed – is all-consuming and all-important. Lose focus, and the dish will invariably suffer. The great chef is one who can multi-task and yet still ensure that each individual task receives his undivided attention when he is performing it.
We had no wine that night – a pity and a crying shame – because there was still work to be done after, and miles to go before we slept. Yet Lo Scalco was a pleasant experience, aided by the fact that we walked in without a reservation. There are precious few restaurants of this quality, especially in New York, where one can do this. It certainly begged questioning, but I suspect that now that the Guide Michelin has awarded it a star; once the Times reviews it the rest of New York will be all over it.
***Footnote: Once again the curse of the commentator strikes - I have been informed that Lo Scalco will be closing its Tribeca location soon. Apparently there is a move on the cards, to a Midtown location, but well. Que sera, sera.
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