DC Coast
1401 K St NW
Washington, DC 20007
202-216-5988
I very often muse to myself that I should have been alive in other decades, and one of my favourites is the Roaring Twenties. Art Deco and the Jazz Age, the Harlem Renaissance and the Lost Generation – I could go on. Last night I had dinner with the always lovely Laura and Amanda at DC Coast, and at fleeting moments throughout the night I felt transported back to the good old days of modernity and mechanisation. It was a strange feeling. At other times I simply exulted in the company of these two good friends – there is nothing quite so relaxing at the dinner table as familiar faces. And even though Laura did her level best to ruin the night with some inappropriate yet hilarious and, strangely, pertinent conversation concerning certain bodily functions, I had a smashing time anyway.
DC Coast is in the heart of downtown DC, and surrounded by tall, concrete office buildings with setbacks – banks and hotels and whatnot built in the style of modern architecture. It is a Saturday night, so there is little bustle on the streets; and a certain quaint and lazy ease in the air almost in defiance of the craziness of the workweek gone by. I walk into the restaurant with Amanda, and it is hard not to have your breath taken away. The room is sprawling and the ceilings soaring, and there are beautiful Beaux-Arts fixtures and arches punctuating the walls. There is a bar to the left of us that stretches the length of the room, and behind it large oval mirrors hang on the walls, making the room look even more impressive than it already is. I felt like one must have in the Gatsby mansion, and resolved to live out the night with the requisite pomp and circumstance.
My pre-dinner drink of choice is the usual Tanqueray and tonic, and the bartender makes it good and stiff. This sells me on the place almost immediately. The service was prompt and personable, and they do not hurry us one whit as we wait for Laura to show up. In fact, throughout the course of the meal the staff that serve us are wonderfully patient and exceedingly quick to accede to all our requests – including a particularly obnoxious one for larger wine glasses, made by a certain individual who shall remain unnamed. They run a pretty tight ship at DC Coast, and I am impressed.
It appears, too, that the kitchen is as competent as the house. Laura and Amanda both start with soups, and I have a shrimp risotto that fills me with food envy, for while the lightness of the risotto was all well and good I secretly craved the spice and splendour that was Amanda’s lobster bisque. I follow that with the yellowfin tuna, seared and cooked to a beautiful rare, with the inside barely warmed. It was paired with cold calamari ceviche, which gave the dish that citrusy tang that complements seafood so well. I looked up in the middle of my meal, surprised to find Amanda holding out her plate across the table – she had cut out a piece of sea scallop and was offering it to me. She is a sweet, sweet girl, and so much of a better person than I am that it embarrasses me.
Dessert is stellar as well – I had a panna cotta that rekindled my infatuation with the vanilla bean. Then we all closed our palate with espressos and I felt very European. It says something that when we finally left the restaurant and went our separate ways, I had little recollection of the nuances of the evening’s conversation – except for Laura’s interesting aside – and even less idea of how much time had passed. Yet it had been a good two and a half hour dinner, and we had seen a couple at the adjacent table come and go.
As we parted and I walked the dinner off en route to yet more shenanigans, I could not help but think about what I like to call the CAV/Mills debate. CAV and Mills Tavern are respectively my two favourite restaurants in Providence, RI from when I used to live there. I like the former because it is an intimate and personal place, the sort of restaurant that nourishes more than it feeds. But I also love the latter, formal and proper and deferential to the notion that cooking is the highest of arts, and should be performed on a stage that gives it its due.
Funny then, that I was at Nora two nights ago, a place that nurtures, that provides, that makes people happy much in the vein of CAV; and then the following night at DC Coast, majestic and thorough and a similar style of restaurant to Mills Tavern. I cannot decide which of these two types of restaurants I like better, and I hope I never have to choose.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
So fresh and so clean
Restaurant Nora
2132 Florida Ave NW
Washington DC 20008
202-462-5143
There are restaurants, and then there are restaurants. This past week marked an annual tradition in DC – Restaurant Week – where a whole litany of otherwise unaffordable eating establishments offer a 3-course prix fixe menu for $30. The downside of this, apart from having to dine with the riffraff, is that there are only so few participating restaurants that put their usual heart and soul into their cooking this week compared to others, and there is every chance you will wind up with a thoroughly unsatisfying meal. Fortunately, there are some who maintain their dedication to gastronomic greatness – Corduroy, for example, offers its full menu for Restaurant Week – and I had the pleasure of dining at just such a place yesterday, the famed Nora.
Nora is, quite frankly, a damned good-looking building; the corner rowhouse at the end of one of many beautiful tree-lined streets in the area. A short ways off the main drag that is Connecticut Ave and nestled on the edge of what I like to call the sleepy side of Dupont Circle, it is muted red brick and looks more like home and hearth than anything else. The inside is made out to look like a stable and is equally lovely. A model airplane hangs from the pine beams that criss-cross the high ceiling, and a collection of Amish quilts are framed and draped on the painted brick walls. Doors lead to steps that lead to more rooms, and people appear from out of nowhere. It is the kind of place that makes you feel like exploring, but puts you too much at ease to start.
I had made this reservation a month and a half ago, so I was understandably excited. Allison, though, was even more so than I. She lives just a couple of blocks away, and as we walked over from her place I had to struggle to keep pace with her. We finally arrive though, right on time for our reservation, and are ushered right to our table. There is a shaded paraffin lamp on the table, and a bottle of olive oil – both lovely touches. When dining with one other, I like to sit at right angles; facing the other person directly always makes me awkward. I continue to fidget throughout the duration of the meal and am calmed only when there is food on the table or wine in my glass; it must have been a sorry sight.
It is so important, in food as in any and all other endeavours, to begin well. And we do, unequivocally. Allison and I both start with the vichyssoise – light and refreshing and quite delicious. There is a slice of something or other in the soup which we find out later is a tuile – French for ‘tile’ – a thin cookie made from wheat or potatoes that is placed over a rounded object when still fresh from the oven. Whatever the case, it is a detail that is much appreciated, as were the efforts of our waitress to find out for us. She was extremely nice, equal parts whimsy and charm and had a smile that made me think of my momma for some reason.
I go on to order the wild mushroom and corn risotto, while Allison has the Atlantic salmon baked in parchment paper. I don’t particularly care for salmon, but I had a bite of hers and the freshness was overwhelming. My own meal was – shockingly, vegetarian – but an explosion of colours and flavours that warmed my heart. I have a long and lovely history with mushroom risotto, from when Morgan first taught me to make it, right through to the days when Jose would bring chanterelles back from his work and we would break out the truffle oil and eat like kings. This, then, was another scenic step in what I am sure will be a lifelong love affair.
Nora’s whole deal – and possibly why the a la carte prices are so high – is that it is dedicated to fresh, local and organic ingredients. It was, as we read, the first restaurant in America to be certified organic – and the cooking certainly let that shine through. Everything we tasted was so good and wholesome and fresh, and to paraphrase something Allison said – made me feel like a better person.
We close out with dessert and I have a coffee to ward off the food coma; the night is young yet, and so are we. As we walk out I cast a glance back to look for our waitress, but I cannot see her anywhere. I am sure, though, that our paths will cross again, for I must certainly return to Nora; and so I am content to save the wave goodbye for the next time we meet, or never, as it were.
2132 Florida Ave NW
Washington DC 20008
202-462-5143
There are restaurants, and then there are restaurants. This past week marked an annual tradition in DC – Restaurant Week – where a whole litany of otherwise unaffordable eating establishments offer a 3-course prix fixe menu for $30. The downside of this, apart from having to dine with the riffraff, is that there are only so few participating restaurants that put their usual heart and soul into their cooking this week compared to others, and there is every chance you will wind up with a thoroughly unsatisfying meal. Fortunately, there are some who maintain their dedication to gastronomic greatness – Corduroy, for example, offers its full menu for Restaurant Week – and I had the pleasure of dining at just such a place yesterday, the famed Nora.
Nora is, quite frankly, a damned good-looking building; the corner rowhouse at the end of one of many beautiful tree-lined streets in the area. A short ways off the main drag that is Connecticut Ave and nestled on the edge of what I like to call the sleepy side of Dupont Circle, it is muted red brick and looks more like home and hearth than anything else. The inside is made out to look like a stable and is equally lovely. A model airplane hangs from the pine beams that criss-cross the high ceiling, and a collection of Amish quilts are framed and draped on the painted brick walls. Doors lead to steps that lead to more rooms, and people appear from out of nowhere. It is the kind of place that makes you feel like exploring, but puts you too much at ease to start.
I had made this reservation a month and a half ago, so I was understandably excited. Allison, though, was even more so than I. She lives just a couple of blocks away, and as we walked over from her place I had to struggle to keep pace with her. We finally arrive though, right on time for our reservation, and are ushered right to our table. There is a shaded paraffin lamp on the table, and a bottle of olive oil – both lovely touches. When dining with one other, I like to sit at right angles; facing the other person directly always makes me awkward. I continue to fidget throughout the duration of the meal and am calmed only when there is food on the table or wine in my glass; it must have been a sorry sight.
It is so important, in food as in any and all other endeavours, to begin well. And we do, unequivocally. Allison and I both start with the vichyssoise – light and refreshing and quite delicious. There is a slice of something or other in the soup which we find out later is a tuile – French for ‘tile’ – a thin cookie made from wheat or potatoes that is placed over a rounded object when still fresh from the oven. Whatever the case, it is a detail that is much appreciated, as were the efforts of our waitress to find out for us. She was extremely nice, equal parts whimsy and charm and had a smile that made me think of my momma for some reason.
I go on to order the wild mushroom and corn risotto, while Allison has the Atlantic salmon baked in parchment paper. I don’t particularly care for salmon, but I had a bite of hers and the freshness was overwhelming. My own meal was – shockingly, vegetarian – but an explosion of colours and flavours that warmed my heart. I have a long and lovely history with mushroom risotto, from when Morgan first taught me to make it, right through to the days when Jose would bring chanterelles back from his work and we would break out the truffle oil and eat like kings. This, then, was another scenic step in what I am sure will be a lifelong love affair.
Nora’s whole deal – and possibly why the a la carte prices are so high – is that it is dedicated to fresh, local and organic ingredients. It was, as we read, the first restaurant in America to be certified organic – and the cooking certainly let that shine through. Everything we tasted was so good and wholesome and fresh, and to paraphrase something Allison said – made me feel like a better person.
We close out with dessert and I have a coffee to ward off the food coma; the night is young yet, and so are we. As we walk out I cast a glance back to look for our waitress, but I cannot see her anywhere. I am sure, though, that our paths will cross again, for I must certainly return to Nora; and so I am content to save the wave goodbye for the next time we meet, or never, as it were.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Letter from Portugal
Aug 13, 2006
It finally happened. I have had my dose of tripe.
There are two kinds of tripe and two kinds of people. In terms of people there are, as you so cleverly put, Fools for offal and people who wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole. I think that I am in the former, not because I like it, but because I like the idea of liking it. There are, of course, some offal all-stars: sweetbreads and foie gras are as close to my heart as my lungs. In terms of tripe there is feathered and honeycomb. I can't tell you exactly where they come from in a pig's intestines but I know that I was eating honeycomb.
North Portugal and Porto particularly are famously known as "Tripe Eaters", ever since they gave all their pork to Henry the Navigator for a voyage in 1415, keeping only tripe for themselves. One realises very quickly in Portugal that the menu options can be pretty limited: grilled or fried salty pieces of meat and fish with potatoes and rice, maybe some salty lettuce. Before long you begin to look at a menu and to say "I haven't heard of that one before." Yesterday it was 'Dobrado com feijão branco" which is to say "doubled with white beans" Turned out to be a spicy stew of pork liver, tripe, hot peppers and beans served over rice (two kinds of offal equals doubled in this crazy country).
Delicious! To crown all, I was in a dive restaurant where you got soup, bread, a plate, dessert, wine and coffee for 4.50 Euros. It don't get much better than that.
- Morgan
This arrived in my mailbox last evening and was warmly welcomed. At that very moment I had other foods on my mind – people were coming over and I was in the midst of grilling a curried pork shoulder – but it nevertheless simultaneously excited me and gave me cause for lament. Granted, I am not looking hard enough, but I have yet to find my own butcher or meat market here in the District. Eastern Market will do in a pinch; but what I really crave is a butcher shop right down the street from me that I can stop by every day on my way home from work, get whatever cuts of meat or entrails catch my fancy and bring it home wrapped in yesterday’s paper.
Tripe is a difficult thing to like, and as Morgan puts it – much easier to like for the idea of liking it. I may have started out that way myself. Now I can honestly say, though, that I do like it. Like other offal, it is a unique and complex flavour; and a particularly feisty one that requires a certain culinary expertise to tame. I did not grow up an adventurous eater, but that has changed somewhat. Some things remain off the list though – I was once served chicken heart in a churrascaria and could not bring myself to physically put it in my mouth. I still do not think that I can today, either.
The last time I had tripe was at that bastion of New York Italian restaurants – Felidia in midtown. It was perhaps a different meal from Morgan's homely €4.50 dinner in the land of port, but I must say that I particularly enjoyed it. Felidia has a classical elegance, yet remains convivial, hospitable and all things heart-warming – much like that rare breed of graceful women with the uncanny ability to make everybody in the room feel at ease. My primo was superlative – a maccheroni chitarra with clams and speck tossed lightly in a spring onion pesto flavoured with borage. I did not know it at the time, but borage is a medicinal herb also known as starflower – with a sweet honey-like taste – and it rounded out the dish perfectly.
Then I had the tripe, a simple trippa alla romana – with tomato and pecarino romano – complemented with polenta. It was homage to the history of tripe: the food of the working classes given its place on the flashy, fickle stage that is haute cuisine. The thing about tripe is that I can never eat too much of it at one go. Tripe has a hearty, almost obnoxious, taste that overwhelms the palate and demands undivided attention. It knocks me over. It wears me out. I was a broken man at the end of that meal – senses overloaded, appetite exhausted – but a contented one regardless.
Of all the offal there is to eat, tripe may be one of the lesser lights. Liver in general is ridiculously good, foie gras unbelievable of course. Bull’s tongue is surprisingly delicious and delicate. And there are some among my immediate circle of friends I would kill just for sweetbread. The list goes on. But that night at Felidia I washed the tripe down with a robust Italian red and, despite wearing me out so, it made me happy and courageous enough to smile at the lovely lady at the adjacent table with the brown hair and the green eyes.
It finally happened. I have had my dose of tripe.
There are two kinds of tripe and two kinds of people. In terms of people there are, as you so cleverly put, Fools for offal and people who wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole. I think that I am in the former, not because I like it, but because I like the idea of liking it. There are, of course, some offal all-stars: sweetbreads and foie gras are as close to my heart as my lungs. In terms of tripe there is feathered and honeycomb. I can't tell you exactly where they come from in a pig's intestines but I know that I was eating honeycomb.
North Portugal and Porto particularly are famously known as "Tripe Eaters", ever since they gave all their pork to Henry the Navigator for a voyage in 1415, keeping only tripe for themselves. One realises very quickly in Portugal that the menu options can be pretty limited: grilled or fried salty pieces of meat and fish with potatoes and rice, maybe some salty lettuce. Before long you begin to look at a menu and to say "I haven't heard of that one before." Yesterday it was 'Dobrado com feijão branco" which is to say "doubled with white beans" Turned out to be a spicy stew of pork liver, tripe, hot peppers and beans served over rice (two kinds of offal equals doubled in this crazy country).
Delicious! To crown all, I was in a dive restaurant where you got soup, bread, a plate, dessert, wine and coffee for 4.50 Euros. It don't get much better than that.
- Morgan
This arrived in my mailbox last evening and was warmly welcomed. At that very moment I had other foods on my mind – people were coming over and I was in the midst of grilling a curried pork shoulder – but it nevertheless simultaneously excited me and gave me cause for lament. Granted, I am not looking hard enough, but I have yet to find my own butcher or meat market here in the District. Eastern Market will do in a pinch; but what I really crave is a butcher shop right down the street from me that I can stop by every day on my way home from work, get whatever cuts of meat or entrails catch my fancy and bring it home wrapped in yesterday’s paper.
Tripe is a difficult thing to like, and as Morgan puts it – much easier to like for the idea of liking it. I may have started out that way myself. Now I can honestly say, though, that I do like it. Like other offal, it is a unique and complex flavour; and a particularly feisty one that requires a certain culinary expertise to tame. I did not grow up an adventurous eater, but that has changed somewhat. Some things remain off the list though – I was once served chicken heart in a churrascaria and could not bring myself to physically put it in my mouth. I still do not think that I can today, either.
The last time I had tripe was at that bastion of New York Italian restaurants – Felidia in midtown. It was perhaps a different meal from Morgan's homely €4.50 dinner in the land of port, but I must say that I particularly enjoyed it. Felidia has a classical elegance, yet remains convivial, hospitable and all things heart-warming – much like that rare breed of graceful women with the uncanny ability to make everybody in the room feel at ease. My primo was superlative – a maccheroni chitarra with clams and speck tossed lightly in a spring onion pesto flavoured with borage. I did not know it at the time, but borage is a medicinal herb also known as starflower – with a sweet honey-like taste – and it rounded out the dish perfectly.
Then I had the tripe, a simple trippa alla romana – with tomato and pecarino romano – complemented with polenta. It was homage to the history of tripe: the food of the working classes given its place on the flashy, fickle stage that is haute cuisine. The thing about tripe is that I can never eat too much of it at one go. Tripe has a hearty, almost obnoxious, taste that overwhelms the palate and demands undivided attention. It knocks me over. It wears me out. I was a broken man at the end of that meal – senses overloaded, appetite exhausted – but a contented one regardless.
Of all the offal there is to eat, tripe may be one of the lesser lights. Liver in general is ridiculously good, foie gras unbelievable of course. Bull’s tongue is surprisingly delicious and delicate. And there are some among my immediate circle of friends I would kill just for sweetbread. The list goes on. But that night at Felidia I washed the tripe down with a robust Italian red and, despite wearing me out so, it made me happy and courageous enough to smile at the lovely lady at the adjacent table with the brown hair and the green eyes.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to
It gives my friend Reed a certain perverse pleasure to see her name in print on this page, and since I love and hate her as dearly as I love and hate myself, I afford her that luxury probably more often than is healthy. For truly, the self-indulgence of an internet soapbox does have its perks.
(I am convinced that blogging is a phenomenon that has arisen in equal parts due to our generation’s unshakeable conviction that we each have something that the world should listen to, and a corresponding waning inclination to listen to what others have to say. I mean, I only started this blog because my friends wouldn’t read my emails to them.)
But I digress. What I meant to say was, Reed visited me in the nation’s capital a while back and among the other dining establishments we went to was a brunch place on the U Street Corridor called Crème. I will write about this place some day, but what I like about it is first, that it serves the Velvet Swing – in my opinion the best Sunday morning hair-of-the-dog Champagne cocktail but one that precious few bartenders know how to make – and second, that it serves fried chicken for brunch. On top of waffles. Genius – pure, unadulterated genius.
So anyway that in turn got me thinking about dishes that I would serve or eat at any given time in the day; and the one thing I realised after way too much time and effort spent ruminating is that anytime, anywhere, you can always serve potatoes lyonnaise. What I mean to say is that I don’t think this humble (side)dish gets the credit it deserves. It is easy to make and such a great foil for everything: so comforting in its rustic charm, so understated and yet so, so satisfying. Here is how I make it.
Chez 1734 Potatoes Lyonnaise
(I usually make a potato per person, this serving is for 2)
2 large potatoes, cut into bite-sized chunks
1 large onion, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
crumbled thyme
healthy dash of paprika
dash of cayenne
dash of Old Bay
considered splash of chicken stock
large knob of butter
s/p
Preheat oven to 350F. In an ovenproof skillet, melt half the butter and then add garlic and onions. Season with thyme and cook on medium heat till onions begin to caramelize, about 8-10 minutes. One of the first things I learnt in my culinary education - which I accredit to Morgan and has stayed with me ever since - is how goddamn amazing onions and thyme smell when cooked together. I make it a point to always lean into the skillet, close my eyes, and inhale slowly.
Add potato chunks and the rest of the butter, then salt and pepper the mixture HEAVILY. The greatest crime ever visited on the humble potato is under-salting; the second greatest – Dan Quayle’s gross misspelling of the word itself. Season the potatoes with the paprika, cayenne and Old Bay and sauté until the potato chunks start to turn golden brown on the edges, again about 8-10 minutes. Add the chicken stock, combine, and then move the skillet to the oven. Cook at 350F for 30 minutes or until potatoes are at desired consistency – I personally like them to keep their shape but break apart into a mushy mess at the slight touch of a fork.
The best part? In the 30 minutes that you are waiting for this to cook, you have all the time in the world to make a main dish. I made this for dinner the other night and had it with steak nue, which is what I like to call steak grilled without any adornment, just salted and peppered at the dining table. I wanted to open a bottle of wine but Clayton said he would not drink any and it was the worst news I had heard all day.
(I am convinced that blogging is a phenomenon that has arisen in equal parts due to our generation’s unshakeable conviction that we each have something that the world should listen to, and a corresponding waning inclination to listen to what others have to say. I mean, I only started this blog because my friends wouldn’t read my emails to them.)
But I digress. What I meant to say was, Reed visited me in the nation’s capital a while back and among the other dining establishments we went to was a brunch place on the U Street Corridor called Crème. I will write about this place some day, but what I like about it is first, that it serves the Velvet Swing – in my opinion the best Sunday morning hair-of-the-dog Champagne cocktail but one that precious few bartenders know how to make – and second, that it serves fried chicken for brunch. On top of waffles. Genius – pure, unadulterated genius.
So anyway that in turn got me thinking about dishes that I would serve or eat at any given time in the day; and the one thing I realised after way too much time and effort spent ruminating is that anytime, anywhere, you can always serve potatoes lyonnaise. What I mean to say is that I don’t think this humble (side)dish gets the credit it deserves. It is easy to make and such a great foil for everything: so comforting in its rustic charm, so understated and yet so, so satisfying. Here is how I make it.
Chez 1734 Potatoes Lyonnaise
(I usually make a potato per person, this serving is for 2)
2 large potatoes, cut into bite-sized chunks
1 large onion, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
crumbled thyme
healthy dash of paprika
dash of cayenne
dash of Old Bay
considered splash of chicken stock
large knob of butter
s/p
Preheat oven to 350F. In an ovenproof skillet, melt half the butter and then add garlic and onions. Season with thyme and cook on medium heat till onions begin to caramelize, about 8-10 minutes. One of the first things I learnt in my culinary education - which I accredit to Morgan and has stayed with me ever since - is how goddamn amazing onions and thyme smell when cooked together. I make it a point to always lean into the skillet, close my eyes, and inhale slowly.
Add potato chunks and the rest of the butter, then salt and pepper the mixture HEAVILY. The greatest crime ever visited on the humble potato is under-salting; the second greatest – Dan Quayle’s gross misspelling of the word itself. Season the potatoes with the paprika, cayenne and Old Bay and sauté until the potato chunks start to turn golden brown on the edges, again about 8-10 minutes. Add the chicken stock, combine, and then move the skillet to the oven. Cook at 350F for 30 minutes or until potatoes are at desired consistency – I personally like them to keep their shape but break apart into a mushy mess at the slight touch of a fork.
The best part? In the 30 minutes that you are waiting for this to cook, you have all the time in the world to make a main dish. I made this for dinner the other night and had it with steak nue, which is what I like to call steak grilled without any adornment, just salted and peppered at the dining table. I wanted to open a bottle of wine but Clayton said he would not drink any and it was the worst news I had heard all day.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
It's a friend thing, friends are everywhere
Stella
1525 Washington St
Boston, MA 02118
617-247-7747
Worlds colliding is always a tricky thing, but I keep trying to orchestrate it because it is so hard to meet good people these days that it seems unjust not to try to bring said good people together. And so it was that I had dinner on Saturday night in Boston with Reed and Margaret and Sarah – each a wonderful friend from a different time in my life. Dinner was delightful: if there was any tension at the table I was most certainly oblivious to it – I am after all not the most sensitive of souls, and particularly not when there is good food to be eaten and good (enough) wine to be drunk.
I must confess that I was not initially impressed by Stella – I had a glass of very ordinary Tempranillo at the bar, and am also generally not a huge fan of the white-on-white, South Beach mod look with clean lines and back-lighting and lots of vertical space. Let’s just say that I have never eaten good food off of a Philippe Starck table. But the staff was charming and pleasant, and the bartender as cute as a button. I have somewhat of a thing for bartenders: for at the risk of sounding misogynistic I must ask, what manner of woman could be better than one who brings you alcohol? So I held off judgment on the place, and basked instead in the company of these dear friends from whom I have been separated not by choice but by circumstance.
As a primo I had linguini in an asparagus cream sauce infused with truffle and thyme, served with a poached egg. It was, to the chef’s credit, a very light dish – almost too light, for it left me craving a stronger hint of truffle. (Apparently Reed and Margaret – gourmet convenience cooks that they are – are exponents of the pasta-and-egg combination. I shudder to think what other atrocities have been served in the halls of 17 Pitman. Margaret has never cooked for me, but I have seen a picture of her making pasta – so she can and does cook, that much I know. I liked that picture because both Margaret and the pasta looked extremely delicious.)
But my secondo was fabulous – a spicy cioppino with mussels and shrimp and cod and potatoes, the latter being a very rustic Portuguese touch, I feel. It was almost the perfect consistency, with the various bits of seafood still maintaining their structure and texture – not cooked to death, as is the danger when making stews. To explain, cioppino is a fish stew with Mediterranean influences that apparently originated on the shores of California thanks to Genovese fishermen – much in the style of bouillabaisse, but earthier and cooked for a shorter period of time. Seafood is all so tasty that I can never make up my mind what to eat, and cioppino removes that dilemma altogether. This is also why I am a fan of other stew-type dishes like cassoulet and bouillabaisse and étouffée. I mean, the words themselves make my mouth water.
Reed got a pork Milanese that she took literally two bites of and then had packed to go. It looked mighty fine and had I been able to stuff anything else in my mouth I would certainly have tried to make a go of finishing it for her. I cannot eat like I used to anymore, and it pains me - for the one requisite for any serious gourmand is, of course, a healthy appetite.
So Stella was a nice surprise – a see-and-be-seen place with food that is surprisingly more than decent and prices that are more than reasonable. The various regional dishes do approximate quite admirably the Italian cuisines they are meant to evoke, and our waiter’s endearing earnestness was quite charming indeed. Curiously enough, his name according to the receipt was also Jason H, so we left him a good tip and went off to ply ourselves with more alcohol elsewhere.
1525 Washington St
Boston, MA 02118
617-247-7747
Worlds colliding is always a tricky thing, but I keep trying to orchestrate it because it is so hard to meet good people these days that it seems unjust not to try to bring said good people together. And so it was that I had dinner on Saturday night in Boston with Reed and Margaret and Sarah – each a wonderful friend from a different time in my life. Dinner was delightful: if there was any tension at the table I was most certainly oblivious to it – I am after all not the most sensitive of souls, and particularly not when there is good food to be eaten and good (enough) wine to be drunk.
I must confess that I was not initially impressed by Stella – I had a glass of very ordinary Tempranillo at the bar, and am also generally not a huge fan of the white-on-white, South Beach mod look with clean lines and back-lighting and lots of vertical space. Let’s just say that I have never eaten good food off of a Philippe Starck table. But the staff was charming and pleasant, and the bartender as cute as a button. I have somewhat of a thing for bartenders: for at the risk of sounding misogynistic I must ask, what manner of woman could be better than one who brings you alcohol? So I held off judgment on the place, and basked instead in the company of these dear friends from whom I have been separated not by choice but by circumstance.
As a primo I had linguini in an asparagus cream sauce infused with truffle and thyme, served with a poached egg. It was, to the chef’s credit, a very light dish – almost too light, for it left me craving a stronger hint of truffle. (Apparently Reed and Margaret – gourmet convenience cooks that they are – are exponents of the pasta-and-egg combination. I shudder to think what other atrocities have been served in the halls of 17 Pitman. Margaret has never cooked for me, but I have seen a picture of her making pasta – so she can and does cook, that much I know. I liked that picture because both Margaret and the pasta looked extremely delicious.)
But my secondo was fabulous – a spicy cioppino with mussels and shrimp and cod and potatoes, the latter being a very rustic Portuguese touch, I feel. It was almost the perfect consistency, with the various bits of seafood still maintaining their structure and texture – not cooked to death, as is the danger when making stews. To explain, cioppino is a fish stew with Mediterranean influences that apparently originated on the shores of California thanks to Genovese fishermen – much in the style of bouillabaisse, but earthier and cooked for a shorter period of time. Seafood is all so tasty that I can never make up my mind what to eat, and cioppino removes that dilemma altogether. This is also why I am a fan of other stew-type dishes like cassoulet and bouillabaisse and étouffée. I mean, the words themselves make my mouth water.
Reed got a pork Milanese that she took literally two bites of and then had packed to go. It looked mighty fine and had I been able to stuff anything else in my mouth I would certainly have tried to make a go of finishing it for her. I cannot eat like I used to anymore, and it pains me - for the one requisite for any serious gourmand is, of course, a healthy appetite.
So Stella was a nice surprise – a see-and-be-seen place with food that is surprisingly more than decent and prices that are more than reasonable. The various regional dishes do approximate quite admirably the Italian cuisines they are meant to evoke, and our waiter’s endearing earnestness was quite charming indeed. Curiously enough, his name according to the receipt was also Jason H, so we left him a good tip and went off to ply ourselves with more alcohol elsewhere.
Monday, July 17, 2006
The fruit of my labours
It has been over two years now since Jose taught me how to poach pears in wine (the secret is to add however much brown sugar you think is more than enough, and then double it), and since then I have had a colourful history of working with fruit. I make quite a mean magret de canard à l’orange, if I may say so myself. Sweet and savoury can be a potent combination – delicious when you get it right, and disastrous if not. Once every so often the wind blows in the right direction, the stars align and the gods smile on me, and I blunder my way into making a meal fit for a king.
I mention fruit because Jeff recently forwarded me a picture he had taken almost exactly a year ago of the swordfish steaks I’d made one night when we were both still living at 1721 T. It was a good meal, and thoroughly enjoyable. Apart from giving me a rush of nostalgia (it is hard to believe I have spent a year in the District, I guess days – and nights – pass by fast when you spend such a large part of them drinking your face off), the photograph also reminded me of all the fruits that are just now in season. So many fruity dishes to make, so little time. And perhaps more unfortunately, precious few good people to make them for.
Pan Seared Swordfish Steaks in Tomato buerre-blanc with Mango Salsa
2 swordfish steaks
Juice of 1 lemon
Juice of 3 limes
1 tbsp sherry vinegar
Half a handful of cilantro
1 red onion, diced
4 cluster tomatoes, diced
1 large mango, diced
1 cup dry white wine
butter
Salt and pepper the steaks, then drizzle generously with lemon juice and set aside. Meanwhile, whisk the lime juice and sherry vinegar into an emulsion and combine with the red onion, three-quarters of the tomatoes, the mango and the cilantro. Refrigerate the salsa and the steaks for at least two hours. When ready to eat, sear the steaks in a pan on both sides till browned, then add white wine and the remainder of the tomatoes. Cook the liquid down, braising the steaks in the process. When steaks are done, remove and cook sauce down to desired consistency. Monter au buerre and plate the sauce, swordfish and salsa – in that order.
I mention fruit because Jeff recently forwarded me a picture he had taken almost exactly a year ago of the swordfish steaks I’d made one night when we were both still living at 1721 T. It was a good meal, and thoroughly enjoyable. Apart from giving me a rush of nostalgia (it is hard to believe I have spent a year in the District, I guess days – and nights – pass by fast when you spend such a large part of them drinking your face off), the photograph also reminded me of all the fruits that are just now in season. So many fruity dishes to make, so little time. And perhaps more unfortunately, precious few good people to make them for.
Pan Seared Swordfish Steaks in Tomato buerre-blanc with Mango Salsa
2 swordfish steaks
Juice of 1 lemon
Juice of 3 limes
1 tbsp sherry vinegar
Half a handful of cilantro
1 red onion, diced
4 cluster tomatoes, diced
1 large mango, diced
1 cup dry white wine
butter
Salt and pepper the steaks, then drizzle generously with lemon juice and set aside. Meanwhile, whisk the lime juice and sherry vinegar into an emulsion and combine with the red onion, three-quarters of the tomatoes, the mango and the cilantro. Refrigerate the salsa and the steaks for at least two hours. When ready to eat, sear the steaks in a pan on both sides till browned, then add white wine and the remainder of the tomatoes. Cook the liquid down, braising the steaks in the process. When steaks are done, remove and cook sauce down to desired consistency. Monter au buerre and plate the sauce, swordfish and salsa – in that order.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Surf and Turf, or an Ode to the Oyster
Hank's Oyster Bar
1624 Q St NW
Washington DC 20009
202-462-4265
Let me just state categorically, that I love eating raw oysters. I love holding the half-shell to my mouth, positioning my oyster fork just thusly, in rude anticipation of a moment of intense enjoyment. I love swallowing them without chewing, unadorned of any dressing, and slurping their juices down. I love the smell and the taste of the sea – never mind that I sometimes find grit in my mouth. It is one of the great pleasures and rituals of dining, and one I find I must perform every once so often.
It is quite convenient, then, to have Hank’s Oyster Bar just a few blocks down from where I live in DC. It is a cute little place with decent food – not amazing – with just enough flaws to render it human, which in turn makes it all the more enticing. More importantly, they have good oysters, the selection of which changes daily. Hank’s is also one of only two establishments on 17th St where the food is anywhere near acceptable, which – coupled with the delightful hostess Maya – might explain why I am there so often. The delicious irony of it all (pardon the pun), is that the other place on 17th St that is halfway decent is Komi, which in my humble opinion is the best restaurant in DC bar none, and a pearl amidst the swirling cesspool of gastronomic mediocrity that is Dupont Circle’s most famous street.
So Hank’s it was, where Natalia, Clayton and I went last night to get our (or rather just mine) oyster fix. They did not have Blue Points, but they did have Kumamotos; and I got a half dozen of those, which were gone in as many seconds. I lie, actually. We did pause, in recognition of the efforts of the oyster-shucker working tirelessly at the back to give us this day our wonderful oysters. And then we went right back at them.
For dinner, Clayton ordered a steak, which I, at least on the inside, frowned upon. I mean, everybody – apart from Clayton, apparently – knows the seventeenth cardinal rule of dining out: that seafood at a steakhouse is always decent, but steak at a seafood place can never be good. But I exercised what little restraint I was born with and held my tongue; the moment was far too genial for my caustic comments. I never did try the steak, so I cannot say for sure – but Clayton seemed to enjoy it. Although he is from Texas. And with that, I rest my case.
Perhaps the best thing you can do with seafood, I think, is to use Old Bay on it. I do not know what goes into it, and I do not want to know. What I do know, though, is that it is delicious. It’s almost cheating, even. We tried the Old Bay French fries and the Old Bay shrimp – and all I will say is that one can always tell when food is good whenever it makes you drop your fork along with whatever Old World sensibilities you were brought up to have, and ravage it with your bare hands.
Hank’s Oyster Bar is a wonderful little place – something or other about it always effuses you and fills you with love for your common man. Or perhaps that’s really the numerous rounds of beers talking. Whatever the case, it is the kind of restaurant that you see couples on first dates at – and your first instinct is not to feel sorry for their awkwardness, but happy for their courage. We departed late into the night – with big hugs all round – and stumbled home with silly smiles on our faces.
1624 Q St NW
Washington DC 20009
202-462-4265
Let me just state categorically, that I love eating raw oysters. I love holding the half-shell to my mouth, positioning my oyster fork just thusly, in rude anticipation of a moment of intense enjoyment. I love swallowing them without chewing, unadorned of any dressing, and slurping their juices down. I love the smell and the taste of the sea – never mind that I sometimes find grit in my mouth. It is one of the great pleasures and rituals of dining, and one I find I must perform every once so often.
It is quite convenient, then, to have Hank’s Oyster Bar just a few blocks down from where I live in DC. It is a cute little place with decent food – not amazing – with just enough flaws to render it human, which in turn makes it all the more enticing. More importantly, they have good oysters, the selection of which changes daily. Hank’s is also one of only two establishments on 17th St where the food is anywhere near acceptable, which – coupled with the delightful hostess Maya – might explain why I am there so often. The delicious irony of it all (pardon the pun), is that the other place on 17th St that is halfway decent is Komi, which in my humble opinion is the best restaurant in DC bar none, and a pearl amidst the swirling cesspool of gastronomic mediocrity that is Dupont Circle’s most famous street.
So Hank’s it was, where Natalia, Clayton and I went last night to get our (or rather just mine) oyster fix. They did not have Blue Points, but they did have Kumamotos; and I got a half dozen of those, which were gone in as many seconds. I lie, actually. We did pause, in recognition of the efforts of the oyster-shucker working tirelessly at the back to give us this day our wonderful oysters. And then we went right back at them.
For dinner, Clayton ordered a steak, which I, at least on the inside, frowned upon. I mean, everybody – apart from Clayton, apparently – knows the seventeenth cardinal rule of dining out: that seafood at a steakhouse is always decent, but steak at a seafood place can never be good. But I exercised what little restraint I was born with and held my tongue; the moment was far too genial for my caustic comments. I never did try the steak, so I cannot say for sure – but Clayton seemed to enjoy it. Although he is from Texas. And with that, I rest my case.
Perhaps the best thing you can do with seafood, I think, is to use Old Bay on it. I do not know what goes into it, and I do not want to know. What I do know, though, is that it is delicious. It’s almost cheating, even. We tried the Old Bay French fries and the Old Bay shrimp – and all I will say is that one can always tell when food is good whenever it makes you drop your fork along with whatever Old World sensibilities you were brought up to have, and ravage it with your bare hands.
Hank’s Oyster Bar is a wonderful little place – something or other about it always effuses you and fills you with love for your common man. Or perhaps that’s really the numerous rounds of beers talking. Whatever the case, it is the kind of restaurant that you see couples on first dates at – and your first instinct is not to feel sorry for their awkwardness, but happy for their courage. We departed late into the night – with big hugs all round – and stumbled home with silly smiles on our faces.
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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