Aug 2
As far as ballsy and stupid, I kind of prefer the man who met a woman in an Olive Garden parking lot (sounds more like a casual encounter than a legitimate date, though I know little about the mating rituals in Fort Walton Beach, Florida) only to rob her and spend the money in the Olive Garden.
She claims it was $90, he says $50. Either way, that’s a lot of breadsticks.
Bold turquoise with turrets, white trim and jaunty stripes like a birthday cake of wood and shingles, as popular with men in bowties as with visitors flaunting the jackets preferred rule (purposely or not, I'm not sure), Commander's Palace is exactly the type of Tavern on the Green restaurant I avoided on my previous two visits to New Orleans. Now older and more nuanced, I can respect frippery. My last trip in 2004 I stayed at loft 523; this time, Le Pavillon, where I'm still marveling over a fireplace being employed in sweat-drenching July to evoke grandness, air conditioning bills be damned.
And the food wasn’t bad. It’s way over the top, though. When people ask, “What was the food like in New Orleans?” I think of this appetizer. The brunch includes a starter, entrée and dessert. I only ate this last weekend and I’ve forgotten the exact components because the fat clouded my brain (or maybe all those sazeracs caught up with me).
It was all a bloody mary-fueled blur of creamy, starchy foundations, eggs and multiple sauces crowned by fried bits. What I distinctly remember is that the hollandaise is made with bacon fat! Take that. And I did (which is why I’m trying to eat light and fresh as possible during August—I need to lay low nutritionally so I can overindulge again while in San Francisco over Labor Day). There is also cheesy garlic bread served with more butter.
That would’ve been plenty, but the main dish was still to come. Shrimp and goat cheese grits. What I wasn’t expecting were the mild hoisin and ginger flavors.
Eggs cochon de lait—a signature brunch dish—hits all the decadent notes, and hard: suckling pig “debris,” gravy, flaky biscuits, poached eggs and…bourbon-bacon fat hollandaise. I couldn’t even try one bite of this because my shrimp and grits had knocked me into a savory stupor.
I rarely order dessert anymore. Declining isn’t an option at Commander’s Palace, though. If I am going to do a sweet course, New Orleans is the place to do it because they showcase my favorite flavors. I’ll always choose nutty and caramelly over chocolatey or fruity. Ok, there was chocolate in this pecan pie, but it was all about the buttery goo and the fleur de sel caramel sauce added just enough dimension to keep me from dutifully eating one bite and calling it a day.
The balloons in the garden room (definitely worth requesting for the tree house effect) weren’t for a party. It’s always a party at Commander’s Palace. The roving jazz trio played “Happy Birthday” twice, and I didn’t have the heart to make them play it a third when they asked if I had any requests. I’m afraid that I came across New York brusque when I said no, but it was more a matter of having no idea what would be appropriate to ask for. After they broke into “Blue Skies” I had a better idea of their repertoire.
Commander's Palace * 1403 Washington Ave., New Orleans, LA
Ok, tenth anniversaries aren't exactly the same as marriage proposals, but I take my rings embedded in food where I can find them. Teresa, one of the lovely housewives of New Jersey was presented a yellow diamond tucked into a chocolate molten cake. It's somehow fitting that one of the most classy demonstrations of affection comes right along with one of the most classy* desserts.
Also, I was a little disappointed that an elaborate proposal took place right at Williamsburg's newish Loreley, and food wasn't employed in any fashion. Bratwursts are ideal ring delivery vehicles.
*Such a troubled word. My favorite reporter question when I briefly worked as a librarian at the New York Post was, "Is mahogany a classy wood?" I'm still not sure.
I didn't sense a large chain restaurant presence at Tales of the Cocktail. In fact, the only one that seemed to participating in any of the programs was Bonefish Grill. Fortuitous, because they are one of my favorites.
"Bonefish Grill’s Search for the Best Cocktail Featuring a New Spirit" wasn't really for the public (I did poke my head in) or for the average bartender (I just can't say mixologist). The competition was for liquor brands that had been launched within the past year to come up with a cocktail to be featured on Bonefish's menu.
And that's the twisted thing about my relationship to Bonefish Grill. Highly suburban, the seafood chain (whose nearest location, Secaucus, is eight miles from my apartment—I prefer to drive the 17 miles to Iselin) "invites guests to enjoy a 'big city bar' in their own backyards."
Yet, I live a short subway ride away from Manhattan's cocktail heavy hitters like this year's best cocktail bar in the country, Death & Co., and walking distance to Clover Club (also a nominee). There is no shortage of $12+ beverages using herbs, tinctures and homemade bitters in my environs.
The weekend before last, I took advantage of my free Bang Bang Shrimp birthday gift card in East Brunswick and was looking forward to some of their oddly priced $6.90 cocktails. I wouldn't necessarily call a list of martinis, all but one of the 12 sweet and/or fruity, "big city," though. Second-tier city?
I do see what they're going for. My Bee's Knees Martini was flavored with honey and lemon juice and garnished with a basil leaf. They'd only need to lose the martini glass and swap gin for the vodka to get something more appropriately old-timey and historic. But of course, fedoras, moustaches and suspenders aren't exactly de rigueur in Witchita or Boise (at least I hope not). Bonefish states that they are "blending our country's rich cocktail history with inventive, modern twists." They know their audience.
Square One Botanical Spirit, a vodka made from organic American rye and infused with "pear, rose, chamomile, lemon verbena, lavender, rosemary, coriander and citrus peel," won their sponsored contest. The winning cocktail, however, wasn't announced. I'd love to know what it is and I'd order one even though it will likely be sweet and fruity.
I'm off to New Orleans for a long weekend because, you know, it's just not disgustingly hot and humid enough here for my taste. I'm going sort of to attend some Tales of the Cocktail events, sort of to eat (will there be edible oysters and shrimp) and sort of to celbrate my birthday even though I'm coming back Sunday, the day of.
In the interim, check out my latest International Fast Food column about Nooi, a new French pasta chain. Vapiano, the new German pasta chain, is also in my sights. I don't even like pasta that much, but I've got to see what these foreigners are up to.
I now understand the fear of the unknown and how it drives suburbanites to chain restaurants. It's one thing if you live in a metropolis rife with thriving unique eateries or dwell in a cutesey smaller city like Portland (my favorite whipping boy) where the indie ethos is pervasive. Local is likely better. But when franchises are the norm, as with most of the New Jersey townships within an hour's drive from NYC, non-chains can be a scary prospect. Just what are you getting yourself into?
For years, I've had a fondness for the US Route 1 corridor spanning Linden to Edison. There is not a single mall store or chain restaurant you can't find along this strip. I particularly like the northern chunk just off the Goethals Bridge because it reminds me of 82nd Street in Portland, or at least the 82nd Street of my youth.
I intentionally drove along it all the way to Clackamas Town Center last Labor Day weekend instead of taking the freeway (I love saying freeway, not turnpike, expressway, parkway. It's free!) and it still appeared to be a blur of car dealerships, taverns, motels, thrift stores, vendors selling rugs out of vans. No gentrification yet (Portlanders aren't so desperate and crushed by rent prices to expand the borders of acceptable neighborhoods into the hinterlands—right before I moved to NYC I lived on 55th and Glisan and that was really pushing it, 39th being the invisible line between cool/uncool neighborhoods) just new unexpected businesses like a drive-thru banh mi shop.
Along this multi-laned road sits Bud's Hut, a sullen, windowless, dark wood anomaly that would be just at home in the Pacific Northwest. Its impenetrability implies bar or something more illicit, but it's advertised as family friendly. In the three-second glimpse I get in the passenger seat, there never appears to be many cars in the parking lot. There is no hint that it's a dive harboring a specialty like Rutt's Hut, the better known New Jersey establishment sharing half a moniker. In this era of user-generated content, not a single peep online only made me more suspicious. A restaurant untouched by Yelpers and Foursquarers? I'd have to take matters into my own hands the old fashioned way.
Saturday at 9pm James and I met up with three others that I'd coerced into solving the Bud's Hut mystery. It actually wasn't all that mysterious, as a member of this party only lives a few towns over and had been before, some time ago (and got food poisoning).
The décor was more nautical than I'd anticipated from a hut, a little '70s colonial with firm sweepable carpet, faux Tiffany lamps and boats and ships galore. Not seedy, just faded.
Only two other tables were occupied in the dining room and soon enough we had the place to ourselves. Our friendly waitress, who was as interested in the new Dee Snider reality show as we were, announced, "You can be as rowdy as you want now." After a few glasses of Yellowtail Shiraz, I was getting there. And really, Bud's Hut is probably better suited for drinking. The bar and outdoor patio still had decent crowds when we left.
The menu is based on favorites: steak, seafood…and a bloomin' onion with Italian-American staples like chicken parmesan and linguini with clam sauce (I think that's actually angel hair pasta). Garlic crabs, another New Jersey Italian thing, were also being advertised but cracking crustaceans is always such a hassle and better suited for the outdoors.
We started with Bud's Triangle, which is to say, a trio: loaded potato skins, mozzarella sticks and chicken fingers just like you'd find at a chain restaurant. Bud's Hut is a little Outback Steakhouse and a little Red Lobster with prices in the same range. They also have a mud slide on the drinks menu, so I'll add a dash of T.G.I. Friday's for good measure.
I had the stuffed shrimp, split and packed with buttery breadcrumbs and crab, and a baked potato with butter and sour cream because that seemed like the thing to do. I only eat baked potatoes in restaurants like this. The only thing missing was the bacon bits.
A steak and seafood combo served on an iron fish-shaped plate.
A bull memorialized in stained glass.
While the latest Best of Central Jersey awards are littered with chains, Bud's Hut appears to have swept a few categories in 2007 and 2008.
The parrot kind of breaks with the maritime theme. He would be more on trend at Cheeseburger in Paradise, a little farther down Rt. 1.
Bud’s Hut * 906 US Rt. 1, Avenel, NJ
The problem with bars that serve food that garner raves is that seats are often a hot commodity. The much yapped about fried chicken and cheeseburger just weren’t going to happen when I popped into The Commodore last week. I’ll have to return at an off hour.
St. Anselm, across the street, was completely the opposite. They had open tables galore because their lack of a liquor license pushes everyone who wants to drink into the shared back garden with Spuyten Duyvil.
I was intrigued and a little intimidated by the initial menu that had been floating around. Meat on meat extremes like bone marrow poppers, foie gras, pierogies and beer battered brains. But in practice, the only oddball item on the blackboard was veal heart jerky. The restaurant has emerged as a full-blown New Jersey junk food joint.
Awesome in a way, but for the third time in very recent history I have been faced with my nemesis, the hotdog. Luckily, there was a World Cup-themed list of sausages to choose from. I went for Spain’s butifarra (not a blood sausage, sadly) served in a simple crusty roll with mustard. Very restrained.
I didn’t think I could handle the Newark dog served with a deep-fried Karl Ehmer frankfurter in addition to another sausage of your choosing, stuffed into pizza bread along with batter-fried pepper and onion strands and a fistful of fries. I ordered one for James, though, and forgot to ask for gravy. We were trying to determine if they meant brown gravy (I’m 99% sure, yes) or “gravy” in the Italian-American sense, meaning marinara. He was so obsessed that he brought his monstrosity back inside and asked for gravy to be added. No can do.
For ages we’ve been meaning to hit up Jimmy Buff’s and all of the classic New Jersey Italian hot dog purveyors on their home tuff. Thanks to Hank Krall’s comprehensive round-up on Serious Eats last week, I feel less urgency for an in-person sampling. My stomach thanks him.
St. Anselm * 355 Metropolitan Ave., Brooklyn, NY
Despite the new Manhattan T.G.I. Friday's already having been open for a few weeks, tomorrow they will host an official ribbon cutting. Also this: "In a nod to the Union Square community and environment, they are also anticipating purchasing various items for seasonal specials from the green market." As long as this seasonal produce is encased in melted cheese, I'm ok with this uncharacteristic move. [press release]
A KFC is opened in China almost every single day. I have eaten at one. [CNN]
That hideous sounding McDonald's strawberry-banana smoothie could reinvigorate the entire smoothie market. [WSJ]
DeMarco's didn’t fare so well in the West Village, but that doesn't mean Dominick DeMarco Jr., son of the Di Fara's master won't try another venture. Dom DeMarco’s Pizzeria & Bar will open this year in Las Vegas, then onto Arizona, Texas and California. [New York Post]
What kind of doughnut shop runs out of doughnuts? My favorite (ok, only) Canadian doughnut chain has been mangled by NYC. It’s for the best that we don’t get a St-Hubert. We’d just sully the brand.
Sunday, a Taco Bell opened in Seoul, and lines were down the block. I had no idea Koreans were so fond of Ameri-Mex fast food. The core menu doesn’t appear to deviate from ours, meaning no Kogi-esque kalbi tacos or kimchi quesadillas. At least they didn’t have to provide a food glossary like in India.
Photo from Chris in South Korea.
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