Posts from the ‘Brooklyn’ Category

Dec 13

Schnitzel Haus

1/2 I’ve never actually eaten a schnitzel at Schnitzel Haus and that’s because the pork shank, a.k.a. schweineshaxe (I can’t believe I’ve been able to use that word twice in a month) is so irresistible. And yes, I’m still doing my part to hype up German food as the new culinary hotness.

Because I was feeling gracious I allowed James to order the pork this time and I branched out with the sauerbraten. This was a dry, boring mistake. While the sauce was tart and meaty and the dumplings were carby fun, the meat was kind of eh. I don’t buy into that death of entrée bullshit but I did get bored after a few bites.

The schweineshaxe was as decadent and crackly as ever, though there was one obvious change from last year’s visit. What used to be the standard size is now listed as a special for twenty-something dollars while the version on the regular menu is a little cheaper, tinier though hardly dainty. I did say that the original shank easily made three servings, so they must’ve wised up.

We tried the smoked trout appetizer, which pretty much tasted like smoked trout. I’m not sure what was in the spread that accompanied it. If I didn’t know better I would say it was cream cheese whipped with horseradish and something sweet like applesauce, though I doubt they actually used applesauce. My only gripe was that you need something starchy with smoked meats (at least I do) and we asked for bread and no one could seem to get around to doing this, despite a breadbasket sitting on everyone else’s tables. Complaining about bread and moderately slow service is very old-lady-ish but I can’t help myself.

On this particular Friday night we were treated to a full band warbling Steely Dan and Jimmy Buffet renditions (more and more it seems that Mr. Buffet is the prime choice for cover bands) and Killepitsch girls (who looked nothing like the model on the brand site) trying to sell promotional shots of herbal liqueur. I was curious, but not $5 curious.

I hear there is a buffet on certain weeknights. You don’t see many, if any, German all-you-can-eat offerings in NYC, and it’s doubtful there’s much demand either. But if unlimited spaetzle and brats are your thing, Bay Ridge is the place to be. (12/12/07)

Keeping it simple with my nymag.com review

Nov 21

Mazzat

Mazzat certainly isn’t going to help re-gentrify Red Hook or that isolated sliver of Carroll Gardens that some call Red Hook. I was excited to see something new show up on Columbia Street earlier this year but the Mediterranean tapas (so says their awning) aren’t really any great shakes. Then again, they’re not horrible either. If the urge for Armenian string cheese and a glass of wine ever strikes when in western Carroll Gardens, you’ll know where to go.

Chicken cigars aren't such a crazy concept, but served with honey mustard?

Don't worry, there's no honey mustard in the hummus.

Soujouk, a crumbly, mildly spicy Armenian sausage with cheese. It's not pretty, but at least it's something you don't typically see at a tapas bar. I also don't think Armenia is Mediterranean–maybe it's one of those Carroll Gardens/Red Hook debates.

Read my Nymag.com review

Mazzat * 208 Columbia St., Brooklyn, NY

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Oct 18

Bocca Lupo

Strangely, I don’t feel like I have much of anything to say about Bocca Lupo because it’s solid, reasonable restaurant that needs no comment from me. (If I were to say anything it would only be relevant to me. And that is that whenever I have the urge to go out to eat, I should wait an extra 30 minutes. You know, kind of like that taking one accessory off before leaving the house trick. Unless visiting a restaurant that’s outer outer borough, it’s guaranteed that I will end up waiting half an hour to be seated, and as soon as I sit down half the room clears out. Bocca Lupo 10pm on a Friday=crowded, Bocca Lupo 10:30pm on a Friday=lots of open tables.)

Bocca Lupo’s on Henry St., I live on Henry St. They serve non-marinara drenched Italian food and stay open until 2am on weekends, both good things. You can order little snacks or more substantial dishes–it’s crazy like that. They’ve been open for almost exactly one year and I have no idea why it took me this long to pay a visit.

Unfortunately, thanks to three glasses of random Sangiovese, and their lack of an online menu, I can’t even cobble together basic details of what I ordered.

Salumi
Why do I only remember the mortadella?

Cheese
Once again, I only remember one specific: the gorgonzola. The unknown soft cheese was my favorite and the candied pecans were a nice touch.

Bruschetta
Sweet peas don’t seem very October but whatever. The green puree was topped with prosciutto. The brown mass on the other bread slices was sausage draped with mild chiles.

Bocca Lupo * 391 Henry St., Brooklyn, NY

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Aug 20

8th Ave. Seafood

1/2 It’s a shame that I don’t get to Sunset Park as much as I used to. I’ll admit that I find Flushing more exciting–Sichuan, Taiwanese and Xinjiang food do more for me than Cantonese or Fujian. Fortunately, an invitation from a few Chowhounds, one with a blog (heavens no, not Restaurant Girl), to try a new (to me) restaurant, 8th Avenue Seafood was the perfect excuse to do a little Brooklyn exploration.

The benefit of group dining is that you can sample more things than usual (I rarely dine with more than one other, perhaps I should sharpen my social skills). Not that I don’t typically order for six anyway (that’s what takeout containers were invented for).

I think of sable as being a deli fish, but it was served in a thick peppery sauce on a sizzling platter here. I liked the oily, heavy and sweetish flavors.

Rich food requires vegetables for balance. We chose two. This is yin choi in “soup.”

And ong choi prepared kind of Malaysian. I’m pretty sure ong choi is water spinach, a popular Malaysian green, so that makes sense. I think there was chile and dried shrimp in this.

A lighter fish was the whole sea bass, simply steamed with scallions and ginger.

I really liked the teeming with odds and ends mei fun. I loved the bits of sweet, pickled cabbage in noodles.

I was imagining a red chile sauce, more paste-like but then remembered that this is Cantonese food. Salt-baked and chiles often mean lightly breaded and scattered with sliced jalapeños. I love the soft shell crabs this way at New York Noodletown but on pork chops it was kind of dull.

Our complimentary treat turned to out to be not so treat-like when I realized the pale green gelatinous fish was melon flavored. Egads, it’s one of my two dreaded M’s (melon and malta). I did eat four or five bites, just to be polite. It was cute, though.

I’m curious to try dim sum at 8th Avenue Seafood because I suspect it’s not as overrun and chaotic as the better known places. I will admit that if there’s one thing I do love about Cantonese food, it’s the dim sum.

8th Avenue Seafood * 4418 8th Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Aug 6

Sidecar

Sidecar and Sunshine, dinner and a movie choices I made Saturday night, both left me with the same message: stick with your original mission. Sunshine I’ll leave nebulous and unspoiled. Sidecar, I’ll explain a bit.

Newly opened restaurants should be approached with caution and patience. But curiosity got the better of me with this South Slope oddity near the Blockbuster and Rent a Center (only the classiest neighborhoods have leather sectionals and plasma TVs on installment plans).

They didn’t have their liquor license yet, which was a minor disappointment because their list of cocktails sounded promising. But I wasn’t too crushed because a BYOB six-pack is a money-saver. We made our first mistake by turning down a weirdo small table in the window that practically had you sitting with the party next to you. We thought we’d wait at the (alcohol-free) bar until something opened up.

The space is high-ceilinged and handsome with de rigeur mid-‘00s hanging filament bulbs. More seating is allotted to drinking than dining which would be fine if there were drinks. And there were people who seemed to be just drinking, which was kind of baffling. Who would hang out a bar not serving drinks, drinking? I guess it’s better than imbibing in your own living room.

We skimmed the menus that were given to us, cracked open a couple Stellas obtained on the corner and figured we’d wait it out. The couple sitting next to us at the bar, who I swear walked in after us, approached the hostess and next thing I knew they were seated. Not cool.

There’s nothing as annoying as being in line at a grocery or drug store when a cashier yells “next” only to have a newcomer walk right up with no one in charge acknowledging who was actually next. I like a tight ship.

As long as we were waiting, we weren’t going to go hungry so we ordered crostini topped with a sweetish pate, served with a mixed salad and a few beet cubes. This is where the stay-the-course plan began falling apart. Our mission was to eat dinner sitting at a table and apparently, we had strayed the second we ordered food from the bar. The place started clearing out and every single person who’d come in after us was now sitting at booths.

Clearly, we’d been brushed off. I realize once you order food at the bar it’s kind of like your request for a table has been cancelled out (though the original couple next to us who were immediately seated had also ordered food at the bar first) but we still had entrees coming and no one else at the bar was eating full meals. At this point there were two empty tables, so we asked once again to be seated (I was either going to walk out or seat myself). You would’ve thought we were Al-Qaeda with the amount of reluctance received. We were given the eye for the remainder or our meal.

So, after about 45 minutes we got a booth and our entrees that I saw sitting on the metal shelf for at least ten minutes. They were looked at and touched numerous times, though no one seemed to have any idea where they were intended to go. It’s not that big of a restaurant for such confusion.

My creative grilled cibatta banh mi (called a banh de, which I am guessing is a play on DeCoursy, the surname of the brother-owners) with a shooter of cucumber juice was likeable. And James didn’t have complaints about his fried chicken, mashed root vegetables and succotash. But the food was all secondary at this point.

I hate service to overshadow a meal and I’m trying to temper knee-jerk harshness but there were glitches I couldn’t get past. It wasn’t Williamsburg-bad, there was a semblance of professionalism but I didn’t care for the way things played out. I wanted to like the place and the components were all there: tasty reasonably priced food, eclectic juke box (The Vaselines and Exploding Hearts were both pleasing) and potentially fun cocktails. Yet nothing gelled.

Sunshine, too, started off with promise before evolving into a horror flick. Sometimes you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into before it’s too late.

Sidecar * 560 Fifth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Jul 31

Clemente’s Maryland Crabhouse

1/2 Convincing thirteen people to endure a lengthy B/Q ride (maybe the B line is the shit—Grub Street was all over it today) then walk a mile in high heat and humidity would seem like a tough sell, but I was lucky enough to coerce a crew out to Clemente’s Crabhouse in Sheepshead Bay on Saturday. I don’t normally do destination birthday parties or group dinners because trauma invariably ensues. Maybe the frozen margaritas, sea air and ‘90s jukebox hits (I thought I’d permanently blocked out the Spin Doctors) messed with my ability to judge, but I did feel better about hitting “the wrong side of my thirties” as one friend ominously remarked in a card.

Sure, Clemente’s can be a pain in the ass to get to, but the fun is being in completely non-Brooklyn feeling Brooklyn. The urge to buy a houseboat is not an unusual reaction after sitting on the pier for a few hours. Sprouting tan muscles, a moustache and donning a tank top and denim shorts might occur if you stay too long, though.

All-you-can-eat crabs were definitely in order since on my previous visit last year I chickened out and lobster rolled it. Minus the poor vegetarians forced to witness mass crustacean carnage, most diners opted for the same $29.95 deal. Massive metal bowls filled with both Old Bay and garlic and oil drenched crabs took over the paper-covered table. I’ll admit that I’m lame with meat extraction and it takes a lot of effort with little pay off. The crabs aren’t huge by any means. I doubt I went through more than ten, though I didn’t keep count.

After everyone seemed sated and dusk approached, there were still claws and bodies aplenty. It seemed like a waste but I couldn’t take anymore. That’s when James stepped up and went nuts. I swear, an hour after everyone else threw in the lobster bib, he was still cracking and picking like a machine. I started getting nervous that he might start turning red, sprouting claws and walking sideways. There’s no doubt that he got his money’s worth.

James's overflowing refuse bucket captured by Nao.

We really couldn’t call it an evening until the candle adorned, deep-fried Twinkie doused in ice cream made an appearance. I’m not one to indulge in party pics, in fact I keep humans out of the picture as much as possible, but lest you think my only friends are my laptop and TV, here you are. No, I’m not in any of them because I looked like a sweaty blob and my incessant rambling is more than enough.

Jul 13

Dressler

M.Y.O.B. shouldn’t be an acronym flitting through your mind while dining. I was off put and on edge during nearly my entire meal at Dressler and it had nothing to do with the food or service.

Sometimes context is everything. Dressler is the second venture in my recent mission to try brand new and no longer new but avoided-by-me restaurants. Momofuku Ssam has yet to be braved. The modly ornate room (I did appreciate the streamlined metalwork chandeliers and backlit curlicues) was only about a third full at 9pm on a Saturday. Hardly jumping. Maybe that’s why being seated one foot from two human irritants felt more pronounced.

If you think I’m about to embark on an anti-hipster tirade, you would be wrong. Sure, that ilk can be a nuisance but they’re too self-absorbed to concern themselves with others in the manner of the unpleasant middle aged New Jersey couple (or Brooklyn Brooklyn or Staten Island. I can’t tell my regional accents apart—or certain ethnicities. This implies deep idiocy on my part but I find a lot of crossover between vaguely suburban Italians and Jews. Think of the Costanzas. These two could’ve been either) I was saddled with. The male half wouldn’t stop staring at us and the definitely-not-his-better half couldn’t stop commenting on everyone around us, particularly the couple on our other side with a similarly strong accent. The second we sat down my mood started darkening.

I’ve always attributed staring and speaking disparagingly of other diners as a French trait (it’s happened more times than you’d ever imagine). Who else would have the audacity to pen a book about why they don’t get fat. Keep ze eyes on ze own plate, n’est pas?

They clearly weren’t thrilled to have me squeezing my ass past their nearly touching table (and I made quite a point of scrutinizing the female’s derriere when she uncomfortably squeaked through the same narrow space when leaving). But the woman really couldn’t contain her horror when the easy going forty-something couple on my left began splitting three desserts. In between the not-so-stifled grumbling I made out, “she needs to work out.” The dessert-and-a-half eater was tall and large but definitely not fat.

My blood start boiling. It’s creepy to see grown women who so clearly deprive themselves on daily basis (and no one cares) to look “good” i.e. skinny, haggard and old (taking butterface to a new level) get obviously unraveled at a female of a similar age having fun with no thought to their figure.

I’d had a few drinks before arriving, started off with a mint julep-esque Coal Miner’s Daughter (Old Grand Dad Bourbon, mint, lemon), and consequently wasn’t doing a good job of hiding my own disgust. I really don’t like confrontation, and James hates it more than anything, we’re a great passive couple. But it was all I could do to keep from asking the petty clientele to please shut the fuck up.

James and I both ended up ordering uncharacteristically. Heirloom tomatoes with tapanade? So not him. I never ever order greenmarket porno dishes like the halibut with fava beans, sugar snap peas and asparagus. Light, girly, a bit too springy for July. Even my glass of Gruner Veltliner felt strange—I tend to drink darker, heavier wines. Subconsciously, I was scared of the wrath on my right side if I’d ordered the fresh bacon like I normally might. That’s how distracted I was by our gauche neighbors.

My rich smoked salmon and crème fraiche salad did remedy things a bit. Our shared peanut brittle ice cream, chocolate cake mélange was straight desserty. I needed something soothing (I also had a glass of sherry) and it wasn’t the evening for black pepper ice cream or rhubarb rose soup. Thankfully, the too concerned twosome had left by this point so there was no need to avoid evil eyes and barely audible chiding.

I left feeling like something was amiss. The food was solid but when I dine at this price I want that intangible extra. There must be a reason why Dressler was sparsely populated when Diner and Marlow and Sons down the street were at full capacity (not that it’s a good reason—I don’t feel inclined to tap into that whole unfancy fancy schtick…yet). They suffer from a bit of an identity crisis. What do you do with the older crews who dismissively proclaim aloud “next time I’m reading the reviews first” and the clueless youngsters who sit, see the menu and promptly leave?

Dressler * 149 Broadway, Brooklyn, NY

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May 16

Carniceria

1/2 *Unsurprisingly, Carniceria has bit the dust. (10/1/07)

A few months ago, probably in February, I mistakenly attempted to try Novo, Alex Garcia’s first comeback restaurant. I’m not sure that it was supposed to be open to the public, it was a total freak scene. The kitchen was closed, looked like it has been out of commission for some time and covered with a curtain. The bartender could barely manage a mojito, even though it was her suggestion. Boxes were piled up in the bathroom and the only patrons seemed to be friends of the staff. Sketchy. It reminded me of that Asbury Park Howard Johnson's that time forgot. Apparently, it's now an "upsacale, yet unpretencious lounge."

So, I was surprised to hear that the chef had reappeared in my neighborhood and at cursed former Porchetta, no less. No, the irony of troubled chef choices hasn’t been lost on some, but Cobble Hill could stand some sort of excitement (maybe they can get that raw food perv in the kitchen after this incarnation sours). It was worth a visit and I was glad to hear the owner admit that the area didn’t need another Italian restaurant. I’m all for any new place that’s not Thai, Italian or French bistro.

Even though I intended to, I never ate at Porchetta so I can’t speak to décor changes. I had seen photos of that faux taxidermy deer head and it looks like they’ve swapped it for white antler-esque wall sconces. The brown vinyl tablecloths feel new (and hot on the legs) and maybe the iridescent wall paper. I suspect there hasn’t been a major cosmetic overhaul, though.

The service was slightly buggy, one server was very informed and had an accent that James insisted was fake (I strongly doubt that but it was bit Montalban-esque) and the other was a little twitchy and unsure. But the food seemed fairly confident for only being open a weekend. They weren’t set up to make tamales yet and didn’t have the lobster for multi-seafood dishes. Everything else was go.

Despite the heat not putting me in much of a carnivorous mood, at least one cut of grass fed beef needed to be sampled. I tried the skirt steak. I’m not sure if my mind made me taste unusual flavors because I knew my length of beef wasn’t a corn product, but it truly tasted super beefy, ever so slightly gamey. As a sauce, I preferred the chimichurri to the red chile relish that also came as a condiment. The grilled onions were side enough, though cauliflower, potatoes, chard and sweet potatoes described in more enticing terms were available as an add-on.

I can never resist a bacon-wrapped date in any fashion. Here they’re stuffed with Cabrales and an almond and served atop a vinegary endive slaw. James ordered both appetizer and entrée specials, a seafood empanada and polenta topped with scallops and oxtail. We couldn’t find fault with anything we sampled.

I’ll be curious to see how Carniceria shapes up and if the neighborhood takes to it. The Argentine/Spanish menu does seem promising.

Carniceria * 241 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

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May 1

Alma

1/2 I’m still not al fresco crazed or warm weather loving and I still kind of hate eating outdoors (which is hard to reconcile with my love of street food and blazingly hot countries) but it was balmy, not hot for those few days last week. Plus, Alma is walking distance from my apartment so it didn’t take much effort to get there and up on their roof deck.

You kind of have to ignore the stevedoring (I’m still not sure what this exactly) that stands between you and the reason for eating at Alma: the up close Manhattan views. Some would say the skyline overshadows the food but it’s fine for what it is.

I shared a chorizo, potato and goat cheese quesadilla, which was good enough to prompt James to recreate it a few nights later. I didn't taste the poblano relleno but it photographed a little better than the quesadilla so there it is.

I also had a simple grilled shrimp dish with cucumber-mango salsa, pickled red onions and chipotle sauce. Warm corn tortillas come on the side. I’m always distressed that I’m given too many and then I worry about wasting (at realer Mexican restaurants you’ll frequently get an impossible stack). This was the first time the opposite happened and could’ve used an extra. Oh well. (4/24/07)

Apr 12

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Ferdinando’s Focacceria

In the three years I’ve lived seven blocks from Ferdinando’s, I’ve never paid a visit. Part of that was oversight, though to a small degree it was intentional. I like that cuspy little area west of the BQE that’s mostly Carroll Gardens and a little bit Red Hook. I have tried Bouillabaisse 126, Schnack and House of Pizza and Calzone, all on the same Union Street block as Ferdinando’s so it was time to be all inclusive.

I was always a smidgen intimidated by the place, the peculiar hours (which also used to be the case with HOPAC’s previous incarnation), the old-schoolness, and never mind the fact that I almost never ever eat Italian food. Brooklyn Sicilian sounded ominous in a no outsiders way. I don’t mean that as a cultural stereotype. But occasionally you get whiffs of local/townie animosity in NYC. P.J. Hanley’s, also in the neighborhood, certainly had/has that reputation.

No biggie because I don’t feel like I fit into any particular neighborhood anyway (though I do feel an inexplicable kinship with the M train). I’ve never understood transplants who come to New York City and feel an epiphanous energy and comfort like there’s no place else they could imagine themselves. I can think of plenty of other cities I’d rather live in, though none are in the U.S. (I was recently informed that Beijing might seriously become a potential work-related relocation [not my work] and I’m completely open to that idea though I would be surprised if it came to fruition.)

Change is so rapid lately, that I figured I’d better hurry and give Ferdinando’s a try before it turned into a condo, mediocre Thai restaurant or an Alan Harding venture.

The menu had more variety than I’d expected. Since they close so early (7pm Monday through Thursday) I thought it would be more lunchy. I’m not crazy about heavy tomato sauce and they had plenty of enticing alternatives like pasta con sarde (sardines, wild fennel, pignoli) and panelle served four different ways: panelle, panelle sandwich, panelle special and panelle and potato special. Starch and starch is my way so a chickpea fritter sandwich is definitely in my future.

I knew what I had to order though, vastedda, the peculiar and lauded spleen sandwich. I imagined spleen might be like liver or sweetbreads and would be breaded and shallow fried. Not so, the organ is thinly sliced, nakedly gray-brown and wispy like the gills of a mushroom. There was something vaguely portabella-ish about it. The offal is served on a roll with a healthy dollop of ricotta, grated parmesan and baked.

The bread, both rolls and heroes, were remarkably good, not too crusty and very substantial. No fluff. The last time I had a foreign-to-me sandwich on a real homemade roll was just last month at Chilean San Antonio Bakery. I’m lucky to have so many sandwiches to choose from.

James ordered a hulking sausage parm hero that caused our waitress to ask if we were sharing it when it arrived. Only a few other tables were occupied during late afternoon on a Saturday so I eavesdropped on the staff talking about Grindhouse and the Yankees, which came in snippets. Every so often someone would switch to Italian and throw me off.

The only tragedy of the meal was that I’m pretty sure I left my camera sock behind. I’m concerned about scratching up my new camera but I hate all the cases I’ve seen so I started carrying it around in a sock that had been sitting in my drawer. Green argyle hearts are perfection to me so it’s a mystery how they went unworn. But I noticed it was missing when I got home and my camera was bare. The beauty of socks is that they’re a pair and I still have one left. I considered calling up Ferdinando’s and asking if they’d found my footie but if I was already concerned about their impression of the neighborhood’s gentrifying inhabitants, this wouldn’t help relations any.

Ferdinando's Focacceria * 151 Union St., Brooklyn, NY

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Posts from the ‘Brooklyn’ Category

Schnitzel Haus

Mazzat

Bocca Lupo

8th Ave. Seafood

Sidecar

Clemente’s Maryland Crabhouse

Dressler

Carniceria

Alma

Ferdinando’s Focacceria

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Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

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The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101