Posts from the ‘American’ Category

Nov 23

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Good Burger, Bad Burger, BBQ

At The Elm there were a lot of empty tables during the brunch Sunday (and I was still told preemptively that I couldn’t be seated until my full party showed up, even though I didn’t ask to). What gives? I’ve generally considered myself as a member of the opposition in the war on brunch, but I wanted to try that burger. It’s two dollars cheaper during brunch ($16) than dinner , which I suppose is pricey (remember when $12 burgers used to spazz people out?) but more than ok because it’s one of those special, thick, aged like a steak patties, medium-rare without asking, juicy enough to soak through the bottom of the brioche bun if you chit chat too much while eating. The dinner menu says white cheddar while the brunch one says comte–whether different meals actually demand different cheeses or if the two menus are out of synch is a good question. Frankly, I don’t even remember the cheese because the meat blend was so dominant. The pickled onions and tomato confit were a nice touch, though. The fries were real fries (see below) which is the best one can hope for. You could also have an omelet or lobster benedict.

Red Robin I hate to say this as a chain apologist, but Red Robin is just sort of off. Both of my adult experiences, the latest being at the new Staten Island mall location to visit the recently opened Uniqlo and to take advantage of a housewarming gift card (thanks, by the way) for the house I no longer live in, have done nothing to persuade me. (Last time there was glitter in my ice.) In every way, it’s the anti-Elm burger. You can’t have it cooked less than medium and it doesn’t matter because the patty is too thin anyway. The bun and toppings are all you taste, and this particular burger comes with mayonnaise despite already being dressed with bbq sauce, which shouldn’t be allowed. The most distressing aspect of this restaurant’s M.O., though, is the bottomless fries premise because they’re steak fries and what kind of monster could or would want to serving after serving of soft, mealy potato slabs? When considering this offering, paying $6.50 more at The Elm feels like a true bargain. I did like the pretzel bites with cheese sauce even if they tasted inexplicably like peanut butter.

The Rookery Even as New Nordic flourishes seep into all corners of the culinary world, gastropubs persist. I managed to eat two scotch egg renditions in a single week without even realizing it (more on Alder, which I’m not calling a gastropub, later). More pub than gastro, The Rookery has a small menu with West Indian tweaks like curried goat in the shepherd’s pie and oxtail used for sloppy joes, however the egg is fairly straightforward with some bitter greens for balance. Order it and the sweet and sour brussels sprouts (with the rashers, of course) which are spicy more than sweet or sour.

Hometown Bar-B-Q It could’ve been the lateness (is 9:30pm late?) or the brutal chill (it was coat-wearing temperature even in the restaurant) but I was surprised by the lack of patrons on a weeknight. The brisket was very good, both crusty and just fatty enough to freak out the lean brisket-lovers (I know you exist, but why?). I wish I had ordered more of the beef than the pork ribs because a pound is a lot for two people, pink with a perfect smoke ring or not. I’ve never been able to capture bbq adequately with a smartphone; the all-brown food is always set atop a brown piece of paper on a tray that’s on a brown wood table, creating a dark reddish mud-toned photo that only a Martha Stewart would be comfortable sharing online.

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Sep 24

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Isan, Umami, Venison

Larb Ubol Typically, one mediocre Thai meal and I’m done with a place. Yet, I still have a good feeling about Larb Ubol, despite the papaya side salad that was all lime and sugar and the crispy pork that was properly lush but lacking any heat to balance the fat. Lunch specials are never a prime showcase, so I will cut some slack, especially since there are eight different som tums, some using pickled fish and preserved crab, and ten larbs. This Isan restaurant can’t be only catering to office workers spilling over from Times Square–though they are certainly trying to cover all bases: you can have your larb made with liver or tofu.

Louro I can’t guarantee that anything pictured here will be available–at least in this exact form– because it was part of one of chef David Santos’ Monday night Nossa Mesa Supper Clubs (I was a guest, full disclosure). The theme was umami so there was lots of in-house pickling and fermenting (the walls are lined with glass jars containing many of the fruits of this labor) with standouts including thick, custardy chawanmushi with crab and aged soy sauce distilled on site, a yogurt cake with thyme ice cream that appeared to be surrounded by an intense salted caramel that was actually made from peach umeboshi, and bone marrow stuffed with a chunky blend of beef brisket and mussels and served with a kelp cracker. The next Nossa Mesa will be Octoberfest-themed.

Kristophe is the fancier venture from the owners of Krolewskie Jadlo, which means fresh stonework made to look aged and wine barrels instead
of suits of armor. There is also duck in the pierogies, chanterelles in the mushroom sauces, and a kale salad apropos of
nothing. I just had a burger, though, because that’s what I was in the mood for. It might have been wiser to have just gone traditional instead of with venison
patty covered in brie, walnuts, caramelized onions, portobello mushrooms and a chipotle cranberry relish. Too much. I just wanted the pretzel roll really.

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Sep 17

The Elm

threeshovel The Elm has generated nearly as much skepticism as it has praise, most of it unfounded. The location isn’t obscure or difficult to reach (one stop from Manhattan, if you even live in Manhattan, and a five-minute walk?), there’s nothing that odd about it being subterranean or in a hotel (though I’ll admit boutique hotels with pools are douchey by default) and I’m not fully convinced that the neighborhood can’t sustain a more ambitious culinary venture, despite Williamsburg’s fondness for meatballs, barbecue and fried chicken.

There’s a lot of money in Brooklyn, if you haven’t noticed, allowing the restaurant to function as either a neighborhood spot or a destination. I’ve treated it as both, once on a weekend date with a shared cocotte and a bottle of wine (a Willamette Valley pinot noir) and another on a weeknight at the bar with a friend, drinking cocktails, three plates among us. Either way, you get the full amuse, bread basket, mignardise treatment.

My main resistance to The Elm was my bizarro experience at Corton, the only restaurant where I’ve ever been asked to not take photos. And I’m quick and discreet to a fault (a better shot of the chicken kiev would’ve been from above, but I’m not about to stand up during a meal and maneuver). Three years makes quite a difference in the food world, though. On my bar visit, the servers were careful to position the plates just so, primping the food for a better shot. Not only could staff care less about food photos anymore, they actively participate (not Liebrandt, himself, obviously, though he does make the dining room rounds).

That amuse is a warm, hyper-savory, salty thing, with a quick bread texture. Black olive is in the verbal description, though the bite doesn’t taste
particularly olive-like. The friend who is a notorious over-salter (to the point where I’ll add extra salt when I cook for her and she’ll still add more every time) called this “salty,” a positive.

Foie gras and strawberry, hit with crystallized ginger and served with brioche, could almost be a starter or a dessert like the foie gras doughnut at Do or Dine. One of the only dishes I actually remember from Corton, also involved foie gras and a fat piece of brioche.

A tom yum scallop and gnudi, foamy and coconutty, felt more boutique hotel with a pool in Asia, despite the modern Western signifier: a nasturtium leaf like a lilly pad floating in sauce.

The scallop is fleeting while the “flavors of bouillabaisse” is jam-packed like a tardis of seafood. A crisp-topped block of tilefish was the focus (lobster and mini potatoes were also lurking) but my favorite part was the tiny shrimp like you might normally see dried and used to jazz up Thai condiments or Chinese rice, individually, battered and fried. Adorable.

The short rib with the PL sauce, more closely related to HP than donkey, didn’t make a huge impression on me, not because it was lackluster, but
sometimes hunks of meat, even small hunks, can get upstaged by more unexpected combinations on the table (plus, I ate half the bouillabaise before swapping for this so it wasn’t pristine–my own doing). I’d forgotten that argan oil, the now ubiquitous hair product, was edible.

The lamb is in a similar vein, stylistically, a little Middle Eastern with quinoa rather than couscous. I loved the deeply hued, intensely flavored blobs
(see below also). Dark stiff quenelles may be the new drizzles and drops. The smoky eggplant sheened so purple it was almost black like a good iridescent Goth
lipstick.

Chicken “Kiev Style” comes in multiple parts: garnishes on a plate, en cocotte and with a side of velvety cheese-infused potatoes (pommes aligot, if
you want to be precise) that rank right up there with “robuchons” (not an ill-punctuated possessive, but my household nickname for the famous butter-crammed potato puree). The browned fleshy logs contain the liquid herbed butter you’d expect while the crispy texture comes separately from the tot and wing conglomerate.

Broccolini, a candied lemon peel, aioli and a swampy blob, which logically would have spinach origins, but probably didn’t.

Hibiscus jellies and cookies and cream mini muffins, not all that different in appearance from the initial olive disk, aren’t real desserts, but I never had the urge for those. I hear they’re good.

The Elm * 160 N. 12th St., Brooklyn, NY

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Sep 11

Eaten, Barely Blogged: A Month or More

So, I’ve eaten a few things in my absence, a lot or not much, depending on your perspective. I don’t eat out every day, and I don’t relentlessly pursue newness. I will likely elaborate on a few of these in the near future.

JG Melon: A belated birthday burger. My first time ever at the UES institution.

L’Albero dei Gelati: No salmon or blue cheese gelato, but the savories of the day, saffron and red pepper, were pretty nice paired with cheese and salami.

The Elm: Convincing a vegetarian to eat a few dishes at the bar with me meant no large format sharing (the$48 zillion vegetables in a cocotte contains pork
broth, by the way). I will have to return. There was a tom yum scallop.

Bagelteria: I reached new levels of laziness and ordered an egg and cheese on a roll (plus a bagel with lox to make the delivery minimum)
from Seamless on a Sunday morning.

Desnuda: Two visits ordering the exact same thing, $1 oysters and one of my new favorite cocktails, The Reformer (Cherry Heering, Elcano fino sherry, Avua Amburana cachaça, Peychaud’s bitters, and pasilla and scorpion chiles). The drink is spicy but almost melon-tasting, a surprise because I hate melon.

Maggiano’s: I’m no lover of Italian-American food, but I do love a new-to-me chain, and it’s rare for one of these types of places
to serve non-sweet cocktails. Yes, I went all the way to Bridgewater, NJ for an Aviation (so many leave off the crème de violette, which is the whole point)
and something called Catcher in the Rye (Knob Creek Rye, Luxardo Maraschino, simple syrup, old fashioned bitters). The food was what you’d expect.

Motorino: Delivery once, dine-in another time. The Brussels sprouts pizza is classic, despite not being particularly summery. The tomato pie with four varieties made up for it with his hyper-seasonality.

Roberta’s: So, I’d never been before. An embarrassment, considering that for me it’s hardly the arduous journey media makes it out to
be (under two miles/30-minute walk). More pizza, the Beastmaster (mozzarella, gorgonzola, pork sausage, capers, onions, jalapeno) plus duck prosciutto and a
grilled squid special. The thing that stands out the most, oddly, was the peanut butter and celery gelato that tasted exactly like peanut butter and celery. This is the only restaurant where I’ve ever seen an e-cig smoker at a table. (I have them too, but it feels too douchey to use them indoors in public.)

Sripraphai: They really don’t believe you anymore when you say you want things spicy, yet I still go. The nam priks and assorted chile pastes in the fridge are another story and I’ll always pick up two each visit. This so-called “jail bong” is blistering hot, humid garbage funky and delicious as all get out. It was described to me as being “like blue cheese,” but I would say it tastes like the fermented anchovies that it moslty is.

Ootoya: Read more here. It’s the new Times Square branch. Pricier than a typical lunch, but also peaceful and not like anything else in the neighborhood.

Gambrinus: There’s no doing this Russian seafood café any justice in a sentence or two. The bar is shaped like a boat, staff is dressed like sailors, everyone sits
outside and drinks vodka and smokes—that’s why the indoor piano player is all alone.

Zizi Limona: There is $5 house wine at lunch, which would be compelling enough without the chicken and smoked eggplant sub with paprika-dusted fries and
aioli.

Jacob’s Pickles: When our waiter informed us that a marriage proposal was about to go down, all I could do was think about ruining it somehow, potentially using Twitter pre-emptively. Unfortunately, no diamond rings appeared to be lurking in the fried chicken biscuit sandwiches.
Battery Harris: Somehow six pints of beer, jerk wings, two patties and a kale salad only cost $29. All-Monday happy hour is a feat.

Dairy Queen: It took me 15 years to finally ride the Staten Island Ferry, and there was a mini Blizzard (my childhood fave, turtle pecan) waiting for me on the other side as a reward. Supposedly, there will be another Dairy Queen appearing in Times Square before the end of the year, and then it will cease being special.

SanRasa: It wasn’t just the most interesting thing walking distance from the ferry, but also the only business that appeared to be open on Labor Day (even the Subway was shuttered). Lamprie, this enormous mound of basmati rice, caramelized onions, cashews and kingfish curry, a croquette that may have been fish or vegetable mush, topped with a paper umbrella and served in a banana leaf, is as good an introduction as any to Sri Lankan food.

Sadly, SanRasa’s beer garden was closed. Luckily, I was fueled by a giant can of Modelo on the ferry.

Peter Luger: There was a steak for three (I hate the odd-numbered steak divvying) for my visiting mom’s 63^rd birthday. Benecio del Toro was sitting at the
next table, so she at least got one celebrity sighting. Mother may know best, but I ordered the creamed spinach (am I the only one who likes it?) despite her protestations.

Dumont: Still a very good burger. Medium-rare is taken seriously.

Qi Thai: I order delivery all the time at home, and pick-up duck salad for lunch when I’m at work in Times Square. I had never ordered Thai iced tea to go, however. Apparently, it comes in plastic takeout container. I guess it’s not so much weirder than how they put drinks in plastic baggies in Thailand.

Brooklyn Star: Smoked bone marrow and Texas toast is probably meant to be a shared plate, but I made it my dinner last night. It’s good having a place to eat after midnight on a Tuesday.

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Jul 30

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Bone-In Steak, Birthday Cake

Costata Eating at two Michael White restaurants in almost
the same week is kind of odd. I’m not a fanatic or anything. But it was a
birthday dinner option and I took it (Maggiano’s in Bridgewater, NJ–don’t
ask–and Mission Chinese were also tossed into the ring. The Elm might’ve been
the best choice but I don’t like to pick my own special occasion meals) because
I was up for something meaty and I wanted to see if the room was all D.C. style
because I love corporate hotel chic (it’s not that bad) and if it was all
blobby blowhards in suits. No, strangely, there were lots of groups of 20-something
ladies in sausage casing Vegas/Meatpacking dresses drinking cocktails and
primping in the bathroom.

Get the tomahawk rib-eye if someone else is paying and skip
the pricey crudo (I’m not lumping oysters into that) even if they are. I don’t
care about pasta, so farroto with bone marrow and parmesan and the broccoli
rabe with fennel sausage worked as sides. Go wild and drink Spanish Rioja instead
of Barolo (I don’t care about expensive Italian reds either). Though dry-aged
for 40 days, the steak isn’t super funky. Some slices had that hyper-meaty edge
while others were mild and tender, maybe too much so. You don’t really need
black truffle butter, but after $118 for a slab of meat what’s another $3?

Cata After reading about the rising price of raw bar fodder,
and the $21 razor clams at Costata in particular, the shellfish sauteed with
garlic and olive for $14 sounded like a relative bargain while having a giant
pre-dinner gin and tonic flavored with kaffir lime leaves.

Also $14, and though I recently boo hoo’d about
this cocktail price point, these drinks are long-lasting, not gone in four
sips, and potent as two normal gin and tonics.

Cheesecake Factory Sure, you can go to Edison and discover
Indian food if you’re friends with Floyd Cardoz, or you can eat at Cheesecake
Factory in the mall. I first stumbled upon this part of New Jersey (I have not
forgotten about the Post-Millennium Chains of Middlesex County, by the way) in
2005 when looking for America’s first Uniqlo (which will soon be returning to
the Menlo Park Mall, plus Staten Island and that horrible Atlantic Ave. Brooklyn
shopping center with the Target) that served as a testing ground for Soho then closed. I prefer other chains over Cheesecake Factory (the
martini with blue cheese olives is three dollars cheaper at Bonefish Grill,
which is only one reason why I love Bonefish) but the Thai lettuce wraps are a
classic appetizer in all their glorious unauthenticity, and the fried chicken
salad was more demure than I’d anticipated size-wise (that’s not a negative).
And yes, there was a slice of turtle cheesecake involved.

Green Symphony is the bizarro Yip’s (R.I.P.?). It’s also one
block from my office like my former love, but this by-the-pound buffet is
greaseless and healthy and borderline Little Lad’s (also R.I.P.) even though
it’s not vegan or even fully vegetarian (there is organic chicken in various
guises). These piles include a cucumber salad, broccoli rabe with pine nuts,
curry chicken salad with fake mayonnaise, edamame salad, wild rice salad,
quinoa salad and some tofu mushroom thing. I can dig this.

Baskin-Robbins The West Coaster in me wanted to blame
Carvel (Baskin-Robbins is also an East Coast brand, but ubiquitous–I’d never
heard of Carvel till later in life) for this ice cream cake disaster that
supposedly bears my name, but it was the handiwork of a Brooklyn
Baskin-Robbins/Dunkin’ Donuts hybrid shop. My name is not aes (?) for the record.

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Jul 23

The Butterfly

The last time I saw a grasshopper on a paper placemat
cocktail menu in an NYC restaurant was at Stingy Lulu's. That was the '90s and it
was meant to be kitsch. The last time I tried ordering a grasshopper was at
Jade Island and it was a no go. The Staten Island strip mall tiki bar traffics
in a very narrow range of kitsch that doesn't include creme de menthe.

Of course The Butterfly's version is a $16 Eben Freeman creation so it's made with fun
things like pandan extract and Branca Menta. Or so I've read. I didn't even end
up trying it, despite that being my
original aim. It's the lounge/supperclub dichotomy. And considering the bar was
at capacity but there were plenty of open tables on the early side of a
weeknight, the people have decided it's a bar, not a supperclub.

A highbrow grasshopper only makes sense if you're
stopping by for a drink (or treating it as a dessert). I'm still not fully on
board with the new era of $15+ drinks, so if I order one or two I want the
focus to be on the drink not convoluted with fried or heavy food.

I did try a brandy old fashioned sweetened with oleo-saccharum,
though, while deciding what to eat. And then moved on to beer, Birra Morini
Lager from Wisconsin, which seemed wrongheaded even if it was more sensible.

The shrimp toast wasn't radically reinvented. In
fact, it would be right at home at Jade Island if the price were chopped in
half ($12 vs. $6.15).

The reuben croquettes, gooey with swiss, corned beef
and just a little sauerkraut, were more successful, partially because they felt
more substantial. The thousand island for dipping was unusually pink, even more
so than from a plastic bottle of Wish-Bone.

The patty melt was the underdog hit. I realize the
only thing separating a melt from a burger is really the bread, but I want a
bun, plus toasted rye is for reubens. But because the meat–rare, dry-aged with
that deep steak-y flavor–was so good, none of the idiosyncrasies mattered. Strangely,
I didn't even notice the cheese (strange because I'm a sucker for melted
cheese). The caramelized onions stood out more and combined with the
distinguished beef, started veering toward Minetta Black Label Burger territory
(turns out it's a White Label blend from Pat LaFrieda so that makes sense).

After trying the patty melt, "Moby Dick,"
the filet o' fish, couldn't even compete.

This is where the grasshopper would logically fit if
you insisted on both drinking and eating.

The Butterfly * 225 W. Broadway, New York, NY

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Jul 13

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Summer of Cheese

Nitehawk Cinema A lot of melted cheese was consumed
in a one-week period. I ordered the queso tots thinking this was some new unexplored
treat then remembered I’d ordered the exact same thing on my last visit to the
theater. Menu memory lapse happens far more often that I'd like to admit. So, how about that Frances Ha?

Taco Chulo I also eat at Taco Chulo more than I'd
like to admit. It's never my idea, but it's a block from my apartment and seems
to appeal to picky eaters. If you love processed cheese like I do and can deal
with brunch on occasion, the queso benedict an underdog surprise. Velveeta
instead of hollandaise, sweet toasted cornbread in lieu of English muffins, and
enough spinach and slaw to give the dish a health halo. Save one half and eat it for
dinner once you emerge from your afternoon Bloody Maria stupor.

Artichoke Basille's The fabled artichoke cheese dip slice has
certainly garnered a lot of attention since it appeared in 2008. Yet it was
only when I noticed an outpost at the Aquaduct casino that I felt compelled to
try it. It's heavy, for sure, and best consumed in a temperature controlled
environment like a casino food court, otherwise all that warm fat and starch
loses its appeal in 90-degree heat.

Waterman's Crab House Sweat and melted cheese not mixing was
the lesson I learned while tearing into a crab pretzel (crab dip baked onto a
pretzel roll is very much a relative of the Artichoke pizza) on a dock
overlooking the Chesapeake Bay while being blasted with the sun's ray, despite
the table umbrellas. I'd still order the massive appetizer again, though. I
prefer the more demure Phillip's version that you can get a rest stops on the
drive to Baltimore.

Pat's and Geno's A pit stop was made on the way back from
Maryland for more unnaturally colored liquid cheese. This was the greasiest
cheesesteak I've ever experienced (and I've experienced quite a few in my time)
and not really in an endearing way. I've always been partial to Pat's, though,
because it's less flashy. Geno's version was consumed for breakfast the
following day and not photographed. The only reason why Pat's was eaten on the
spot and Geno's was saved for later is because Geno's gives bags and Pat's does
not.

Help. I just bought a 12-pack of Kraft Deluxe
American slices at C-Town when there are perfectly nice real cheese shops
within walking distance.

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May 17

River Styx

Wednesday, day two for River Styx, the new
project from Roebling Tea House people, it
was no problem getting seats for three on the early side of dinner time. Other
newcomers in the area were under siege (more later). We only tried small
plates on this first visit.

The buttered tortilla concept seemed sort of weird
in the abstract, but really it was not much different than a less flaky roti. Plus,
they were blue. Served as the starch with a balsamic and olive oil dressed
mound of chicken liver, it was a lot of richness, and reminded me of something
I would make if drunk and/or too lazy to go to the grocery store, which is
often.

Squid suave is buffalo squid, super crispy with a
light batter. One is not enough. Any leftover tortilla is particularly good
dragged through the hot sauce.

Scallop "ceviche" was a more composed
plate (not sure why ceviche gets
quotes–it seemed raw?) with frizzled leeks and caviar. Oddly, I'd eaten
homemade scallop ceviche, no quotes, for lunch. Something I'd make if sober and
had planned a supermarket visit.

There were also nachos with "pump cheese,"
a.k.a. artisanal queso. These were minus the stewed chicken.

A sip of another’s tequila-based serrano cocktail, Discipline, was crazy hot. When I ordered my
own later, the heat had been toned down, what I swear was vanilla upped and an
attempt (forgotten and apologized for with the initial round) to light the
strip of hot pepper, apparently soaked in oil of some sort, failed to ignite.
A+ for effort, though. I also had a whiskey sour-ish drink made with Rye
and Applejack. Both were iced, warmer weather cocktails. I would not describe
them as tiki, however, despite reading that elsewhere.

This is not my neighborhood, but if it were I might
be excited for the sudden growth spurt along the western fringes. Or maybe annoyed if I just wanted
something to eat or drink on a week night. A Sunset Park friend who joined for
the second round, was thrown by the 45-minute wait at nearby Alameda
and the clumps of kids on the sidewalks spilling out of
Achilles Heel and taking up the sidewalk. For mellowness, $5 prosecco on
tap and sandwiches, the backyard at non-hotspot Troost (not to be confused with
Torst also in Greenpoint) was more than sufficient.

River Styx * 21 Greenpoint Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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May 12

Bubba Gump Shrimp Co.

I would be remiss in not taking part of all that
Times Square has to offer, now that my office in right in the thick of it. And
if there's one thing chains are adept at, it's responding fairly rapidly on social
media.

I put out a plea. And Bubba Gump was there for me (29 minutes later).

@goodiesfirst With us and Bubba, of course!

— BubbaGumpCo (@BubbaGumpCo) April 10, 2013

But really the deciding factor was that out of the many choices in a one-block radius, it was the only chain I'd never tried before. That shrimpy alien-eyed mascot in a top hat had beckoned many times in New Orleans, but I'm not a monster. Three visits in, there's no way that even I could justify allocating a dining occasion there in such a food-rich city. But I'm here all the time and have no problem sacrificing a meal in search of greater knowledge. Bubba Gump Times Square is a very YOLO experience.

I expected tourists. I did not expect foreign
tourists. There's a heck of a lot of Italian, Spanish and British-accented
English being spoken in line–and yes, there's a line, despite the multiple
wood-planked dining rooms that sprawl along the second floor overlooking the
northeast corner of 44th and Broadway. More American than New York, though, two
diners will still be given a raised booth that could easily seat six, almost
making it worth the wait. (For the record, Guy's American Kitchen, equally
large, on the same block, looked like you could walk in and snag a table
immediately.)

Are the foreigners Forrest Gump fans? I ask, because
a friend who's worked in the Viacom building and wondered why anyone would line
up, didn't realize the restaurant was themed after the movie. Memorabilia is
everywhere and so are the cameras capturing it. My only interaction with the
film was once choosing it over True Lies on an unusually hot Portland night
because I was desperate for air conditioning, drunk, and I could get in free to
movies. I missed the first half, and barely remember the second half.

They push the commemorative glasses with the
cocktails, but you can buy your Sierra Mist, blue curacao, rum, vodka, gin and
pineapple juice, a.k.a. the Blue Hawaiian, to consume in the normal manner,
just renting the glass. The drink are sweet and you won't get drunk, despite
the Long Island Iced Tea-esque list of ingredients. Even two stiff brown
spirited cocktails at Rum House afterwards won't mitigate the aqua-ness.

Calories are listed on the menu, as is now the law, and
no surprise, quite a few dishes break the 1,000 limit. Peel and eat shrimp will
not (only 300, if you care). The most popular dish by far is the Shrimpers
Heaven, basically 1,420 calories worth of fried shrimp every which way. Vacationers
don't care.

If you want a little more cheese and fat, with
spinach and artichokes thrown in, Bubba's Far Out Dip will suffice.

And if it's requisite breading and frying you're
after, the coconut shrimp with a marmalade dip, supposedly Cajun, works and you
don't even have to like seafood because of all the orange and coconut sweetness.

There is a dish called Bubba's After the Storm
"Bucket of Boat Trash," which I hope makes more sense to those who
paid better attention to the movie.

Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. * 1501 Broadway, New York, NY

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Apr 30

Xixa

A most serious issue has emerged where I’m just not going to be able to try all of the restaurants I would like if it requires convincing a dining companion. I do not surround myself with the foodish, through financial circumstance (not that I’m sitting on a pile of gold) or dietary predilection–bones, spice, meat, offal, all fish, raw fish have been deal-breakers–the pickings for company can be slim.

I’ve toyed with starting a column just for the subject, but there’s no surer way to get ridiculed, particularly if you’re female. Solo dining is divisive. On the one extreme are the solo shamers who find an aversion to eating alone ludicrous, and then there are the anxiety-ridden who would rather just go hungry (or go on Seamless) than suffer the perceived indignity. I don’t mean grabbing a slice of pizza for lunch. How many would dine at Noma alone? (I would say El Celler de Can Roca to be more timely, but apparently one of those Roads & Kingdoms dudes has written an essay on exactly that already. And I’m not surprised it’s a guy—there is something more pitiable than a lone lady.)

Thankfully, I was able to coax a friend into wandering over to Xixa (revamped Fatty ‘Cue was a no go–there’s brisket in the mustard greens and pork dressing on the eggplant) where even on a Saturday night there was an open spot for two at the end of the communal table (which wasn’t horrible–I’m not a good space-sharer–but it does require a suck-in or a
stand-up for others to get in and out if you’re against the wall). And really, the bar would’ve been perfectly fine for a single diner.

First off, Xixa, despite what’s been said about it, isn’t particularly Mexican. I mean, more so than Traif, and there are avocados and chiles, but this is “tacos,” “tamales” and “guacamole” territory.

The grilled carrots, sweetened with honey and smoothed with a lime crema and feta, were amazing. The coriander was expected; the dill was not.

The hunks of avocados with raw vegetables and puffed rice cakes, a.k.a. nam prik num, was surprisingly weak. This was the one dish I was gung ho on trying because my new favorite breakfast (above) consists of mashed avocado, crunchy sea salt and a few dabs of sharply hot and shrimpy nam prik ta-dang (I alternate with a catfish version—both from Sripraphai) on toasted German pumpernickel health bread. I wanted that extreme burst of salinity, fishiness and heat.

The chile rellenos stuffed with burrata and a zucchini-mushroom-fennel escabeche, and the corn flan with crab and a poblano cream were not mine. I made personal entrées of a butterfish tartare with an avocado mousse and chips and the standout duck lettuce wraps, which came with dark slices of meat mixed with raisins and peanuts, and a banana puree and cubed cucumbers and halved grape tomatoes as garnish. It’s a lot of sweet, and the banana had potential to be creepy, despite plantains making total sense with these flavors, but it all worked. Even the non-meat-eater who is slowly and selectively acclimating to poultry, as long it’s chewy and well-done, gave these a try.

The meal begins a tiny amuse (a snap pea turned into a taco filled with crema and a frico) and ends with a one-bite sweet (a brownie-like thing), both extra touches that make the meal more special. Even if every small plate wasn’t perfect, the overall effect was pleasing.

P.S. I know these photos look like hell. I’m kind of over SLRs at the table, but iPhones don’t cut it. A new in-between camera arrived just hours ago; we’ll see how it pans out.

Xixa * 241 S. Fourth St., Brooklyn, NY

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