Posts from the ‘Williamsburg’ Category

Aug 14

Eaten, Barely Blogged: French-ish, All-American, Mexican Mash-Ups

Mimi The mark of a good restaurant is one where you leave feeling better than when you arrived (despite young men good-naturedly but firmly asking you to move down six inches so their lady can have more room even though you’re already arm-to-arm with the older-but-not-old man waiting for his lady on your right, being there first [the first customer period to avoid this situation because you know your limits], the isosceles triangle napkin placed by a server establishing your plot of land at the bar). That’s not a lot to ask, though it’s scarcer than it seems. Mimi succeeds. The sliced madai in brown butter with lemon curd and dried seaweed was like candy, or more accurately, caramel corn, fish caramel corn, which sounds dubious but is brightened by the citrus and amazing with nice bread and butter. I would go back and have this as a bar snack with sparkling wine in a second. Don’t play around with it too much or else the sauce will start to cool and congeal. Peppery calves liver, rare and steak-like, is served with boudin noir-stuffed eggplant, studded with golden raisins, and also blended sweet with savory well, potent and energizing in the same way as the crudo without being heavy, matchingwith a glass of equally bold French red wine that I vowed to remember without taking a photo and promptly forgot (comped, I realized later, which occasionally is a benefit–at least at a certain type of casual-polished place–of dining on your own) Even approaching fullness, I was never bored.

Emmy Squared I forget if this is supposed to be Detroit-inspired or Detroit-style pizza (which I did try last year for the first time in a very different setting i.e. one that doesn’t threaten a $25/per person fee for no-shows because you just show up and eat pizza). The slices are square, the crust thick but not Chicago deep, with crisp edges and plenty of cheese. I will take any excuse to eat Hawaiian variations in an acceptable manner. Here, that would be ham and spiced pineapple on the Lou-Wow. I’m also a sucker for pretzel buns, which hold together Le Big Matt Burger, the formerly semi-secret double-pattied, white american cheese, and sambal-spiked mayonnaise monster that’s now formally on the menu. Split a burger and pizza if possible. Both are good but you’ll probably leave feeling more or less the same as when you entered.

Mission Cantina is as good a spot as any to unintentionally stumble into on a weeknight. The whole operation from service to menu feels haphazard, and that’s not a criticism (though I almost ordered a drink special because it was green until I parsed that it contained Midori, god no, which the server thought was cucumber liqueur). It’s a perfect place to knock back micheladas and marvel at more fried chicken than would seem imaginable for $26. That would be masa-crusted, spicy, honey-drizzled, and tarted-up with pickles and pickled jalapeños in a vaguely Southern/South of the Border/Korean way. Like pretzel rolls and Hawaiian pizza, I will always order crab rangoon if I see it. There was an undercurrent of what I thought was curry powder in these fried wontons, which you have to be in the mood for, and then the next day while sweating on a walk home it hit me that the abrasive seasoning was likely Old Bay, with celery salt being the offender. Limey, lightly funky mussel tostadas, chosen instead of a side vegetable that was practically insisted upon, were more guacamole than anything.

Share on Tumblr

Jun 17

2 Comments

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Oleanders & Four Horsemen

Recently, I was having a discussion about how trends recycle so quickly that style has collapsed on itself to such a degree that now you can wear whatever you want and it doesn’t matter anymore. When the friend I was dining with last night asked where I got my butt-ugly white lug-soled sandals without calling them butt-ugly, it was totally conceivable they could be Alexander Wang, for example. Of course I bought them online for $15 at Target last summer. I’m not at a point where I could saunter into work in a crop top and harem pants, but that says more about my office than me.

The same lack of rules goes with neighborhoods, architecture and food. It’s a great time to be alive. Earlier, this same friend, a graphic designer, wanted me to see the jaunty font and signage being used at The Bean outpost that opened on Bedford in the ground floor of one of those new brick buildings that look like they belong in an upscale development in Denver. (Actually, I assume it’s the same font used at all four locations, but it’s really allowed to come into its own in this particular setting.) It’s so middlebrow, occupying the space between the character by virtue of age bodega awnings (not to be confused with deli grossery) and overly precious peak Brooklyn handwritten everything aesthetic.

This is a long-winded way of saying that a nouveau fern bar with an explanation of what a fern bar is (don’t make me link to wikipedia) on the menu and a wine bar opened by LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy in the former Foodswings space make perfect sense for right now even if neither objectively make sense.

Oleanders. I, for one, am welcoming this weird shift. Bring on the rattan and potted plants. Dust off the Galliano. I knew fern bars were eventually coming and Williamsburg might be the epicenter. Reynard has been serving a Harvey Wallbanger. Donna has that awesome brancolada. Dark carved wood and damask has been giving way to Scandinavian lightness, warm metals and copious foliage on design blogs for some time. Restaurants are getting there. (Meanwhile, Bushwick gets the chimichangas. Who’s making the English muffin pizzas?)

Technically, Oleanders should be getting The Middle Ages treatment since I sat at the bar and didn’t eat a full-on meal but 5:30pm on a Monday isn’t exactly a meet/meat market in any era (though for the record, the one other female patron, solo, could’ve been a mature 38 or youthful 42, or maybe it was that she looked more tan and tailored generally than you see in Williamsburg and it made her look aged i.e. more grownup).

The thing about The Elm’s demise and total overhaul is that it’s not clear how people who were turned off by that too much for Williamsburg menu are going to be into beef wellington and lobster thermidor–poolside? In a girls with boyish figures neighborhood? Too highbrow even ironically for dadbods? I dunno. As the consensus arose on a Facebook discussion: “Too regal, not enough beagle.”

The fantasy fern bar of my childhood totally would’ve served potato skins (crème fraîche and roe just an added bonus) and grasshoppers. The clams casino never would’ve crossed my mind but they are the perfect bridge between T.G.I. Friday’s (which is not only a native New Yorker but as some claim the O.G. fern bar) and 1970s continental cuisine. Honestly, I can’t think of any better place to drink an elevated shot (I tried both, including the Alabama Slammer, which crams Medley Brothers bourbon, Southern Comfort Reserve, Plymouth sloe gin, Caffo amaretto, cranberry, orange juice and Morris Kitchen grenadine into one tiny glass and results in fruit punch) while listening to Bob Seeger and ELO.

Also, that name. I do appreciate the extra S in Oleanders, though it doesn’t read preppy (I’m more of the west coast school anyway where you can have wicker and wine spritzers and not be all Ivy about it). It’s a flourish I affectionately call “the white trash S,” since it’s a written and verbal tic I’ve fought to repress on many an occasion. At least it’s not an apostrophe S.

But back to business, there’s a real opportunity here as Wegmans (no apostrophe) the beloved upstate grocery store coming to the Navy Yards in 2017, adds in-store pubs with Tiffany-style lamps and high-backed tapestry booths, to tap into this zeitgeist. In two years all of the cool kids will be eating prime rib and Tuscan fries in a Fort Greene grocery store and no one will remember what Tinder was.

Four Horsemen. Would you like some orange wine to go with your kale crostini? Sure, why not. I’ll take it over a vegan milkshake and chick’n cordon bleu made from mock poultry, soy ham and Daiya mozzarella. Say goodbye to the second-wave of Williamsburg gentrification (as much as I loved my local lazy brunches, Taco Chulo, your days are numbered too, I’m afraid).

I had a few wines by the glass like the aforementioned ‘Coenobium’ Field Blend Monastero Suore Cistercensi, a slightly nutty unfiltered blend that I have to admit went pretty well with that kale toast spread with fresh sheep’s milk cheese and garnished with pickled golden raisins. Nothing is crazily priced and all of the wines are natural, which is the angle, far simpler in concept than a retro revival. There’s room for that, as easy as it is to poke fun of anything new and veering toward earnestness.

The food was better than I expected for a newly opened Williamsburg wine bar, emphasis sort of on the bar. A terrine with tiny florets of fermented cauliflower, beef tartare speckled with seeds, and carrots roasted to nearly maduros-like texture and sweetness with Thai peppercorns and bound together by gooey ribbons of stracciatella all packed strong flavors but nothing that would compete with a light, biodynamic Gamay.

And for the record, the pink and green (mine was just brown and I didn’t feel right swapping) Opinel knives were pretty sweet–and I managed to not even Instagram the cutlery.

Share on Tumblr

Apr 8

Shovel Time: Burma Noodle Bar

twoshovel Unlike in the Bay Area, Burmese food has never been a thing in NYC. There was Village Mingala, one of the first restaurants I ever experienced in the city over 20 years ago, that short-lived Burmese Cafe in Jackson Heights, a few food festivals here and there (in fact, there’s a Burmese new year celebration this Sunday) and possession of part of the menu at Crazy Crab, the spot for Vietnamese seafood boils in Flushing–oh, and the Porchetta pop-up that’s actually happening tonight and that I forget about because it’s not immediately logical.

And because I don’t pay attention to Smorgasburg or pop-ups (not even In-N-Out taunting the Philippines or other Asian cities) I had no idea Burma Noodle Bar existed until I attended a Sunday triple birthday party at The Drink and xeroxed menus started getting handed out as afternoon segued into evening and the scent of spices began wafting from an indoor takeout window.

I’m not sure that the menu is always the same–the one they do for Sycamore in Ditmas Park is slightly different–but it looks like there’s always a noodle soup, and a few fried tidbits like curried beef potato croquettes, onion fritters and samusa a.k.a. potato samosas.

$6 for a small serving of mohinga (large is $3 more) thick rice noodles and catfish in a moderately hot broth described as chowder? You could do far worse for bar food in Williamsburg. Despite my Sunday experience, the website states that this is a Monday evening event.

Burma Noodle Bar at The Drink * 228 Manhattan Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Share on Tumblr

Sep 27

Williamsburg’s Most Eaten a.k.a. Goodbye To All That (Food)

In some ways I marvel at the kinds of people who remain friends with their exes. Either they’re highly evolved and easygoing or in denial and out of touch with their emotions. I take the opposite stance on most things including former neighborhoods where neat, tidy breaks also feel preferable. Even if it’s not on purpose, once I move, I’m gone.

I loathed Carroll Gardens and environs, a.k.a. food writer central, irrationally for probably seven of the eight years I spent there. I have not returned even once in the past two years despite curiosity about Dover, Take Root and the revamped Long Island Bar. Hometown BBQ doesn’t count, right?

Sunset Park has also failed to draw me back, I did dabble a bit in Clinton Hill, I’ll admit, and it was only this year, 14 years after I left, that I began softening on Ridgewood. Williamsburg? We’ll have to see.

My past year and a half in Williamsburg was just a blip, always meant to be temporary, and for all its ills I don’t hate it (as long as I stay on my side–the right side–of Metropolitan Ave.). I’m not saying I will miss it when I move this week, but it’s doubtful I’ll turn my back on it altogether (especially considering that a majority of my friends still live in North Brooklyn–at least until I can convince them to migrate to Queens). It’s a pretty good eating neighborhood. Here are some of my favorites.

If someone ever hacked into my Seamless account, they would incorrectly assume I was a Qi Thai Grill fanatic since the duck salad is my most common Times Square office lunch order and the Brooklyn branch is occasionally responsible for my dinner. I never eat in; the glitz is weird. The food, if chosen carefully, is real, though: tendon salads, crazy spicy pork stir-fries, khao soi, and even those non-traditional Ovaltine ribs.

Pasar Malam also filled a void. I never thought I’d live to see the day when I could get laksa and rojak brought to my door. Good Malaysian food in this neighborhood makes no sense at all, but why question it?

I don’t go to Zizi Limona as often as I should even though I often have the urge for the pita stuffed full of kofta, charred vegetables and equally charcoal-ly black babaganoush. The food is creative, kind of Israeli, and Macedonian house wines are only $5 a glass. When someone asks for a restaurant recommendation in the neighborhood, this is often my suggestion but people see hummus on the menu and blow it off as run of the mill Middle Eastern. Don’t do that.

Cheap oysters are a dime (or should I say a dollar?) a dozen in these parts–St. Mazie, Miller’s Tavern, Extra Fancy and Desnuda are all within 3 blocks of my apt. It’s Maison Premiere that wins, though, despite the rigmarole. The selection (roughly 18 varieties) and cocktails are incomparable.

Because I tend to avoid overt bread (yet absorb carbs in a zillion other forms) I rarely eat sandwiches. You just can’t follow that thoughtless rule for life as long as Saltie exists, though. Whether the hearty, meatless Scuttlebutt or pate-rich Balmy, these are the focaccia-bound sandwiches to make allowances for even if it makes you want to take a nap when you still have work to get done.

For burgers, Peter Luger is the master. Everyone must go at least once for lunch.

Blue Collar, on the other hand, is a fine In-n-Out approximation but the mildly hostile counter service (even after using Seamless pickup to minimize interaction) is always off-putting. No matter how I articulate that I ordered online, I’m looked at like I’m simple-minded and met with an exasperated “What?” All I wanted was a double cheeseburger one evening, and ended up with someone else’s order of a single, fries, plus two hot dogs, which threw me into a rage. I hate hot dogs, which I realize makes me an un-American monster and was reinforced by social media reactions. I haven’t been back since.

Yes, the fried chicken at Pies ‘n’ Thighs is really that good. The pies aren’t so shabby either.

Then again, the fried chicken at The Commodore is pretty amazing too. Same pedigree. The nachos are also textbook awesome nachos. It fills me with deep shame to say that I’ve never had the cheeseburger.

I was on a Forcella bender, but then Motorino bounced back–and with a $12 pizza and a salad lunch special. Both have merits. Hmm, did everyone know there was a Motorino in the Philippines? Hong Kong, sure, but this is news to me. The menu looks exactly the same, with the addition of San Miguel beer.

For slices, Best Pizza is kind of, yes, the best. The lemon zesty, sesame seeded white pizza covered in caramelized onions rules. This Seamless review always makes me laugh.

BBQ-wise, BrisketTown probably gets the most attention, and rightly so. Mable’s (pictured) doesn’t elicit as much chatter, but it’s also respectable, refreshingly unpretentious and never painfully crowded.

First ever rajas hash

Possibly the last ever rajas hash. (First iPhone 6 food photo, however.)

Sometimes–often, in fact–it’s not about the food. The chilly January afternoon I was solo apartment-hunting for the first time in 13 years, I ended up on the next block at Taco Chulo having a mid-week brunch of rajas thick with melted cheese and chorizo grease. Neither Tex-Mex exactly nor Mexican, this heftiness is the definition of comfort food. And then at the bequest of a non-food-lover friend, I’ve ended up at Taco Chulo nearly every weekend since for sometimes the rajas hash, sometimes the queso benedict, occasionally the smothered burrito and at least one $6 double mimosa. Sometimes the playlist is horrible dad music, sometimes the Pastels and Exploding Hearts make me believe my dead iPod has been revived. There are no lines, it’s never crowded and will no doubt eventually fade away and be quietly mourned as a member of Old Williamsburg when it’s staunchly second wave.

San Loco is truly bottom of the barrel, but if you’re drunk and lazy enough to consider delivery at 2:45am, they come through–and quickly. It’s good to know they are there with nachos and quesadillas in desperate times.

Notable, but not most eaten: Xixa, Onomea, The Elm, Bamonte’s, St. Anselm (I had a fantasy that I’d regularly dine at the bar but never got over my solo dining phobia). I feel like Diner belongs here too, but if I were being honest I’d have to admit that I haven’t been once during this stint. I’d go in a heartbeat, though, if anyone was game.

The ones that got away: Meadowsweet, Gwynett St turned Lachlan, non-brunch Hudson and Delaware, The Commodore’s burger, Meat Hook Sandwich, Reynard, Shalom Japan, Traif. I never once ate at Smorgasburg and regret it not a whit.

R.I.P. Dumont and White Castle.

Update: I completely forgot about newly Michelin-starred Luksus. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Share on Tumblr

Aug 19

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Brunch & Burgers

Delaware and Hudson Brunch is not dinner, obviously, so I can’t speak to the seemingly good-value tasting menu that will surely draw more attention post-New York Times review. Brunch is pretty chill considering the restaurant’s proximity to Bedford Ave. and its aimless shufflers and line-lovers. Walking in on Sunday was no problem, and where else can you get scrapple in all of its livery glory, edges perfectly crisped, eggs over easy, and paired with an inexpensive bottle of Provençal rosé? (Wine served in tumblers doesn’t bother me. My friend was less convinced. Coincidentally, wine not served in wine glasses appeared as a “grievance” on Eater the following day.) Mini sugar doughnuts with blueberry jam are also pretty civilized.

Peter Luger One neighborhood benefit bolstered by the occasional self-created summer Friday (don’t tell) is the Luger lunch burger, a treat I’ve somehow never mentioned before. I don’t think there’s a better NYC burger in the $12 range. Of course I get mine with cheese, despite the dry-aged beef having plenty of rich, minerally flavor on its own. Cheese isn’t a sacrilege, but adding bacon on top might be. Those charred strips are to be savored with nothing more than a few dabs of the sweet and tangy steak sauce. If you’re serious about summer Friday, make it a one-martini (ok, two) lunch and cap it off with a shared hot fudge sundae.

Corner Bistro This is a burger I’ve never mentioned because I’d never tried it. Even this occasion happened to be an unplanned accident. Unfortunately, I also had an unplanned, accidental cheeseburger at an Irish pub near my office for lunch, so I was burgered out by dinner. Or at least that’s the reason I’m attributing to this crumbly burger making little impression on me–I remember more about the Teamster who bought me a shot of Jameson–when normally I’m all for greasy bar burgers. The poorly lit photo makes the thing look even less attractive, which is kind of unfair. I get the late night appeal, but I wouldn’t call this a destination burger in 2014.

Share on Tumblr

Jul 24

Shovel Time: The Gorbals

I’ve lost all ability to gauge what others will find compelling. My call for birthday travel mates to the Aqueduct casino fell flat (I decided to just take myself out to Bâtard) yet an equally arduous journey to Forest Hills to sleuth out the Northeast’s only Sizzler has generated interest. The Gorbals on opening night was also not a strike out.

Who wouldn’t want to eat in the nation’s coolest Urban Outfitters that’s barely an Urban Outfitters. Space Ninety 8 could be described as a concept store. Or it could be described as “More Anthro. More Curated,” as a sales clerk was explaining to a customer. “We don’t have sales,” he added.

That means you’ll weave past the macramé dreamcatchers, white lug-soled sandals, one size fits most Eileen Fisher for millennials linen shifts, and Japanese lip balms in containers camouflaged as fruit. All of a sudden a bar appears on the horizon of the men’s section on the third flor. Take a left and you’re dining in-store next to an open kitchen.

On the early side, the restaurant was populated but not at capacity; there were enough free seats to cause arrivals to balk at sharing the communal table in the back. The crowd was also slightly older than one might imagine, and by older I just mean over 30 with a sprinkling of the truly middle aged. (I went for a beer afterward at Iona and there was not one person over 24–or wearing a bra–in the back garden.)

I was expecting small plates, and for the most part they were. Not so with the banh mi poutine, total blogger bait which appeared first, unbidden, and was appreciated all the more for it. I wouldn’t describe this as tasting like a banh mi, though. The rich hunks of pork adhered to the fries and pickles with melted cheese kind of translated as cubano. Regardless, I couldn’t stop picking at the delicious pile.

Falafel-crusted lamb sweetbreads completely made sense–even the subtle ranch-flavored hummus didn’t seem out of place. What is ranch anyway but buttermilk and a dill-heavy herb-blend?

I didn’t catch a photo before the “Jewish lunchbox” was shook up in front of us. This was the least successful dish, perhaps because the barley posing as rice was lukewarm. Timing was a little haphazard, but I won’t begrudge anyone on their first night. Gefilte fish holds no nostalgia for me, though I can appreciate a spongy fish cake, a nice runny egg yolk and kimchi (with more of that dill).

You should order at least one vegetable. Carrots, shriveled with a velvety texture, come with nearly candied brown tufts called almond cake that based on color and the dish’s vaguely Nordic vibe kept signaling rye to my brain. Not rye.

The friend who had taken me out couldn’t decide if the bacon-wrapped matzoh balls were a “dick move” or not. A dick move that got slightly neglected because they came at the end of the meal and were a little heavy (I blame the poutine) even if the horseradish sauce livened them up. These might work better as bar snacks.

I guess this is L.A. food, though it feels just as much like Brooklyn food. The “Barn” section of the menu is where the fun is concentrated, and I would characterize this food as fun. In many ways, it’s less serious than the merchandise on the floor. Nothing is outrageously priced, nothing is overly precious. I guess fun is pretty subjective? (says the person who wants to spend a summer day playing Keno in a dark, smoke-filled space). The talons attached to the schnitzel were causing some commotion; one had to be sawed off at the table before the woman would accept the plate and another diner requested the gnarled chicken foot be removed before leaving the kitchen.

The Gorbals * 98 N. Sixth St., Brooklyn, NY

Share on Tumblr

Jul 15

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Skewers, Shawarma, Sable

Snack EOS Ninth Avenue near Times Square can feel more exciting simply because it’s not Eighth Avenue. Even so, there are a few charmers like Larb Ubol that stand out, and now Snack EOS, which was new to me, and possibly new period. Peaceful and non-plasticky, it’s a nice respite from the humidity and suitcase-draggers–and the $14.95 snack box isn’t a bad deal for a sit-down lunch. The taramosalata (pictured) with lots of warm pita and a yellowfin tuna skewer a.k.a. kalamaki with olives and a farro salad, is just one combo from a choice of three starters and an equal number of mains.

La Goulette Can you accurately judge a restaurant based on delivery? Probably not. La Goulette already gets points, though, for being one of the only Tunisian restaurants around (and by around, I mean that I can walk to). I appreciated that you could get chicken shawarma (there is merguez, but not much lamb in other forms, oddly) in a style not involving pita or rice. Who cares whether roasted cauliflower and artichokes are a traditional accompaniment or a modern concession, it worked. There’s plenty of starch in the falafel and hummus-filled “veggie mix.” Don’t worry.

Baz Bagel It might also be wrong to choose a nouveau Jewish cafe based on the wallpaper. I’ve been researching palm tree and fern wall coverings for the past month and wanted to see some in the wild. (I was also obsessed with the Alloro’s green interior when it first opened, but never enough to prompt an in-person visit.) The food? That’s more difficult to parse. I wasn’t at Baz under pure food-enjoying circumstances to start with (beyond the wallpaper-scoping) yet even if I was paying more attention, the price to proportion might’ve seemed slightly out of whack.. One would think something described as a tasting plate (nova and sable) and costing $18 would be shareable. Not so. A bagel sandwich might make more sense–or moving on to Black Seed or Russ & Daughters Cafe next time.

Share on Tumblr

Jul 5

Pasar Malam

Over. Malaysian food in a burgers-and-oysters neighborhood always seemed to good to be true. (5/18/2016)

Sometimes I think Instagram is good for nothing (unless you consider foodie weddings/group vacation rental parties/storm clouds over skyscrapers as something), and other days it’s great for letting me know that there’s a new Malaysian restaurant down the street hosting a media event where apparently everyone’s eating nasi lemak. What’s this? Pasar Masam on Grand Street? I was there the next day.

I wasn’t so sure about Malaysian food in Williamsburg, but I will give the restaurant credit for opening on one of the soupiest weeks of the year. It might not be a real open air night market–the no nonsense back-lit signage advertising multiple permutations of roti is spot-on, though–but they couldn’t have orchestrated the humid monsoon effect any more authentically. I can’t think of a single outdoor meal eaten in Malaysia where I wasn’t sweating to the point of distraction.

Pasar Malam is from the same owners as Laut near Union Square, the mishmash Thai-Malaysian restaurant you rarely hear much about. Here, there is pad thai, papaya salad and tom yum on the menu, but that’s it. I don’t think they even need it. We’re over saturated with Thai restaurants already and suffering a dearth of Malaysian, especially in Brooklyn.

I managed to rope in two others on short notice so I could try more dishes (I’m always amazed at the diversity of food quirks: one doesn’t like hard-boiled eggs, the other eggs scrambled with seafood, i.e. char kway teow and chili crab). I will be back for the meatier things like murtabak. And maybe brunch, which is supposed to happen? The roti station is prominently featured at the top of the menu and in the back of the restaurant, so you can’t really pass on the flaky, grilled pancakes (plus your server–all super invested in your trying and liking the food–probably won’t let you). Roti prata is a slightly thicker, chewier version of the more-common-in-NYC roti canai, and served with a thin lightly spiced curry, no chicken or potato chunks. One person could easily eat a serving themselves, and might want to, but only make that rookie mistake if you don’t plan to order much else.

Rojak isn’t a superstar with the name recognition of satay, or even laksa, but the salad exemplifies Malaysian flavors with its sweet-savory balance that teeters on weird. Ostensibly, it’s a crunchy fruit salad, made up here with pineapple, green mango and apples, but also cucumber and jicama, plus chopped up fried cruellers for a little chew (I like the versions that also include squid for even more chew). The whole thing gets dressed in a thick, burnt umber shrimp paste dressing (I could’ve used more) that’s like a fishy molasses and garnished with sesame seeds and crushed peanuts. Mexican fruit preparations with salt, chile and lime get at this odd combo, Thai papaya salads with dried shrimp, a little palm sugar and fish sauce get pretty close, but nothing really reaches the fruity-fishy intensity like rojak.

Satay always seems boring to me, but the classic grilled chicken with peanut sauce was sweet, smoky and in appropriately demure-sized chunks to retain moisture. While the flavors aren’t watered down and I wouldn’t really call this nouveau anything, there are some creative liberties taken–the Hainan chicken rice being fried rather than steamed may give some pause–for instance, our server really wanted us to try the tandoori satay. Who knows? It’s probably good?

If you want serious liberties taken, look no further than the new Burger King Malaysia tie-in with the latest Transformers movie. This potato chip-topped hot dog could give a Colombian perro caliente a run for its money, if not for the chicken wiener.

And as if to be proven wrong in my know-it-all self-sufficiency, we were brought a butter garlic prawn each after ignoring the glowing recommendation. Yes, they were good, really good, and like a spicier, curry leaf-fragrant version of salt-and-pepper shrimp.

To be honest, after you’ve had chili crab twice in your life, the novelty wears off and you might just move on to less messy dishes that don’t require extracting precious morsels from goopy shells. That was why I was not bothered by the use of soft-shell crab in the Singaporean classic. The sauce leaned more sweet and sour than spicy, as tradition dictates, and really the egg just gives it body a la egg drop soup minus the massive amounts of corn starch. Thankfully, no one messed with the accompaniment: fluffy mantou, available steamed or fried. Don’t think that I didn’t notice that orange chile ring artfully placed on the tip of the battered leg.

The other thought I had when first seeing photos online of the conical mounds of coconut rice was that Pasar Malam was really going to mess with my plan to not eat (I said nothing about drinking) any carbs until my birthday, 23 days into the future. Clearly, I caved before I barely began. More than just some curry, rice and a few fried anchovies and peanuts tucked into a banana leaf package to go, this was serious sit-down dinner-style nasi lemak. The chicken curry also comes with multiple shrimpy, fishy sambals, pickled achar–and that requisite hard-boiled egg half.

I’m not convinced that Williamsburg is full of the educated eaters the owner thinks there is, but I do appreciate the presence of a fish head curry. And yes, I was warned it was a fish head. And yet I was dismayed by the lack of an actual head, eyes intact, cheeks for the picking. It comes pre-hacked, which actually makes it fussier to eat, necessitating a lot of sucking gelatinous bits from nooks and crannies rather than being able to dig in yourself with chopsticks from a more stable mass of flesh. Served with okra and green beans, this is a creamy, coconut milk-based version, not the hotter, orange-tinged broth style.

There is no liquor license yet. There is a Michael Jackson, though, my favorite un-PC name for the popular black-and-white soy milk and grass jelly drink.

Pasar Malam has made me a little excited about Brooklyn dining, something I had been feeling jaded about recently. I’m only sad that I finally got an interesting, non-meatball/bbq/fried chicken restaurant so near to my apartment, mere months before I move to Queens. Nice knowing ya.

Pasar Malam * 208 Grand St., Brooklyn, NY

Share on Tumblr

Jun 17

Eaten, Barely Blogged: The Great Outdoors

Northern Bell. It’s the time of year when setting can trump what you’re actually eating. Sometimes you just want to sit outdoors, preferably in a yard or on a patio (never on a sidewalk, never) with a drink in hand, and the food, if good, is an added bonus. Northern Bell isn’t breaking any new ground with its barbecue and burgers (maybe with the other B’s, bison and boar, in short rib and belly form?) but the backyard is nice as long as a violent downpour doesn’t erupt minutes after you’ve received your drinks. I forgot to ask for cheese, and despite the Pat Lafrieda custom blend, the burger felt a little naked. And who doesn’t want a cobb salad, southern-style with pimento cheese, pecans and deviled eggs?

Battery Harris. The $12 beer-and-a-burger happy hour deal can draw a crowd even when storms render a good portion of the fenced-off patio useless (has it rained every Friday in recent history?). When sunny, it’s not a half-bad place to share a plate of jerk wings or pork buns. Plus, it’s the only establishment in Williamsburg where I can recall ever seeing a crew of artsy adults clearly over 60, which counts for something.

Astoria Bier & Cheese. First, I was excited to find Berliner Weisse with the colorful red and green syrups, a summer quirk that I missed out on my one cold weather trip to Germany. Sure, the woodruff, despite sounding weedy and foraged, is more sweet than herbal, a softener for the beer’s sourness. It is pretty, though, (and happened to match my nails). Then my excitement continued with the sweet/savory/fatty grilled cheese of my dreams. The Cambozola and bacon, drizzled with honey and squished between toasted slices of fennel, raisin semolina is exactly the sandwich I would make myself if I made sandwiches at home.

Bacchanal. Ok, one of these things is not like the other. I may have tightened my purse-strings and burnt out on Brooklyn (I’m in the process of whim-buying a Jackson Heights co-op, it turns out) but beer and burgers must give way to aperitifs and small plates at some point. The Adonis (Noilly Prat Ambre, amontillado sherry, orange bitters) is like a summery, lightened-up Manhattan. The sparkling Chinon probably paired better with the sweet and sour–Italian-ish, not Chinese–sweetbreads, though.

Share on Tumblr

May 20

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Three Continents, Three Boroughs

Onomea Despite New York Times attention and practically being across the street from my apt, I have always been resistant to Onomea. Maybe it’s all the starch. Maybe it’s the small menu. There are really only five entrees and drinks-wise, three beers and two rums that you can mix with fruit juices like strawberry-guava. The mom-and-pop vibe works, though. Being NYC, the portions are reasonable and there’s a salad taking up one quadrant of the dish, a green anomaly you wouldn’t see sullying a plate lunch in Hawaii. The kalua pig, pulled roast pork shoulder that’s not wildly dissimilar to North Carolina bbq, feels like mixed-up picnic fare when taken with bites of rice and macaroni salad. The appetizers will have to wait–my dining companion doesn’t eat pork or raw fish, squelching any shared poke or spam musubi.

Donostia With Huertas just a few avenues over, the East Village is turning into a pintxos destination. I’ve yet to see anyone capture the San Sebastian spirit fully, but at least we’re getting closer. Txakoli is on tap and montaditos are the showpiece, displayed on the counter yet prepared to order. Grilled halloumi and mackerel breaks the cheese with fish rule deliciously while thick aioli topped with curling octopus legs, and razor clams anchored by a white bean puree both present seafood on bread in a more traditional manner. Of course, you can also just have Spanish charcuterie and cheese.

Uma’s I’ve never been down with the whole still burgeoning Rockaways scene, but sometimes you acquiesce. Uzbeki food seemed like an odd choice for the neighborhood, odd enough to try. The service and food were a little wonky, which wasn’t unexpected considering the lackadaisical energy heavy in the air. The beef in the plov was tender, not too lean and almost lamb-like (the meat I really wanted) in flavor. The rice, though, was just shy of fully cooked, creating a chew that nearly reminded me of the grit that kept turning up in my mouth after sitting on the windy beach near a crumbling dune. That said, I would still go back. It’s a popular place and nearly nothing on the menu is over $10.

Share on Tumblr

Posts from the ‘Williamsburg’ Category

Eaten, Barely Blogged: French-ish, All-American, Mexican Mash-Ups

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Oleanders & Four Horsemen

Shovel Time: Burma Noodle Bar

Williamsburg’s Most Eaten a.k.a. Goodbye To All That (Food)

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Brunch & Burgers

Shovel Time: The Gorbals

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Skewers, Shawarma, Sable

Pasar Malam

Eaten, Barely Blogged: The Great Outdoors

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Three Continents, Three Boroughs

Featured

Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

My Other Blogs

What?

The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101