Posts from the ‘United States’ Category

Aug 15

McCormick & Schmick’s

Did I love it? Not so much. There was an overall feeling of stinginess despite attempts to project sophistication.

Despite springing from the verdant fir-y loins of Portland just like me, I've never eaten at a McCormick & Schmick's before (I thought I had but that was the lovely Washington Square Newport Bay with the panoramic view of a cemetery). If you're northwestern, patronizing such chains just isn't done. However, if you're northwestern and find yourself at a mall in Bridgewater, New Jersey looking at Crate & Barrel beds, there's much less shame.

More upscale, i.e. expensive, than a Red Lobster and stodgier than a Bonefish Grill, stained glass depicting a Revolutionary War cannon, banker’s visor green drapes framing the coveted booths flanking two dark wood walls, an endless Alto sax soundtrack and a tray of shellacked desserts to entice tableside, evoke another era, perhaps the cusp of 1990. The naming of each fish's place of origin is very 2000's, however. The napkins are cloth though the wooden tables are bare, a distressing cost-saving trend we noticed on our last Bonefish visit. I'm paying for class! Another nod to new frugality was the absence of bread and butter unless asked.

I try to avoid filling up on empty carbs but briny, white wine-spiked broth shouldn't go to waste even if it was almost too salty. They also come with a little container of popcorn butter. Don’t feel bad about summoning bread to accompany the steamed clams. The portion was a little skimpy for sharing and two mollusks didn't open, acting as accidental server kryptonite. No one would touch or remove the bowl thinking we hadn't finished yet. I suppose I prefer the just in case leave over the overzealous grab.

Judging from most of our fellow diners, largely 40+ twosomes and a big group celebrating a birthday, 90% who cleared out by 9pm, soda in glass tumblers is the beverage of choice. I'm a weirdo who drinks wine at chains (fast food restaurants adding alcohol is a growing trend so clearly I'm not that weird). A 5-ounce Pour of a Chilean (Haras Di Pirque) Sauvignon Blanc with the clams and 8 ounces of Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling, which seems to be standard chain Riesling, with my entrée. No, I'm not an oenophile. I don't even have a problem with Charles Shaw.

I've been wanting to buy live lobsters from the Red Hook Lobster Pound but they were already sold out by the weekend and I hate to admit I'm a little squeamish about killing a creature (cleaning live soft shell crabs nearly a decade ago traumatized me slightly) so I was drawn to the summer lobster section offering three choices. I should've just gone with the traditional whole lobster but wasn't up for lots of messy cracking. Instead, I tried the Caribbean grilled lobster tail with tropical rice pilaf. The bits of meat I managed to extract were sweet but had a not wholly pleasant bitter dirt-like spicing perhaps allspice in the jerk-y blend. At least I managed to eat chain seafood and avoid the breaded, fried and heavily sauced, August's self-imposed mandate is light and low in starch, though I can let the occasional slice of bread and scoop of rice slide.

I wouldn't call M&S particularly good value (appetizers could stand to have a dollar shaved off and I would be more comfortable with entrees losing about $4) and it didn't provide the breezy level of fun I crave from a chain restaurant. This is a case, where an independent seafood restaurant may have been the better choice, though I don't know that any exist in the vicinity. We played with the Urbanspoon app in the Apple store and all the shaking provided no deeper insights.

In short: Portland, Oregon-based seafood restaurant founded in 1979 with 85 locations in 26 states.

Pacing: This is an important chain benchmark for me. We are slow eaters and I like to see if a restaurant will go with the flow or stick to a prescribed regimen. At M&S our entrees were brought out while the appetizer was still on table.

Hard sells: No reciting of specials. Loyalty card applications are on table.

Signature dish: None that I’m aware of, but they do emphasize the fresh and seasonal.

Oddball item: Nothing too glaring, perhaps the spicy tuna "pizza" using wasabi mayo and avocado. There is also a section of five dishes called New Jersey Seafood Classics, that includes not super-regional things like fish and chips, crab cakes and fettuccine alfredo.

Cons: Being called ma'am maybe ten times. No female in their 30s should be called ma'am. (I just reached a restaurant scenario on my Spanish language mp3 that involved a husband correcting a waiter calling his wife senorita instead of senora, miss rather than ma’am. “This is my wife and the mother of my children!”) Take note. This is what a ma'am looks like to a 12-year-old playing an orphan half his age. The actress playing Ma'am a.k.a. Katherine Calder-Young Papadapolis was 43 when the show aired.

McCormick & Schmick's * Bridgewater, NJ

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Jun 30

Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napoletana

For not being much of a pizza aficionado, I managed to try two very good, very different Neapolitan pies in one week. First Brooklyn’s Motorino, then New Haven’s famous Frank Pepe. I know I was just bemoaning the lines at Lucali (Saturday at 5:25pm there were already about eight people out front and they don’t even open until 6pm) so it might seem nonsensical to drive two long hours in a violent rainstorm in order to stand in line at a potential tourist trap.

But it all ended up being worthwhile, the 35 minutes or so, mostly under an awning, didn’t kill me. (I didn’t partake, but I did like that drinking bottles of beer from paper bags while waiting outdoors seemed perfectly acceptable.) And the pizza was better than expected.

The non-New York-ness of being in a genuine pizza parlor–spacious wooden booths, enormous $11 pitchers of beer and big metal serving trays clanging around–was refreshing. I perked up immediately; the second I picked up the laminated one-page menu, I felt less bedraggled and damp. Or maybe it was the heat of the coal oven that they claim burns at 2,200 degrees Fahrenheit.

The menu was kind of baffling in the amount of variations offered. Maybe I'm not used to choice. Small, medium and large then fresh tomato pie or original tomato pie, mozzarella or not, toppings were grouped into different prices and you could also go half and half. We were confused because there’s a pricing matrix at the bottom of the menu as well as prices listed at the top. We had to pull out a calculator to determine if they were the same (they were).

Getting a clam pie was a given, but if we drove all the way up there we needed to try another style too, so we piggishly ordered two mediums: a white clam pie with no mozzarella and another with spinach and bacon. I guess that’s a weird combo but the novelty of bacon on a pizza was impossible to resist and the clumps of greens gave the illusion of a healthy counterbalance. The other vegetables like mushrooms or broccoli just didn’t seem right. I have a hard time with broccoli on a pizza. As you can see above, there is a fair amount of cheese on these pizzas.

There's nothing delicate about a Frank Pepe pizza. The browned crust is stiff and more than a little chewy. These are filling irregularly shaped slices. The squiggles of briny clams are substantial as well, with nice chunks of soft garlic, rivulets of olive oil and a dusting of parmesan that all meld into one oozy layer. I think mozzarella would've been too much, though the popular addition of bacon I could totally get behind. But it's best to experience tradition before going wild with extras.

I'm not sure if this original location is the best (there are currently branches in Fairfield and Manchester) but I didn't want to take any chances. Pizza-loving gamblers should note that they will be opening a Frank Pepe location inside Mohegan Sun this coming Wednesday. In some ways that makes more sense than transporting Rao's, Bouchon and the like to Las Vegas. At least they're keeping it local.

Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napoletana * 157 Wooster St., New Haven, CT

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Jun 7

Iron Hill Brewery

After a grueling afternoon of outlet shopping in what felt like the middle of nowhere, Limerick, Pennsylvania, an early dinner was in order. The on site Ruby Tuesday wasn't calling to me so we checked to see what the GPS might come up with nearby. There appeared to be a cluster of restaurants in two towns: Royersford and Phoenixville. I wanted to avoid already-known-to-me chains and was wooed by Texas Roadhouse and Iron Hill Brewery. The latter sounded classier so off to Phoenixville.

Along the Schuylkill River, Phoenixville was quainter than expected with a cutesy main street inhabited by outdoorsy types. I was willing to be swayed by any restaurant along the strip. The thing is, independent doesn't necessarily mean good cooking. The little hamlet was rife with tapas abuse.

One restaurant, 101 Bridge, with colored strobe lights and a disco ball beaming from the second floor of the historic Victorian house, was advertising $16 "tapas" of chicken marsala and rigatoni. Ok.

Just down the way was The Fenix, "Phoenixville's only martini and whisky bar" offered tapas that included, California rolls, lobster nachos and a peculiarity called shrimp lejon, which you'll soon see is a favorite of the area.

I also wasn't sold on New Orleans pizza whatever that might be. So, we ultimately ended up right where our car's oracle suggested in the first place: Iron Hill Brewery, a bright clean suburban-style restaurant with vague upscale tendencies (lots of $20+ entrees and steak) and an almost comical seriousness about their beers. It really wasn't terrible in the least, though unprompted you will get a lengthy description with lots of flowery tasting notes if you ask about a beer. To their credit, they'll also give you juice glass-sized tastes if you show interest in a particular brew. We ended up with full servings of the Abbey Dubbel, Pig Iron Porter and Extra Special Bitter.

Always a sucker for a cheese plate, we had a cheddar sampler and honestly I don't remember which each wedge was. The crumbly aged variety in the middle was a favorite. Extras included grainy mustard, pear compote, dried cranberries and cinnamon-sugared walnuts.

Ok, here's that shrimp lejon again. I pronounced it lehon like it was Spanish and was corrected to lezhan. Apparently lejon is the combination of shrimp, bacon and horseradish, here in the form of a pizza. I ordered it because it was so foreign. I've never heard of this creation in my life. I'm assuming it's regional, much like that frightening Goeslin coiff, which I did see on a woman in the dining room. I'll concede that the flavors combine well, the creamy mildly hot horseradish sauce instead of tomato helping balance the double richness of bacon and shrimp. I still think it's weird, though.

Fish and chips in a beer batter, of course, their Vienna Lager.

Iron Hill Brewery * 130 E. Bridge St., Phoenixville, PA

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Jun 6

Amada

1/2 I don’t really eat at places like Amada in New York. There's something Meatpacking District about the popular Philadelphia Spanish restaurant and its environs, which also includes sceney mega-eateries like Buddakan and Morimoto (both now with NYC outposts). I wouldn't go so far as to say Amada is style over substance; the food was solid but I don't think the bulk of their clientele is serious about what on their plate.

The small collection of kitchen-side counter seats a few steps higher than the rest of the room seemed to be the foodie section, and tellingly occupied by diners a good decade or two older than the rest of the couples and groups of men dressed in mirror image uniforms of untucked patterned oxfords and jeans like the sales guys in my office. I didn't even notice the women.

I also had my eye on Cochon, a pork-centric French BYOB, but settled on Amada because I like Spanish food. (Though it might’ve been folly since we were just in Madrid—do you really want to compare a cuisine on its on turf to a second or even first tier American city's version? I did.) Plus, Ecuadorian chef Jose Garces, who's developed a mini empire based on the cuisines of Spain, Mexico and Peru (with a dash of China), had just won a James Beard best chef award for the Mid-Atlantic region. That must say something? I haven't even eaten at The Modern and Gabriel Kreuther was our winner.

I hate to say no when asked, "Have you dined with us before?" because it's not likely I'm going to be enlightened by whatever is coming my way. In this circumstance, I acquiesced and we were prodded to order three-four dishes per person. That initially seemed a bit excessive. Then next thing I knew we were picking wildly from the menu, trouble that stemmed from a 9:45pm reservation without a proper lunch to cushion the two pre-meal gin and tonics at a dive down the street (perhaps I should've compromised with a single $12 violet tequila martini called Talk To Her—yes, the cocktails are all Almodovar inspired). "Small plates" can wreak havoc when ordering on an empty stomach. In the end we definitely picked too many—seven items in total—and easily could've done with one less dish, probably two, and should’ve asked for our cheese at the end.

No dainty amuses here, this was a tuna-based dip, akin to something you might see stuffed into a pequillo pepper, with crackly flatbread triangles. It got ignored because within minutes everything non-cooked came out in overwhelmingly successive waves. There was too much going on.

Serrano ham was fine but nothing special. We didn't really need this. The accompanying cornichons, mustard and caper berries were totally Gallic and a little off-kilter even though they suit cured fatty meat.

Caña de cabra with fig-cherry marmalade, Manchego with lavender honey and Roncal with black olive caramel. I guess we didn't have to order three cheeses but I like sampling a variety. I expected to be drawn to the olive caramel (which I can't even remember and blurred with the fruity jam) but was surprised at how amazing the Manchego with honey was. Normally, I’m kind of creeped out by the gooey cloying sweetness of honey and I never would eat it straight (I felt doubly vindicated after recently reading Ruth Reichl doesn't like the bee product either, doubly because I had read that sentiment before) and I hate eating flowers too, but something about their pairing created a magical savory reaction. We ended up using it for all the cheeses and futilely looked for a jar among the many Amish stands at Reading Terminal Market selling honey (and separately, lavender flowers) but clearly it's not a specialty of the region.

Deconstructed patatas bravas were reminiscent of the tiny filled cylinders we just had at Sergi Arola Gastro in Madrid. These were fatter and rougher, a lot more potato per aioli dollop, though not mealy like the traditional version can be.

I will never not order a sweet-meat combo even topped with cheese so the coca with duck and dates was impossible to ignore. It was certainly classier than a ham and pineapple pizza but the concept isn't all that different.

The paprika-dusted rounds of octopus and potato were tender and zapped with flavorful char around the edges. We could've eaten twice the amount. I do need to look into why squid is always cheap but octopus is often pricey.

Ok, we had to squeeze some vegetables in. Warm limas and favas in a vinaigrette were substantial and had great texture. Who knows why lima beans have such a bad reputation.

The breaded lamb chops stuffed with goat cheese and sitting atop blobs of romesco came late in the game so I didn't have the appetite to appreciate them. One of the most expensive dishes at $19, these weren't a necessity. Now I know.

Way too full for dessert (but not for a midnight run to both Geno's and Pat's) we were sent off with a simple thin almond cookie.

Amada * 217-219 Chestnut St., Philadelphia, PA

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Jun 3

Geno’s & Dalessandro’s

1/2 Some Americana I love (cheeseburgers), some I could live without (hot dogs). Cheesesteaks are definitely in the love category. Lots of goo and grease, less tame than a burger. Even though I haven't detailed it extensively, I've tried quite a few Philadelphia specimens over the years. Of course, Geno's and Pat's numerous times, Tony Luke's, Chubby's (second choice after a no go at classily named Chink's) and now, Dalessandro's.

On my most recent visit, I did a taste comparison between South Philly drunk-magnet impossible-to-miss Geno's and the cramped Roxborough no frills lunch counter, Dalessandro's (which is across the street from Chubby's). (We also picked up a cheesesteak at Pat's, but James ate it before I could get a photo or even a bite.) At the latter, it felt like everyone was known by the staff, but that might've just been because they ask for your name when you place an order. There is a few minute's wait because everything is cooked on demand.

Geno's is more of an assembly line with their gruff schtick and pre-made subs that are instantly slid across the counter toward you. Geno's doesn't sell alcohol while Dalessandro's has refrigerated bottles of beer—I spied Yuengling and Labatt. Beer makes sense with cheesesteaks.

Dalessandro's just feels better (unfortunately, I didn't take any photos inside or outside) which is why my conclusion pains me. I actually prefer the "touristy" sandwiches like Geno's above (cherry peppers not my doing). It's the style more than quality. Both are good in their own ways, but they are different breeds. I will give them both two-and-a-half shovels because three just seems weird for either (though looking from my 2001-02 perspective I deemed Pat's worth of three shovels—it was a younger, gentler time).

Dalessandro's chops the meat fine where Geno's uses Steak-umm-like thin strips. I prefer the solid pieces of beef to the crumbles. Of course, you can ask for Cheez Whiz, American or provolone pretty much everywhere but Geno's screams whiz, just look at that orange façade. I didn't specify what cheese I wanted at D'Alessandro's and was given provolone by default. Sure, provolone is classier but it melts away to nothing and is subtle amongst so much beef . Provolone is perfect on a roast pork sandwich (which I'll get to later) but for me a cheesesteak needs the sharp, unmistakable tang of viscous processed cheese.

Dalessandro's is definitely a better value, the sandwich is nearly twice as big, a giant hoagie completely stuffed to the bun’s limits and costs $5.94. Geno's is petite on a cut roll and a little skimpy for $6.75. My ideal would be a massive sandwich with steak slices and plenty of whiz. Onions too. And while you can find a bottle of now all-American sriracha (my cheesesteak condiment of choice at home) at Dalessandro's, it's worth trying a few small spoonfuls of the chunky hot chile sauce at Geno’s. It burns like crazy, so much so your mouth numbs and everything starts tasting like dirt. I never said it was a positive experience.

How they are wrapped to go. Paper-lined foil and logo-covered paper. The foil keeps the heat in better for immediate eating.

Pardon the unappetizing display of these halves. I'm a leftover freak. What I learned the hard way was that the foil isn't a good idea if you’re saving the sandwich for the next day. Dalessandro's uses a softer bread and the sandwich had steamed, sogged and adhered to the wrapper. After re-warming both, I had to rip off the formerly crusty exterior of the roll to get the paper off. Eat Dalessandro's sub immediately. Geno's, maybe due to all the processed ingredients, held up just fine.

Geno's * 1219 S. 9th St., Philadelphia, PA

Dalessandro's * 600 Wendover St., Philadelphia, PA

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May 22

The Old Bay Restaurant

1/2 Despite lacking any serious intentions of moving, I do everything I can to not be in New York on weekends. I should consider myself lucky to live in a spacious apartment in a coveted Brooklyn neighborhood, and I do, but that doesn't mean I get satisfaction roaming around my own environs. My surroundings are about the new, the in, the crowded, what's been written about. Being in the thick of things can be fun but frequently I want the opposite.

Others have second homes to remedy this urge. Though I scoff a the luxurious concept, I have known absolutely non-wealthy people (social workers, office assistants) who share cramped NYC apartments to afford a weekend home to flee to by train 6pm on Friday.

I'd rather approximate a comfortable nest here and escape to the suburbs every couple Saturdays, if only to sit in a car with only one other person, shop at well-stocked box stores with helpful staff and eat bad-for-you chain food. It's not only grounding, it restores my sanity and enables me to face those three painful subways Monday morning.

(I really enjoy complaining about the absurdity of living three miles from my office, a straight shot across the East River [don't go stalking me, now] yet having to take three subways five stops, or two subways four stops plus a 12-minute-walk to get there. And maybe if I get it out of my system here I won't have to go into therapy to control my anger. I've actually figured out a tolerable morning solution [it doesn't work going home because the M and R don't share a station in Manhattan]. If I buy an unlimited card I can take the F two stops to Jay St. get out of the station and walk one block to Lawrence St. to catch either the R to Whitehall St. or M to Broad St. on the same platform. If it's after about 9:40am, the M has stopped running for the rush hour and it's R only, but this route can shrimk a typical 40 minute commute into 25 minutes.)

I've tried branching out but Westchester and Long Island do not provide the nearby solace I seek. Only New Jersey will do. I don't know that I would live there, not because of its stigma—that means nothing to me because I grew on the west coast, likewise, I can't understand New Yorkers who get off on Portland—but it certainly wouldn't add any sanity to my commute and no one would ever come visit.

There was no question that if one were to see Star Trek on opening weekend it would have to be in New Jersey. I'm not a trekkie by a long shot, but it's something to do on a Saturday. I was hoping for an empty house at 11:30pm in New Brunswick and nearly got it. I don’t think there were more than ten people in the entire huge theater. And I was pleased to see human versions of the Comic Book Guy, four men had shorts, ponytails and large guts.

But first, we had to eat. New Brunswick is a happening scene (and apparently, rocking). The miniaturized downtown strip has that trying be glossy, martinis, steakhouses and dressy Italian food style (I'm also picturing grand pianos but that's probably wishful thinking), that ends up looking '90s. It's how I imagine Houston or Atlanta looking. I've never been to either city but that was exactly my impression of the area around Beale Street in Memphis. I had been expecting more grit and less casual upscaleness. Of course, this is only like a two-block stretch of New Brunswick.

The Old Bay Restaurant appears to have a lively bar scene, a scary scene, frankly but what would you expect from an establishment with the slogan, "Every day is Mardi Gras?" I didn't think the Cajun-ish food would be very promising and it wasn't really. But sometimes it's more about the experience than the food. It's not as if there is great New Orleans cuisine in Brooklyn either.

The Cajun martini was actually kind of foul, not so much because of the spice but it tasted too much like food. Pepper vodka, green Tabasco and olive juice with a chile rim.I don't mind blue cheese-stuffed olives in a martini, though, and that's definitely food.

They were big into "sharing plates" i.e. appetizers. They had run out of the crab and spinach dip, which implies my taste in appetizers is on the mark and very mainstream. Instead, we had the andouille and croutons. Is that even a real dish? It was fine in a junk foody way but seemed improper somehow.

I'm not even crazy about jambalaya, gumbo and etoufee and only trust them in their natural habitat. Maybe it's terroir but they never seem to work outside of the Gulf Coast. So, I didn't see the harm in eschewing tradition for orzo (tricolored, no less) with sliced duck breast. It was ok for what it was, not terribly exciting, at least the duck wasn't overcooked and managed to retain crispy skin.

With a bit under half an hour to kill, we grabbed a pint at Tumulty's, a Germanic place decorated with dark wood beams and toy trains that I mistook for an Irish pub. Maybe it is an Irish pub, though there's Cajun shrimp on the menu, I can't figure it out. Everyone at the bar was eating some very good looking burgers. That's what we should've had for dinner.

The Old Bay Restaurant * 61-63 Church St., New Brunswick, NJ

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May 14

Moghul

I just can't seem to stay out of the suburbs. I've been in New Jersey the past two Saturdays…by choice. There was some reason why we needed to go to Home Depot and Wal-Mart, but I couldn't tell you why now. Light bulbs? A mop? I clearly have issues with Brooklyn if I'd rather drive 26 miles (hey, that's a marathon) to accomplish simple errands.

But it does allow me to explore the dining world outside of New York City. Jackson Heights is fine but Edison's Oak Tree Road is hardly shabby. A few weeks ago while doing some non-blog research, I tried assorted mithai, paneer poppers and a vada pav at Sukhadia's, a vegetarian fast food joint. Sure, we have one in midtown too but I never seem to get up there.

One of my favorite spots in Edison is a strip mall with an Avon storefront, pool supply shop, and a Chili's in the parking lot. Oh, Indians and their love of fiery food. And apparently we'll be selling to them on their home turf soon. Actually, I'm not sure what the hubbub is over, the chain has existed for some time in “spicy” countries like Malaysia, Indonesia and Mexico. I wasn't surprised in the least to find one inside the Petronas Towers.

Behind the run of the mill stores is a mini Indian complex, complete with a Bollywood-heavy theater (X-Men Origins or Mitrudu, it's up to you) and a clump of eateries that I think are all affiliated. Moksha is non-vegetarian South Indian, Ming (where I've never eaten) is Chinese-Indian, Singas (which has a location walking distance from my apartment that I need try for at least novelty’s sake at some point) has individual pizzas served in strange bags, Mithaas is like a Desi Starbucks but with emphasis on sweets by the pound and meat-free snacks, not coffee (it just has that '90s leather chairs cafe look—check out their ambience page if you don’t believe me)

We decided to try Moghul, the fancier than usual Indian restaurant with photos of the owners with Jon Corzine and Mother Teresa in the foyer. It's almost like a Cheesecake Factory in there—lots of ironwork, travertine and intricate light fixtures. The type of place where people bring their own white wine (they don't serve alcohol, which we discovered too late to do anything about). Absolutely no connoisseur of Indian food, I was still able to tell that what was being served was more balanced and wide ranging than what you see on a typically see on NYC menus.

I had no idea what to expect from the aloo papri chaat, but I liked the yogurty hodge podge. There were chickpeas, dumplings, wonton-like creations they call “flour crispies” and potatoes, all drizzled with tamarind chutney and plenty of cilantro.

You like starch? Well, here's basmati, papadums and garlic naan. I have remind myself that bread and rice should be either or.

I should've ordered a real vegetable after all that but I wasn't thinking. Kafta naramdil are Twinkie-sized cheese dumplings stuffed with "dried fruit" (I honestly couldn't say which) smothered in a mild creamy curry. This can't possibly be healthy, which means that it was tasty.

There were plenty of more outré lamb dishes and tons of tandoori items that I would've explored if we had more people to share with. But the lamb vindaloo was surprisingly good, much spicier than anticipated and vinegar tart to stave off any richness overload.

My sugar-free weekday existence is always thwarted on Saturday. I’m like a binge drinker with candy (and well, alcohol too, on occasion). First, I couldn't resist a box of Crunch & Munch at Wal-Mart (I have a serious weakness for caramel corn, though I prefer the classier more caloric Poppycock) so I was determined to ignore Mithaas on the way back to the car. But it just couldn't be done. I was restrained and only chose half a pound of goodies.

I get the sense that not everyone is a fan of these colorful sweets that are practically all variations on condensed milk and sugar. To me, they’re irresistible even though many have the texture of Play-Doh. I like them even more than kueh, another colorful candied obsession. But I must admit the Malay treats that are practically all variations on glutinous rice and coconut milk aren't always as compelling in the mouth as in a display. Mithai totally have better payoff according to my palate. Now, I just need to learn all of their names so I can do more than just point at pans. Or better yet, they could put up little signs. Just for me.

Moghul * 1655-195 Oak Tree Rd., Edison, NJ
Mithaas * 1655-170 Oak Tree Rd., Edison, NJ

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Jan 19

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Clamming Up

We had time to kill between early dinner/late lunch at Chevy’s (first choice Jose Tejas was ten people deep waiting at the bar. Any time before 9:30pm on a weekend and you’re asking for trouble) and a 9:45pm showing of Gran Torino at the theater next door (it was the only vaguely watchable movie playing. Notorious was sold out and My Bloody Valentine was only in 2-D, lame) so I decided to find the answer to a pressing question I’ve always had. Where do people drink in the suburbs? At Applebee’s and Outback Steakhouse? You occasionally see strip mall sports bars, but seriously, where do people go?

This required detouring off chain-clogged Route 1 and scouring side streets. In this case, Wood Avenue in Linden, New Jersey, my favorite blue collar semi-suburb across from Staten Island. There were actual taverns along the little downtown strip dotted with Polish-Czech video stores and Eastern European butchers. Linden reminds me a little of Roseanne’s Lanford with the addition of minorities (the ratio of black teens to white adults at the movie theater was like 9-to-1).

I couldn’t decide which place to pick. Darkened windows with beer brand neon give little clue to what you might be getting into once you walk through a door. But when I spied anthropomorphic clams, one with a bottle of beer and another chomping on a piece of pizza, I knew Linfield Inn was our bar.

Still, I’m hesitant to walk into dive bars in neighborhoods I’m not super familiar with. Will it be tight-knit and cold shoulders or easy going and friendly? I never ventured into a single old man bar along Fresh Pond Road the three years I lived in another Eastern European enclave, Ridgewood, Queens because I’m just not the type who wins over strangers everywhere they go. I’m not a regular anywhere. (I’m still not sure why my coffee cart guy seems so fond of me [I feel incredibly guilty since moving floors and getting a coffee machine. I only stop by every few weeks now and my absence has been noted]. Maybe smiling and saying please and thank you is enough for some.)

After I opened the door in the back entrance in the parking lot, I was taken with the sign on the interior door beneath the Bud Light logo pointing out the bar and restaurant on the left and a historical society and reference library on the right. Really? Now we were talking. My photo is blurred because I was paranoid someone was going to push the door into me while quickly snapping it.

A few tables were finishing dinner as we entered and the rest of the clientele was made up of a handful of 45+ year old guys who all seemed friendly with the younger bartenders. A little later two college-aged couples came in together and ordered platters of fried food. A gruff Walt Kowalski (technically, I didn't have this thought until after seeing Gran Torino) type showed up and started busting the bartenders' balls and made me wonder when racial epithets might start flying. A disproportionate amount of customers were drinking cranberry juice and vodka.

I turned down the offer a menu because we’d just eaten, but now I regret not at least seeing what was on it. Was the burger advertised on the sign outside worth trying? And what about those clams? I also regret not having time to stay for a second drink or for the live entertainment promised at 10pm. To date, my only experience with live entertainment near Route 1 was the guy belting out ‘90s covers at Cheeseburger in Paradise.

In 2009, I vow to explore more side streets and independent operators. Ignoring the siren call of suburban chain restaurants won’t be easy but I’m up for the challenge.

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Jan 14

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Carrabba’s

If you're like me, you pass by roadside beacons like Carrabba's, Bertucci's and Macaroni Grill and despite your indifference to Italian-American food (I hear the entire February issue of Gourmet is devoted to the cuisine though I've yet to receive my copy in the mail and am in no hurry to), wonder what they're like because you can't resist the allure of a chain, any chain. I mean, aren't they all kind of Olive Gardens at their core?

I was in the wilds of East Brunswick, testing out the new GPS I bought (as a gift) for Christmas to see if it could find Hong Kong Supermarket (a point of interest according to the GPS) and afterwards, Makkoli, a Japanese buffet (not found by name in the GPS). Before I could reach my all-you-can-eat sashimi goal, I was lured by the starchy promises of Carrabba's.

"It's more upscale than Olive Garden," James promised, apparently an old pro from dinners with his parents in Northern Virginia. That's not saying much, though I get what he meant. No photos on the menu or zingy folded cardboard promotions on the table, and no free salads and breadsticks. Everything's a la carte and a few bucks more than a suburban OG (though not necessarily a Manhattan one). I ended up with a $10 glass of wine at the bar, which seemed steep by chain standards, though it's not like anyone forced me to order the Coppola claret. I switched to the $9 quartino of chianti special with dinner. Oh, but it's classy because they pour the wine into an individual glass carafe for you dole out as you like.

At the ungodly hour of 6pm on a Saturday it was family central. I knew what I was getting into. However, I'm still not sure why parents bring kids little enough to need distractions out to eat at places where sitting relatively still is required (maybe I'm just jealous because we rarely went to sit down restaurants when I was a child. And other than maybe Sizzler, fast casual chains didn't exist yet. We would occasionally go to Heidi's, a local favorite with a Swiss-themed gift shop and dazzling pastry case). The toddler with a DVD player at eye level on the table disturbed me much more than the girl walking her plush pony up the mini blinds near to us. At least physical toys require some degree of imagination.

The food was standard issue and plated in sparse lonely ways. Crab cakes seemed awkwardly shoved to one side with an awful lot of real estate devoted to the sauce.

My lobster ravioli looked like I'd heated up a frozen pack from Trader Joe's and tossed it on a plate, more in a hurry to catch 24 (sure, I'll still watch Jack Bauer torturing people) even though I'm DVRing it. Ok, there were some herb bits scattered on top, which is more garnish than dole out at home.

Carrabba's has totally tapped into the mini dessert trend, offering $2.50 "bacino," which translates to creamy parfaits in glorified shot glasses. I wasn't biting as can be seen in this photo of the Chocolate Dream, a bit of fluffy overkill by way of Kahlua brownie with chocolate mousse and syrup. I could've sworn there was ice cream in there. It definitely needed ice cream.

I hate macaroni, which will prevent me from trying a Macaroni Grill maybe ever (I can only picture noodles dripping with Velveeta over flames). Bertucci's, I might give a chance. Though the chain I've always meant to visit but haven't is P.F. Chang's. Looks like the closest one in the strangely named town of West New York, NJ,. Maybe I'll put the GPS to use this weekend.

One thing Carrabba's has over Olive Garden is that if you mention them on Twitter they'll start following you. Brands connecting through tweets is one thing, but when Damages' Patty Hewes started following me I got kind of scared.

Carrabba's * 335 Rt.18, New Brunswick, NJ

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Nov 6

Red Robin

Despite being a Northwest chain, I don’t think I’ve eaten at a Red Robin more than once and nearly two decades ago. I have only a vague youthful memory of restaurant, and the nagging feeling that I perceived it as upscale. I’m not sure if that says more about Oregon or me.

I keep seeing their TV ads and just like with Sonic’s commercials, I instantly feel compelled to look up just where these non-NYC chains exist in these parts. New Jersey, of course. I figured I could squeeze in a visit while scoping out the Norma Kamali collection at Wal-Mart (kind of eh, but I enjoy being a L instead of an XL at Wal-Mart. Oh, just figured out that I'm now a L by most chain store standards–guess my sugar/starch limiting has finally paid off. Unfortunately, "bottomless fries" will show up later in this missive) and picking up hair darkening shampoo and conditioner at Menlo Park Mall’s Aveda (I overheard the cashier mention her food court break at Chick-fil-A. I totally would’ve gone if Red Robin wasn’t already on my itinerary. Even she knew about the “hidden” NYU cafeteria Chick-fil-A).

James wanted to go to Five Guys, but what’s the fun in that? We can walk to the one in Brooklyn Heights if we wanted. No, I’d rather spend $20 in tolls and drive 34 miles to find out that frankly, even a well-done Five Guys burger is kind of preferable to Red Robin’s “gourmet burgers” cooked to an internal temperature of your choice.

It wasn’t so much the food, but the inept service and overall Saturday night suburban mayhem that detracted. Yes, I have standards even for chain restaurants.

I wasn’t sure what to make of the we card if you look under 39 1/ 2 deal. I don’t think they were joking, but I still chortled when asked for my ID and being pointed at the button stating just that pinned to our server’s (who’d just turned 21, we were informed for no reason) shirt. Like if I’m going to illegally purchase drinks, I’m heading to a NJ Red Robin. I know they’re just doing what they’re told, and maybe I should’ve been more weirded out that the bartender who barely looked out of middle-school didn’t card me earlier. I like to believe I don’t look 40+ even to someone half my age.

We took cues from the locals and ordered the onion ring appetizer, which is admittedly kind of an odd starter. And it practically became a dessert since we weren’t brought our tower until asking about it after we’d received our burgers. This is the glitch that soured me. I don’t think it’s petty to have a separation between courses whether that is onion rings on a pole served with dipping sauces and a jalapeno laden burger or prawns with sunchoke puree and garlic confit and grass fed burger with Cotswold cheese (the same timing issue bothered me at James in Prospect Heights a few months ago).

I’m tempted to declare chipotle sauce (mayo) the new ranch but it appears that America is embracing the two equally, together. Both came with these onion rings. And the combo isn’t exactly new to Frito-Lay or Rachael Ray, for that matter.

I’m not one who rambles on about fat percentages or meat blend ratios, but I will say that lately I’ve swung into the less is more camp. If you can’t even taste the meat in your burger, then what’s the point? There was a bit too much going on in this 5 Alarm Burger, which was more than obvious from the name. All the lettuce, jalapeños, salsa and tomatoes overwhelmed and I couldn’t even detect the pepperjack cheese even though I could see it. Really, I was more interested in the fries and onion rings and consequently grew too full too quickly to eat more than a third of this. Beer and starch has a way of doing that.

The thick cut fries sprinkled with their trademark seasoning (that also sits in a big plastic shaker on the table) were tasty enough that I ate most of them, but I’d much prefer a thin crispy fry to a fat meaty one. I think they make them hearty on purpose to eliminate anyone actually taking them up on their bottomless fry promise. Yes, you heard that right–all-you-can-eat fries.

Red Robin * 6200 Hadley Rd., South Plainfield, NJ

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Posts from the ‘United States’ Category

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Clamming Up

Carrabba’s

Red Robin

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