Feb 10
Not that I personally buy into any edibles as aphrodisiac, but here’s my article "The Food of Love" (I don’t write the headlines, yet unfortunately I do write some pretty nice puns and alliterations) from yesterday’s New York Post.
Does it get any more exciting on a Thursday early evening? Apparently, it does–I'm just about to head over to the Outback Steakhouse across from my office. Foster’s and fried onions await me.
Maybe it's the 44 ounces of Foster's talking, but this eerie Midtown Outback totally rules (sorry, no rules, just right). I've been eyeing this branch ever since I started a new job across the street from their take out window. There's something absurd about advertising curbside service ("no rules just right to your car") in a city where no one drives. But then there's something absurd about an Outback Steakhouse on the cusp of the Upper East Side, too.
Nothing pleases me more than the absurd so I was thrilled to finally pay this anomaly a visit. The most glaring difference between this Outback and every other one I've ever been visited, is that there wasn't a wait. In fact, half the tables were empty (though there was a minor male dominated happy hour scene at the bar) I've waited over 60 minutes in Edgewater for the privilege of a seat. This lack of large families with toddlers crowding the entrance was unnerving. Of course the prices are all a couple bucks higher ($8.95 Bloomin' Onion as opposed its $6.96 New Jersey counterpart), but that's the price you pay for NYC class.
To be honest, I'm not fanatical about steaks, meat is meat (well, Peter Luger is pretty convincing). I just like the rigmarole and side dishes. I never know which cut to order and really I don't know how much it matters. I ultimately went with a 9-ounce center cut filet, medium rather than my preferred medium-rare because even ordering medium gives the waiters conniptions. I'm sure it's part of their training, but they insist on explaining what medium means, emphasizing that there will be some pink in the middle like they're trying to scare you up a doneness notch. I don't think they're even allowed to serve anything prepared rare.
So yes, the steak was meaty. And after filling up on onion loaf, a peculiar dressing-heavy blue cheese chopped salad (I only ordered it because I never realized you got a choice besides the standard Caesar) bread and butter and a giant mug of beer, I only had room for half of my filet and chunky mashed potatoes. I don't think I've ever tried dessert at Outback. I'm not even sure what they offer–oh, that's right, The Chocolate Thunder from Down Under, duh. Maybe I'll get really wild and stop in for the disturbingly named hot fudge brownie sundae some night after work.
Outback Steakhouse * 919 Third Ave., New York, NY
What to make for a Super Bowl party that's really just an excuse to eat bad food and break in a new larger than life plasma TV? Of course, I had to at least skim my favorite messed-up standby, the Kraft site (I also enjoyed how Food TV had Steelers themed food that was all pierogies, kielbasa and sauerkraut while Seahawk fare consisted of wok seared Dungeness crab, oysters, smoked salmon and taro chips. Is that like blue state/red state cuisine demarcation?) because they know how to celebrate (using as many Kraft products per recipe, of course). I was a little wowed by the Cheesy Football, and amused by the sixth (at this moment in time) comment:
This cheese ball was so great! it was such a big hit at our super bowl party we will be having thanks to this website…i have so many great ideas to share w/ u and my friends of all ages including newborns! thank you see u there !
Uh, newborns are allowed to eat this shit? Or does Crazymel20041 just like hanging with newborns? I'm totally confused.
So, I skipped the Cheesy Football, and went pretty bar food basic: guacamole, hot jalapeno crab dip, and saucy little smokies. I'll admit I went with the cocktail wieners simply because we had half of a two-pound Costco bag in the freezer (same with jalapeno poppers, which I also cracked open).
Oh, and it was hard to resist the bizarre simplicity of the half jelly, half chili sauce smokies recipe (a variation floating around the internet is half jelly, half mustard). Grape jelly isn't something I keep around the house (poppers and smokies, sure, but grape jelly? You've got to be kidding) and I had the good fortune of having recently opened and nearly orphaned a jar of pineapple jam in the fridge that I'd only needed one tablespoon of. I conceded and bought a jar of that ketchupy Heinz chili sauce and shook in an additional blob of sambal oelek. Pu-pu platter perfection.
James manned the deep-fryer because it gives him purpose. He went to town with Buffalo wings and Jane showed up later with cornmeal breaded okra, which also got the hot oil treatment. We had intended to deep-fry a few candy bars, but reason got the better of us.
The past couple of years Rich has brought over his specialty, and my nemesis, Cincinnati Chili. I like to believe that I'm not a fussy eater. Really, the only thing I hate is melon, but there are items that are low on my list, just not in full loathsome territory. Those things include spaghetti, chili and wieners, all components of this regional treat.
I'm still not quite clear on the eating procedure. There's the pasta, which gets topped with the chili and grated cheese, but then there are those whole wieners floating in the chili to contend with, not to mention the hot dog buns and oyster crackers. It's all very confusing. Three-way, four-way, five-way?! I will say that I like the cinnamon as a chili component, it's not a spicy style, but weirdly mole-ish.
And while the Cheesy Football got a pass, the theme lived on in Patrick's Staten Island supermarket football cake. Score!
Ok, I was poking around the Food TV site, as I do from time to time, and about halfway down, in the middle of the page I noticed this peculiar line drawn man's face. Is this supposed to be a Food TV personality? I totally don't recognize the guy. It's not Alton, Bobby, Emeril, Mario or that whatever Ham on The Street guy. Who else is left? When you hold the cursor over him he suggestively raises his eyebrows or winks. I'm offended, he's almost as much of a nuisance as the Microsoft Word anthropomorphic paperclip. This animated chinless wonder is driving me nuts.
Er, ok, I just solved my own stupid mystery by actually clicking on the damn icon and…well, it is that Ham character. The whole thing is totally nonsensical. The illustration is a bit more svelte and sans soul patch (I guess it's tough to have a beard without a chin).
1/2 I feel like La Flor is one of those Chowhound darlings (at least it was some years back) as was corroborated by the 95% white middle class clientele (myself included, I guess) that mysteriously was almost exclusively made up of pairs of 40-ish women. But I've never been in all of my years. If I find myself along these parts of Roosevelt Ave., I inevitably end up in an Asian establishment. And even this excursion was a fluke. We'd been shopping at Western Beef in Ridgewood and wanted a taco, which could've been satisfied en route back to South Brooklyn. But the pull deeper into Queens was too strong to resist.
I know, La Flor is more capable than a mere taqueria–the short ribs sounded tempting and the cheesecake and bread pudding filled dessert case taunted me all evening–but we just wanted tacos. I had to try the special al pastor ones since I'm crazy for pork and pineapple. I happened to be sitting right near the spit, so I could see the meat being shaved off. Clearly I wasn't the only al pastor fan, as a lot of slices were stripped off before mine made their way to my table. The tacos looked larger than average, the two corn tortillas seemed to be slightly bigger in circumference. Or maybe it was an illusion because of the generous amount of filling. The meat was crispy edged, sweet and earthy with hints of fruit. I could eat a pile of it. The two tacos came with a mesclun salad topped with fresh corn for $8.95, which seemed fair enough.
We shared a shrimp quesadilla that came red, white and green stripes of salsa and crema. Festive. And the filling wasn't overly cheesy, in fact there appeared to be mashed potato chunks mixed with the seafood and green onions.
Coupled with a glass of the ever popular Yellowtail Shiraz (no, not fancy, but not jug wine either), the early evening meal was a nice way to waste time while waiting for a severe downpour to pass over the elevated 7 tracks. I can see how this corner caf appeals to locals looking for variety. (2/4/06)
La Flor * 53-02 Roosevelt Ave., Woodside, Queens
I’ve always wondered why there wasn’t more written about African food. I guess South America doesn’t get a ton of ink either, but Buenos Aires is trendy these days. Even all those random (to me) countries like Montenegro, Estonia and “The Stans” (Uzbeki, Tajiki, etc.) seem to be popping up more and more. But Africa? Not so much. And it’s not as if I have any wisdom to impart, that’s why I want to know more about what they eat, and not just Morocco or South Africa. I mean, Africa contains 54 countries so there’s got to be something good in there.
That’s why I was glad to see ”A Taste of Ghana” in this week’s New York Times (interestingly, it’s currently the fourth most emailed article—New Yorkers want more African food!). Also, Robert Sietsema’s “Foo-foo Fundamentals” in October’s Gourmet. Gourmet doesn’t put much of anything online, but it’s an article about traveling around the U.S. and trying African restaurants. I don’t have the story on me, but I recall he went to D.C. and Texas, among other places. Ok, that’s only two major publications, but it’s something.
NYC has a smattering of Ethiopian restaurants and that Senegalese strip on 116th St., but I plead ignorance on much else. I think I have a preconceived notion that much of the food will be bland and stewy, which is likely false. I’d better get out there and find out.
This is a good lazy Friday night choice, assuming you live nearby. There would be nothing lackadaisical about it if you had to trek on the G/F, then bus it. The vibe is a little more bar than restaurant, the service is casually hands-off like most of Red Hook (I wouldn't call it neglectful, but it's de rigueur in these parts for staff to just up and leave, wander outside, smoke a cigarette, socialize, etc. for long stretches of time) but you'll get your beer and you'll get your food and everyone will be happy.
I tried the pulled pork, which for $12 comes with jalapeo cornbread and two sides. I chose French fries because I'd heard they were top notch and collard greens because I love a mess of stewed leaves. As I'm no bbq maven, I can't be constructively critical. For me, the meat was fine, possibly a tad dry. Purists would probably take issue with something. The fries were skinny, crispy and parsley-flecked and plentiful. Portions are generous all around. The scene is low key and rustic, totally befitting a growing enclave that's as close to the middle of nowhere as you can get in New York City.
Pioneer BBQ * 318 Van Brunt St., Brooklyn, NY
Um, I'll admit to having second thoughts about my new job (and so what if a coworker reads this because that's a fair statement, no vitriol or hate or specifics, just that I'm not fully convinced of my decision yet) but what wasn't expected was an informal job offer from the NY Post. I am a shameless master of puns and alliteration. Be thankful that I generally spare you from my purple prose (I totally used the phrase "libidinous libation" in the piece I turned in today–no lie–and no regrets). I don't have a journalism background, there's that tricky detail about how I don't know Spanish or a thing about reggaeton (a.k.a. ass fucking music in my vernacular) which they love writing about and I'm pretty sure the pay would be less (I think with my new salary I might be lower middle class now, just like I was raised, can't go messing with nature), but in an abstract way I'm loving the whole notion because it's so bizarre. If I was younger and hadn't spent a fortune on graduate school I would probably consider this seriously. Would a suburban biracial writer feel strange about working at Essence? I don't know. I'm so not a textbook NYC Latina, I wouldn't feel right about it, but I never feel right about anything. It's just kind of sad about New York, that there's so much media here, but so many publications, high brow, popular, revered, trendy, whatever, are so closed off to "regular" (no, not saying minorities–it's not like I identify as one anyway) people, ambitious or not. Individuals who didn't go to prestigious schools, or follow the correct path or befriend the right people, i.e. 90% of this country. I guess those are the losers that blogs (I wonder when spell check will start recognizing blog as a legitimate word and stop red underlining it) were created for. Back to off-putting work neighborhood. I just don't get the upper east side (not sure if mid-50s are technically upper but it has that feeling) it makes me feel uneasy and sad inside like Victorian chimney sweeps, street urchins and anything Dickensian. Oliver! made me physically ill as a child (though Mark Lester is one hot child. Wow, what a sexy/dirty site fronting as a "Boy Choir & Soloist Directory") which was probably enhanced by the period piece within a period piece, 1968 meets 1838 in a collision of eerie style and film stock. The Upper East Side isn't quite like that, but reminds me of '70s sitcoms, where characters like Rhoda might live and The Jeffersons definitely did. Like ferns and chrome and revival of art deco fonts, doormen buildings with wall to wall carpet, Gloria Vanderbilt, pastrami on rye, Annie Hall-inspired vests and trousers, and restaurants with French maitre d's and dance floors (I've never seen such a thing in my life, but they're always used on tv to signify a fancy establishment. Even Roseanne and Dan went to one in Lanford–I saw that a couple months ago). It feels dusty and dated, I'd cry if I had to live here (isn't it the new hipster zone, though?). Case in point, there's a Wendy's two blocks from my office. I'm no fan of Wendy's, I go maybe once a week because they have a relatively cheap inoffensive salad, and it's always a madhouse. I used to complain about the Grand Central area, lots of tourists and slow walkers, but this is totally the opposite, mean, nasty residents and office workers. People actually play chicken with me on the sidewalk, make eye contact and then speed walk into my path like I'm going to move. I don't think so. The odds are that I'm heavier than the interloper and wearing flats so I have more stability. A smaller woman in heels will topple into a painful heap if they won't get out of my way, and I don't budge. So, I thought the old Wendy's near Grand Central was bad, but oh my god, they were so this millennium. They had three separate lines and a register before you got to the cash register where they'd take your order and if it went smoothly (which it rarely did) your food would be ready by the time you made it to the front of the line. This semi-upper east side Wendy's is totally analog. They have one enormous line and a girl (sometimes a guy) with a checklist pad who physically marks down your order and then rips off the piece of paper so you can hand it to the cashier after waiting in line some more, and then there's a wall of customers standing around the registers for their food to be made and the cashiers are constantly yelling "next" but no one knows where to go because there's no room to stand once you get out of line. My point is, how on earth does having a human write down your order so you can give it to another person, speed anything up? I do agree that the fewer words exchanged the better. Customer service people never understand my English because I don't have an accent. I'm serious. But if you speak really bossy and belligerently and mumble and say "gimme" or "let me get" instead of "may I please have," they totally respond. Even freaking Oliver Twist said please before asking for more.
I'm afraid Jan. is finishing off with a whimper rather than a bang. I've been neglectful because I've been researching/writing a Valentine's article for the NY Post that I think is due today, but isn't quite done because whenever I get tiny bits of free time I squander it on things like watching 24, eating banh mi from the new kind of lame in the scheme of things, but good for what it is Vietnamese sandwich/bubble tea shop that just set up in Cobble Hill (but what would you expect of "ethnic" food in a area like this), accompanying James to the nether reaches of NJ, near Delaware and Pennsylvania to track down one of the only (relatively) nearby in-stock Panasonic TH-42PX50Us at a random Circuit City in Deptford, a weirdo town with lots of pickup trucks (you never see them in NYC), liquor stores, abandoned movie theaters and malls that still have '70s fonts like how the Gap logo used to be. I would be perfectly happy with my old 13" I had shipped from Portland over seven years ago and basic channels, but I don't mind reaping the benefits of another's giant plasma high definition television mania either. I'm thinking there will be an impromptu Super Bowl party this Sunday, not that I follow football, but TV needs to make itself useful. I hope to be a posting powerhouse in Feb. but until then, read about the horrible lunch scene in my new job neighborhood and an Indonesian restaurant in Elmhurst.
I'm still trying to figure out what kind of name Hanco is, or if it's anyone's name at all. It doesn't sound terribly Vietnamese, I'll say that much. Maybe I watch too much TV because the first thing that came to mind was Hanso, like the mysterious foundation on Lost.
At first I found it hard to believe a banh mi store would set up shop in Cobble Hill (or is this technically Boerum Hill–I find the border of those two neighborhoods even more nebulous than Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens). And with bubble tea? Is that right? Maybe they're trying to cash in on two perceived cross-cultural trends that New Yorkers have embraced. Part of me was just excited to have banh mi in the area (I hesitate to say neighborhood, Hanco's is one subway stop away or a twenty minute walk and not on my way to anything) but I also was wary because it didn't seem like a natural fit. Kind of like Nicky's in the East Village as opposed to the original An Dong in Sunset Park.
The sandwich was pretty close to what I'd expected, satisfying enough under the circumstances, but not kick ass in any way. The rolls weren't quite right and seemed a bit small (normally, one banh mi is plenty, but I ended up eating both that I'd bought to take home. Maybe I was just ravenous from banh mi withdrawals). The construction was heavy on the marinated shredded carrots, and contained more ground pork than I'm used to. I did like that the sandwiches weren't super mayonnaisey, but that's my own personal food aversion issue (I've grown to accept and even enjoy mayo, but I don't like seeing large pockets of the thick white sauce).
I was hoping they'd have a selection of snacks, more like Ba Xuyen, but even the salad and spring rolls listed on the print menu had been scratched out with Sharpie. It seems that they're still getting their bearings.
The space was a little austere and dead silent. A bit of music or background chatter couldn't have hurt. I was afraid to breathe or shuffle while waiting patiently for my sandwiches to be prepared. Even the three workers kept quiet the 15 minutes or so that I was in there. A mom with two small children was sitting at a table when I first arrived, so apparently Cobble Hill tots aren't averse to Vietnamese sandwiches. However, they tossed out barely touched bubble teas declaring them "too sweet." Also, very Cobble Hill that kids would take issue with sugar content. Jeez.
Hanco's * 85 Bergen St., Brooklyn, NY
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