Posts from the ‘What to Eat’ Category

Nov 26

Thankfully Yours

For no reason at all, this year I couldn’t bear making a turkey, stuffing, potatoes, pie type of Thanksgiving meal. I did want to cook, though. My alternative criteria included strong flavors, vegetarian-friendly and not Asian (my usual inclination). The M’s: Middle Eastern, Moroccan and Mediterranean seemed wise (and had nothing to do with Turkey bird/country puns). I was finally able to use the restaurant cookbook, Moro, a 2004 Christmas present from my sister. Ultimately, I settled on the following:

Squash Fatayer
Turkey Bisteeya
Green Beans with Cinnamon Yogurt
Golden Rice with Cranberries
Pumpkin Flan with Spiced Pumpkin Seeds

I’ve never understood the guilt, family obligation, whatever that comes with celebrating the holidays. I just had a few other orphans over for mini slumber party, low-key Thanksgiving dinner. Where I get this apathy from became apparent when my mom called Thursday and mentioned that she was shirking a family celebration, herself. Those relatives all practically live in Portland so it’s not a long haul travel issue for anyone. It’s very much a case of why bother with things that are unpleasant or difficult (fine for family gatherings but it inevitably extends to concepts like going to the doctor, fostering relationships, exercising and eating well, career advancement and the like).

The best part of the conversation was when I asked what she was doing at that moment. “Oh, I’m baking cupcakes from a spice cake mix.” No harm in that though it only reinforces how cooking from scratch was, and apparently still is, exotic (the last time I went home for Christmas, maybe in 2004, my cousins had done a bit of home baking. Unfortunately, everyone was on an Atkin’s bender and in my mind Splenda and artificial lemon extract cancels out the whole scratch thing).

I was originally going to work Thanksgiving and then said fuck it. I didn’t want to be a martyr but losing a day’s pay also sucks. While I would prefer it to be metaphoric gravy, the last article I wrote could cover two day’s lost wages with a little left over so I took the initiative to be lazy. I probably should’ve worked yesterday (Friday) now that I think about it but I couldn’t get out of bed until 1pm. (Besides, I’m being positive and counting on some good news next week. It would be very strange to start 2007 with another new job especially since I already did the exact same thing this January. I think 2007 will have to be an entire do over of 2006.) So, I had more time to prepare food than I’d anticipated but it still took way longer than expected and there were a few flubs. But there always is.

For the fatayer, which is a pastry typically filled with spinach, I used a combination of butternut, carnival and acorn squash and ultimately hand mashed rather than pureed. Next time I would use all butternut because the other two were a real trauma to peel and I wasted over half an hour messing with them. The end result was probably a little chunkier than called for but that was no biggie. I doubled the recipe and played a little loose with the measurements due to the grams/ounces conversion and made round pastries rather than triangular ones. The strange thing was that I had more than half of the filling left over after crafting eight doughy orbs. Maybe I understuffed, though based on the illustrative photos in the book I was right on.

With the exception of peeling the squash (which thankfully, I did the night before) these were pretty easy to make. I whipped them up while guests were watching Iron Chef America. Don’t be scared off by the yeast, rolling and rising (I usually am), it goes quickly.

Pumpkin Fatayer

Dough
220g all purpose flour, plus extra for dusting
½ teaspoon sea salt
½ teaspoon dried yeast
100ml warm water
2 tablespoons olive oil

Filling
800g pumpkin or squash, peeled, seeded and chopped into small chunks
½ garlic clove, crushed to a paste with salt
1 tablespoon olive oil
80g feta cheese, crumbled and mixed with ½ small bunch fresh oregano, chopped
1 tablespoon, pinenuts, lightly toasted
sea salt and black pepper

To make the fatayer dough, place the flour and salt in a large mixing bowl. Dissolve the yeast in the water and pour the oil into the water. Now pour the water into the flour a bit at a time while mixing. When all the water is added, transfer to a floured surface and knead well. If the dough is still sticky add a little more flour; if it is still crumbly add a little more water. Continue kneading for about 5 minutes until the dough is no longer tacky, but soft, elastic and smooth. Set aside to rest on the floured surface covered by a cloth.

Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 450 degrees. To start the filling, toss the pumpkin with garlic and olive oil, and season. Place on a baking sheet in the preheated oven for about 25 minutes or until soft. Remove and cool. Puree and taste for seasoning.

To make the fatayer, divide the dough in four and roll into balls. On a generously floured surface, using a rolling pin, gently roll each ball to approximately ¼” thick, making sure the shape is a rough circle about 6.5” in diameter. Put 1 tablespoon of the pumpkin and put a quarter of the feta (with oregano) and pinenuts on top. Moisten the edge of the circle with a little water, then lift the dough into the center around the triangle of pumpkin. With your fingers, gently squeeze the adjoining edges together until sealed. Trim the edges of the triangle of any excess dough and pinch together again.

Place the four fatayer on an oiled baking tray and bake for about 10-15 minutes in the preheated oven, or until the dough begins to color, but not totally crisp.

Serves 4

Recipe from Moro by Sam and Sam Clark. Ebury Press. 2001.

I’ve always wanted to make a bisteeya (b’stilla, b’steeya, whatever) because I’m nuts for sweet savory combos. I can’t understand people who are grossed out by fruit and meat cohabitating. This Moroccan pie would kill them because it’s not even subtle like sweet and sour pork; this monster is strewn with powdered sugar, cinnamon and almonds. It’s a total dark meat danish. I was also drawn to it because traditionally the entrée would be made with pigeon or alternatively, squab. Two birds I’ve never tasted, but clearly it’s about richness, which seemed like a perfect match for dark turkey meat.

I’m all for banishing dry poultry so I ended up poaching three turkey drumsticks as my base. This did prove tricky because all the recipes I found used chicken parts (the only turkey version I saw called for ground meat and that’s just wrong) which would require shorter cooking times. I was thinking I could simmer the drumsticks in an aromatic broth for maybe two hours but it dragged on all afternoon.

I adapted a recipe from The Traveler’s Lunchbox, who had already adapted it from various sources. Mine was definitely a mishmash. In a nutshell, you simmer dark bone-in meat in broth steeped with saffron, ginger, cayenne and cinnamon and onions. After the meat is cooked and removed, you boil the liquid down and add beaten eggs mixed with parley and cilantro until the egg is firm. Almonds are toasted, chopped and tossed with cinnamon and powdered sugar. To assemble the bisteeya, you layer lots of phyllo dough (warka for purists, but I wasn’t trying to prove anything) and butter and create layers of sweet almonds, shredded turkey and herbed egg and fold the phyllo sheets around the filling to create a big blobby pie. Then you bake until the pastry turns golden. That’s it. If it wasn’t for the turkey taking an eternity to cook, this would’ve been a fairly streamlined operation.

Admittedly, mine looks naked. I didn’t go the extra step and sprinkle sugar and cinnamon on top. By this point, I’d already had enough to drink that presentation had lost importance and only two people were eating it anyway.

I also needed something green and crunchy to balance the starchiness of the menu. These super easy vegetables did the trick. They look kind of grotesque in the photo, though.

Green Beans with Cinnamon and Yogurt

1 garlic clove, crushed to a paste with salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
14 ounces Greek yogurt, thinned with 1 tablespoon milk
1 ½ pounds green beans
sea salt and black pepper

Mix yogurt, garlic and cinnamon. Add salt and pepper to taste. Boil beans for 1-2 minutes, drain and toss with yogurt.

Serves 4

Adapted from Moro by Sam and Sam Clark. Ebury Press. 2001.

At the last minute (ok, the night before but that’s cutting it close) I decided we needed a side starch so I made do with things on hand and bastardized this Golden Basmati with Apricots. I used jasmine rice rather than the recommended grain (I only had half a cup) and dried cranberries instead of apricots since that was what was in the cupboard. It came off without a hitch and seemed more seasonal with the berries anyway.

I didn’t want to fuss with a crust so pies were out of the question, but this seemingly straightforward Pumpkin Flan with Spiced Pumpkin Seeds turned out to be a real pain in the ass. You’re essentially making a flan and combining a custard with a can of pureed pumpkin. Easy right?

Er, no. You’re supposed to push the mix through a metal sieve, but there was no way all of my goop was squeezing through the holes. Nowhere did the recipe say to discard solids either, so I spent at least 45 minutes fussing, forcing, trying different mesh strainers to no avail. I eventually gave up, and threw the remaining cup of too-thick batter into the dish as is. At the rate I was going the six-hour set time wasn’t going to be until after midnight (which ended up being fine since we weren’t ready for dessert until after 12am anyway). Not only did the flan not gel completely, it wouldn’t come out of the dish. I ran hot water over the back of the pan until it finally plopped out in an oozy block. I didn’t take a picture because it looked like shit.

Food aside, I’m always baffled how these types of evenings progress. Originally, there was a loose plan to play board games and watch hot gay teen hustler flick, Mysterious Skin (a perfect double feature would’ve been Brokeback Mountain, but that doesn’t air on cable until this Sunday. Though we did get a little unexpected man-kissing when we randomly clicked on original Cronenberg Crash, [I love how the decade-old website still exists] not cheesey Oscar Crash. I still think it’s weird how Elias Koteas ended up in all these arty flicks because I can only think of him as skinhead Duncan in Some Kind of Wonderful, which happened to be on TV today) but none of that happened. Five bottles of wine and a pack of Kools (I’m still not clear on the whys of how a friend started carrying menthols. For the record, I’ve only been smoking one-to-two cigarettes a week rather than a day so I figured a holiday binge wouldn’t kill me) will cloud good judgment.

Somehow we got sucked into the truly amazing, Kirikou and the Sorceress on the Black Family Channel (this French animated film is bizarre and charming in its utter un-American style. Without spoiling the story, it’s kind of about a precocious brave baby that’s born walking and talking and saves his village. That doesn’t sound terribly enticing, but one of my friends ended up having Kirikou show up in her dream the next night. It sticks with you). Next thing you know, I was watching the kind of crap that I’d normally chide James for putting on like Control, and marveling at Willem Defoe’s weird beauty. Then it was 6am and I was unable to turn off VH1 Classics, showcasing the hideous slightly before my time Rush, as well as the hideous firmly within my era Soundgarden. Somehow the night always ends with VH1 Classic (I have photographic reminders of how I practically cleared a room with my dancing to George Michael’s “Monkey”).

I’m not one for people photos but I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I was a true Thanksgiving orphan (no, I’m not pictured).

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Nov 22

Smoke Joint

I'll admit to being fascinated by the smoked vs. deep-fried throw down over on Grub Street. For me, there’s no question. Fried anything beats all (in fact, just two nights ago there was an impromptu canned biscuit frying session that erupted in my kitchen). I’ll dabble in the smokier side every now and then but I’m not passionate about barbecue. Though after seeing Little Children (admittedly, a more conventionally satisfying film than Old Joy, the last one I saw. I can’t resist those movies about nothing, especially when they’re steeped in northwest-ness) at BAM, it seemed silly not to check out nearly new Smoke Joint up the block.

For once, our timing was right. There was only one other table occupied and the order counter was free and clear. Of course, after we grabbed a four-seater and our food arrived, the fairly small space became completely swarmed and guilt set in for occupying a large table with two unused chairs (but then I force myself into inconsiderate, oblivious NYC mode and all is well). The circumstances did cause me to eat faster than usual. At prime dining times, I can see the set up definitely lending itself to take out.

It probably wasn’t the wisest to order two pork dishes but it happened. We tried the ribs and the hacked pork. The loose meat came with coleslaw and an assortment of pickles. The bones stood alone. I didn’t have a problem with either, though the ribs had a slight edge over the shredded meat, which leaned towards dry. Or maybe that was just the relentlessness of pure unadulterated flesh that got to me. I had to intersperse bites with the cabbage and cukes to stay sharp. We rounded out the meat with fries and corn on the cob, both chile spiced.

For the record, they serve Blue Point Toasted Ale in bottles and it tasted nothing like the problem pint at Sheep Station. (I have no qualms about Sheep Station, if it were walking distance, I’d pop in every now and then, but I was amused by this line in last week’s New York Times review, “Make sure the tap lines at the bar are clean!” Ahem.)

Smoke Joint * 87 South Elliott Pl., Brooklyn, NY

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Nov 20

Sahara

I never thought I’d attend a party walking distance to Sahara but that’s the benefit of a boyfriend who works with numerous non-American-born folks. Hipsters, god bless them, don’t live in Gravesend. (While it’s fun to try Ukrainian food—cabbage turnovers, caviar crepes and imported smoked ham—it’s not so fun to play board games with Eastern Europeans. It reminded me of how no one would let me and my sister play on the same Pictionary team because we thought too much alike. At this beer tasting party, they had some random game called Apples to Apples, which is totally subjective, hence, hard to play with foreigners. People didn’t know what the Challenger explosion was but agreed on nonsensical things like a Hiroshima being Spicy. They also all knew about some game called Puerto Rico, which sounds made up to me, but then, my mom had been going on about a game called Mexican Train which I thought was bullshit and it turned out to be real.)

I would have no idea what Sahara even was if it weren’t for the giant billboard ad that used to be stationed a block from my apartment. It’s not a destination restaurant, the service is nearly non-existent (though I do like the water pitcher on every table—I’d rather help myself than be at the mercy of fickle waiters) but the food is fairly good. I would get take out from the bustling front counter all the time if it were in my neighborhood.

Wedged amongst the middle-aged Jewish families, large Arabic parties, petite tracksuited women with abnormally large breasts, and young Brooklyn girls (we were sandwiched by two groups of them who kept shooting the other table dirty looks) who share salads and dips and shun the bread, I felt conspicuous snapping photos. Please excuse the blur.

On this visit, we kept it simple with a shared fried eggplant dish from the cold side of the appetizer list. One of Sahara’s selling points is their freshly baked Turkish bread that I think is called pide (sounds like pita, but is nothing like the thin pockets most people are familiar with). I also had the adana kebab (it’s really hard for me to not say Adama. Wow, I just made a totally unnecessary Battlestar Galactica reference, which is why this is called Project Me rather than Very Informative Restaurant Critiques) which is lightly spiced ground lamb that’s been formed around skewers like logs, then grilled. Most entrees come with rice, herby onions and a char grilled tomato and surprisingly hot long green pepper. Everyone seems to order the feta-laced salad. We didn’t but will likely give in on our next Sahara excursion.

I love how the “Sultan of all Kebabs” has his fez-topped mug plastered everywhere including the tiles on every tabletop.

The giant, glowing meat sundae (see 1/16/05 entry for explanation) beckons all who pass by

The next evening I caught Head-On on cable, a film about two suicidal Turks living in Germany. (On the edible angle, they do mention kebabs and raki.) I had wanted to see this when it came out a couple years ago but it had a limited run and last year when I remembered it at Blockbuster, someone had already rented it. Despite all the foulness and initially unlikable characters, it’s really about love, sad love. I saw two movies Saturday where a mismatched couple vows to meet and run away together and one member chickens out. That’s always bothered me. But then, I guess these films wouldn’t be alluringly tragic if people found happiness running off on buses and trains for something unknown and potentially better.

So, DVR Head-On, grab some kebabs to go, invite Ukrainians over for board games and beer drinking and see what shapes up. (11/20/06)

Nov 7

Tacos Nuevo Mexico

It was a going with what you know weekend. There are all of these new places opening vaguely in the neighborhood, brick oven pizza three blocks up Henry Street and barbecue in Fort Greene and Park Slope but new frequently equals annoying. And for reasons I won’t go into (because they’re boring not because they’re salacious…I wish) this past week had enough built in trauma to push me into the arms of thoroughly charted food territory. It was my stand by South Slope isn’t all that near but Tacos Nuevo Mexico is the closest Mexican restaurant that doesn’t melt cheese on everything or serve chimichangas (sorry Mezcal’s). El Huipil is technically closer but I wasn’t all that impressed on my one and only visit.

I was first introduced to TNM by a former stalker who I was inadvertently leading on by entertaining his notion that I might sublet his 12th Street apartment while he was off busy starting and subsequently getting fired from a new out-of-state job (the same fate befell him at the NYC job where we became acquainted). He suggested we get drinks on the cantina side where I’ve never sat since. At the time I lived in Queens and barely knew the area, though I was tickled by the discovery that the much-maligned M train stopped in both neighborhoods, current and potential. Anyway, I’ll confess that the food didn’t leave much of an impression on me but that’s likely because alcohol was my primary focus.

I couldn’t even say at what point I became a Tacos Nuevo Mexico convert. I used to have a dilemma living on 31st Street where I was in between their 12th and 44th street locations. I’d usually end up at the Park Slope one because the atmosphere was more inviting and happened to be nearer to things like my bank, gym, a pharmacy, grocery stores, etc. (as opposed to upper Sunset Park which had/has none of those things). Fifth Avenue in the 40s and 50s is much more of a Mexican food hotbed than the teens, TNM is a bit of an anomaly (even more out of place is Milan’s, the Slovak joint off 22nd Street that I was always too irrationally scared to visit. I’ve never had an affinity for Eastern European culture despite accidentally living in a Bosnian/Roma/Serbian/Polish enclave for three years).

But yes, the food. I forget how good it is. There’s really no going wrong with their namesake tacos and there’s plenty of choice from tongue and tripe to routine chicken and carne asada. Rather than folded typical taco, these two-dollar treats come wrapped in a cone held together with waxed paper. As I was taking the above photo, our waitress swooped in and stuck a plastic fork in one. I don’t see how you could them hand held without creating a mess.

I went porky and had one carnitas, one pastor. I do like how they’ve decided that different fillings should have different salsas (though I can’t remember which came with green and which merited red). I originally ordered a taco de buche off the handwritten specials menu but they were out. I’m not even sure what I missed out on but felt up to a surprise. I figured buche was something mouthy but the waitress motioned with her hand on her neck. Throat tacos? Some sources say buche is cheek (very Batali) but most seem to point to pork stomach or more esoterically, the lining around the stomach. The thing is that even if I go back and am able to try the buche, I doubt I’ll be able to gauge which body organ it is by sight. Who knows what throats and stomach linings look like tucked into a corn tortilla?

They did have the huitalacoche (I must be spelling that wrong because when I Googled to check this site came up as the first hit, and lord knows I’m not that popular) quesadilla from the specials insert. The vivid red, white and green stripes almost succeeded in drawing attention away from the oozy black innards. I didn’t try the enchiladas tapatio, but I gathered that each of the three cylinders contained a different filling, kind of like a Mexican happy family. (10/3/06)

Oct 30

Royal Indian Oasis

*as per comments below, Royal Indian Oasis has kicked the bucket. (3/25/08)

I have no idea when Indian Oasis added Royal to their name because it’s not like I get out to subway-less Queens so often and it’s not the kind of breaking news bloggers go nuts over. The décor, prices and “Close Tuesday” misuse on the takeout menu are all the same as my last visit nearly two years ago but I imagine the Royal addition would be new management flair.

All I really need to say is that kung pao potatoes are a peerless fusion treat. Neither forced nor fussy, this genius Indian-Chinese invention (Taj Mahal? Great Wall of China? Feh) plays to both cuisines’ strengths without getting silly. (And no, kung pao isn’t completely made up American but it might go by gong bao ji ding in China). When fresh from the kitchen, the potatoes are sweet, slightly crisp and genuinely spicy. Crunchy water chestnut slices and peanuts add texture. Potatoes seem made for this combination. Halved dried chiles coupled with fresh diagonally sliced green ones, generate a heat that surrounds your tongue and sticks around for a good ten minutes.

We also had sliced lamb chilli, Hakka style, which was a strong choice–same for the lollipop chicken called drums of heaven (left). The Hakka noodles weren't anything special. There’s nothing mediocre about Royal Indian Oasis. The food is a shade better than both Tangra Masalas and they don’t go completely overboard with the corn starch thickeners.

I do worry that they aren’t drawing enough customers. There was only one other couple when we came in and only one small group appeared before we left. Perhaps 9:30pm isn’t prime dining time in suburban Queens, but the sushi place with Bennihanna table side cooking, a few doors over, was hopping.

Royal Indian Oasis * 184-22 Horace Harding Expressway, Fresh Meadows, NY

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Oct 24

Mie Jakarta

There’s certainly crossover amongst Indonesian, Malaysian and Singaporean cuisine though I’ve only experienced the latter two on their home turf. (As to the countries themselves, our teenage waiter keenly summarized “I hear Singapore’s mad clean” while chatting with a customer waiting for take out.) I think that’s why Indonesian strikes me as more esoteric. There are a buttload of islands (I’d say 17,508 qualifies for buttload status) besides Bali, and regional specialties abound.

Elmhurst is home to three restaurants: Upi Jaya and Minangasli are Padang in origin and Mie Jakarta, just a couple storefronts over from Minangasli, serves Sulawesi-style noodles (read about their rivalry if you have Times Select). I’ve now tried all of the above and I have to say that I was least crazy about Mie Jakarta. But that’s not to say the food is poor in any way because I'm prejudiced against poor egg noodles (I also generally steer clear of goulash and Eastern European fare that might contain said starch strips). I do think their use is an interesting remnant from Dutch colonialism, but in that vein I’d prefer a Malaysian prawn paste tea sandwich.

Other items are on the small menu, but the focus is the handful of variations on chicken noodle soup, mie ayam, which comes broken into two components. The larger bowl is filled with curly yellow noodles, greens, mushrooms, chicken chunks and the smaller vessel contains the broth. If you order mie ayam bakso, meatballs come floating in the broth and if you try mie ayam pangsit like I did that means you have three chicken filled wontons tucked along side the main ingredients.

Before I realized everyone else was eating their noodles interspersed with spoonfuls of broth, I dumped my liquid on top all at once. I must be missing the subtlety of the chew and sip approach. Maybe you don’t want the noodles getting too soggy?

I enjoyed the chewy-crisp contrast in texture (James had a problem with the fishballs and mystery meatballs accompanying his soup. Personally, I like the springiness of those items but that’s not a universal sentiment) and mild flavors, but I do prefer spicier Southeast Asian ricey-saucey or stir-fried noodle dishes. Of course, you can add chili sauce, which I did. Unfortunately, a previous diner didn’t screw on the cap and an orange stream splashed up James’s arm and caused him to declare that he didn’t like Mie Jakarta, which is pretty childish, if you ask me.

Despite our fall weather being completely incompatible with shaved ice dessert-drinks, I couldn’t resist ordering es campur. It wasn’t as brilliantly hued as some of these tropical concoctions but it did contain the requisite number of pleasingly disquieting tastes and mouth squishes that demand using both straw and spoon. There were chunks of jackfruit and various beans, peas, seeds, or who knows what, floating in the icy coconut milk. I noticed something made up sounding on the take out menu called es glamour, which I’m even more interested in after it failed to make an appearance on Google.

Mie Jakarta * 86-20 Whitney Ave., Elmhurst, NY

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Oct 24

Sheep Station

I’m all for new restaurants brightening up bleak strips of Brooklyn. I fruitlessly waited for something cheerier than White Castle, KFC or Twin Lin’s Chinese take out to bless Fourth Avenue in the no-man’s-land 30s where I lived for three years. Not even mild gentrification brushed that anonymous swath of Sunset Park that’s increasingly referred to as Greenwood Heights.

Upper Fourth Avenue appears to be having more luck. Sheep Station is the latest in what appears to be an Australian-ish boomlet (Wombat has possibly opened in East Williamsburg, and Carroll Gardens West’s DUB Pies, East Village’s Tuck Shop and Lower East Side’s Bondi Road aren’t all that old). I use ish in this case because the food isn’t overwhelmingly Australian (I was tempted to earnestly ask for a Bloomin’ Onion and Kookabura Wings). The fish of the day was barramundi, a meat pie was on offer and the burger comes topped with beets, pineapple, and a fried egg (which I’m assuming is de rigueur down under and not simply bizarre without reason) but generally the cuisine feels pubby.

By 10pm, when we arrived, there was a decent crowd, mostly drinking not eating. We opted to sit in the eerily cavernous back room (I know, I complain about being cramped and then I freak when given too much space). Facing edges of the rustic fireplace-warmed brick and concrete space contain tables, and a birthday party brigade occupied the comfy looking corner nook. The empty middle of the room seemed like it needed something, either more tables or clumps of milling drinkers. By 11pm we had a private dining room.

I went generic and ordered mussels and fries, while James had the fish and chips. Both entrees were solid renditions and fairly priced around $12, as I recall. The menu isn’t huge, which furthers the impression that Sheep Station is more of a bar that serves food (it’s hasn’t been referred to as a gastropub for nothing) rather than a full blown dining destination. But it’s a worthy stop if you live in the vicinity (or have been suckered into staying at the lovely new Gowanus Holiday Inn).

The only weirdness occurred when we ordered off-tasting pints of Blue Point Toasted Lager. Despite hailing from the world’s microbrew capital, I’m no hops-crazed know-it-all. But I knew enough to detect that something was amiss with the flavor in my glass. I can’t put it into words but it was plastic-like, possibly chemical, definitely not natural. Maybe it was just soap. I loathe raising issues with food or drink (thank god I’m no longer vaguely in P.R. where making a fuss and sending things back seemed like standard practice during company lunches) but we had to say something or else we’d wonder about it all night. We were gladly given different beverages, Coopers Pale Ale in bottles, but I know we were then pegged as diners who couldn’t handle strong flavors, as it was explained to us that it was a fresh keg and the beer was “extra toasty.” I know what toasted might taste like and that wasn’t it. Now, I feel compelled to track down a six-pack of Blue Point Toasted Lager to prove that I’m not needlessly high maintenance.

Sheep Station * 149 Fourth Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Oct 17

Flatbush Farm

1/2 I’m so not into the whole urban “farm” trend. Terms like seasonal, organic or locally grown excite me slightly less than fritter, popper or bacon wrapped (I realize the two sets needn’t be mutually exclusive—now, that would be a restaurant concept I could support). But I can venture into this terrain if doesn’t entail straying too far from my apartment and Flatbush Farm, while not walkable, was close enough for at least one visit.

The restaurant, which is situated on that semi-Prospect Heights, kind of Park Slope, mini-strip of St. Mark’s between 6th Avenue and Flatbush that’s nearly the tip of a triangle, wasn’t terribly crowded at 9pm on a Saturday. Bad for them but a boon to me. There’s nothing convivial about being wedged into a squished row of two-seaters.

They had the atmosphere down pat, slightly woody and candlelit yet modern and enhanced by design-y hanging bulbs. A Mo’ Stomy, their minty take on a Dark ‘n Stormy, was the perfect warming beverage to sip while skimming the menu, which was spot on with the sudden drop in temperature. Braised, stewy dishes were exactly what I’d had in mind and that’s where they excelled. I had a lamb shoulder with bubble and squeak, as they said. That’s one British classic I’ve never actually tried so I cannot vouch for any authenticity. This rendition seemed to consist of pureed potatoes (possibly with cabbage mixed in) topped with chunks of meat and whittled carrots and turnips, all sauced. James had the pork goulash topped with a wad of hearty egg noodles.

The country farm terrine with pickled fruit and toast was kind of flat and flavorless. I want terrines to be unctuous and rich. The plums brightened up the dish a bit, but essentially this was a chilled slab of what seemed to be canned chicken. I don’t know that I’ve ever had canned chicken but I imagine it would be like this: dry, chunky, grocery store tuna style. Maybe there’s a poultry based Chicken of the Sea product, after all. And initially our waitress thought that they’d run out of this starter, so obviously we weren’t the only ones ordering it. I’d love to hear other takes on this because it takes a lot to induce finickiness in me.

We finished with a piece of gooey chocolate peanut butter pie, which probably wasn’t necessary but hard to say no to. The feeling was relaxed enough that I could’ve lingered around for one more drink. I could see Flatbush Farm as fitting for cocktails and bar snacks. That menu includes things like fries with herb mayonnaise, radish and butter baguettes and tempura onion rings.

Because that’s the way I am, I have to toss in one unsavory tidbit. James threw up around 3am the night we ate here, which is something I’ve never known him to do in the eight years we’ve been acquainted (though I did hear a story about puking up his mom’s home cooked hamburger in a Northern Virginian movie theater restroom during The Aviator) and I really don’t want to blame the faux farm food. He insists it was the beer later consumed at Moonshine but we only had a couple I.P.A.’s. Maybe all that hormoneless, antibiotic-free meat was too much for his system.

Flatbush Farm * 76 St. Marks Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Oct 10

Applebee’s Linden

Sampling Tyler Florence’s corporate handiwork had to be done. I just didn’t realize it would happen so soon. It was 9pm, Saturday, and we were in a Linden, NJ strip mall parking lot. I’d already eaten at the Chevy’s earlier this year and wasn’t feeling inspired by Boulder Creek Steakhouse (I like lots of little caloric things not one big chain restaurant steak) so it was Applebee’s by default.

We tempted fate and ordered the spinach and artichoke dip. E coli is passe by now, right? I’m all for unneccesary fat but do you really need a huge side dollop of sour cream (not pictured) to accompany a crock of melted cheese?

I lamed out and instead of getting the crispy brick chicken I tried the non-Florence bistro steak sandwich instead (I wanted fries, not a salad). Luckily, James came through and got the bruschetta burger. The thing was like a damn shape shifter, no matter how many times I snapped shots the pesto foccacia creation turned out blurry.

The most remarkable thing about Tyler Florence’s "huge flavors" (next to the giant photo of his beginning to pudge-up mug emblazoned on the front of all the menus. I know I’m not the first to notice his treading into the fat man waiting to happen territory of D’nofrio, DiCaprio and Sarsgaard) that I sampled were the "crispy garlic fries sprinkled with shaved Parmesan," which tasted supremely unhealthy. I grabbed a few out of James's ramekin (yeah, the TF fries come in a freaking ramekin—mine were just scattered on the plate) and was like “those are really good.” They were sprinkled with rosemary (which you’d think they’d mention as it sounds vaguely upscale) and wet like the top of movie theater popcorn.

What the hell did they do to those things to give them that addictive buttery taste? Perhaps those huge flavors are the result of kitchen chemistry, trans fats and food additives. All I know is it worked on me.

Applebee's * 671 W. Edger Rd., Linden, NJ

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Oct 9

Sunday Night Special: Spicy Cold Noodles

I could've predicted that the second sick days were no longer a part of my life, I'd get sick. Last week was the first week that I was needed to come every day and I had to stay home Wednesday so I could lay in bed. I didn't even wake up until 12:30pm today and now I'm so exhausted I'm about to temporarily hit the hay and it's only 6pm.

I've been craving chewy spicy things like crazy. I think it's because I barely have any taste in my mouth and head's all stuffed up, so burning and chomping give me a boost. Today I've been eating spicy bamboo shoots from the jar and tripe from a plastic container. I'm not a fount of knowledge where Chinese food is concerned but I try and food hobbies keeps me out of trouble. (I'm so irked. This afternoon I wanted to watch the first installment of the new Gourmet show Diary of a Foodie, especially since it was a China episode, but something was wrong with channel 13; the image kept blinking and the sound was sputtering. I DVR'd it and now the episode is totally unwatchable. And to add insult to injury, both channels on either side were fine. Unfortunately, I had no desire Buried Secrets on 12/Lifetime or The Sandlot on 14/ABC Family.) I'm not clear how you're supposed to eat these often-pickled condiments. Do you put a couple spoonfuls over rice? Eat them on the side with other dishes?

I don't know who makes these bamboo shoots, the only English clue reads Hunan ZhuZhou Aolin Seasoning Foods Factory, which turns up zilch if you Google it. I might just be drawn to this brand because of the cute fire-breathing chile logo. I usually get their spicy radish variety, which comes with a red cap rather than a purple one. The ingredients listed are simply bamboo shoot slice, sesame oil, red pepper and salt but it seems like there's something else in there. The mushy, oily crunchy consistency almost feels like canned sardines.

Yesterday I went on one of my NJ shopping-for-things-I-could-find-in-NYC-but-don't-have-the-patience-to-do-so missions and hit Costco, Trader Joe's, Home Depot, Pathmark, Applebee's (more later) and Kam Man.

There are plenty of Asian grocery stores in NYC, just as there are numerous American grocery stores. And they're cramped and crowded and infuriating. Maybe it's because I didn't grow up in an urban setting nor a third world nation, so the charm of fighting for space and skimming shelves while being jostled is lost on me. Hong Kong Supermarket in South Plainfield is a lovable wide aisled gargantuan, my favorite, but I didn't make it out there yesterday. Kam Man in Edison isn't necessarily more spacious than its inner city counterparts, but it's more manageable by suburban default. It's easy to maneuver and the shoppers are relatively well behaved.

It can be painful trying to read packages or even stand still at the Hong Kong Supermarket in Sunset Park. No matter how you position yourself you're invariably in someone's way. Like I said, I'm no Chinese pro so I appreciated being able to leisurely scout out all the items on my list in peace. And almost everything I needed was strangely in a one foot radius: dried tsao-ko, which I'd never heard of but need for a red-braised dish, Sichuan peppercorns, dried chiles, Chinkiang vinegar and sesame oil.

I originally had plans to make a bunch of Sichuan dishes tonight but ended up solo this Sunday and hate making tons of food just for myself. Mondays I work till midnight. So, the beef and lotus roots will have to wait. Tonight I went simple made a cold noodle recipe from Land of Plenty.

I suspect these noodles might be the dish pictured on the cover of the book. If so, mine don't resemble that aspirational model in the slightest. I tossed mine which gave them a murkiness instead of sheen and used a full 16-ounce package of noodles instead of the suggested half-pound so the overall appearance was dry, not that slick, chile oil Sichuan style. But hey, they still tasted good.

Spicy Cold Noodles with Chicken Slivers
Ji Si Liang Mian

About ½ pound fresh Chinese noodles, Shanghai-style, a little thicker than spaghetti
1 ½ tablesppons peanut or salad oil
3 ounces bean sprouts
1 small cooked chicken breast or some leftover chicken meat
4 scallions, white and green parts, thinly sliced

Seasonings
2 tablespoons sesame paste, thinned with 1 tablespoon water
1 ½ tablespoon dark soy sauce
½ tablespoon light soy sauce
1 ½ tablespoons Chinkiang or black Chinese vinegar
1 tablespoon white sugar
2-3 cloves or garlic, crushed
½ teaspoon ground roasted Sichuan pepper
2-3 tablespoons chili oil with chile flakes
1 tablespoon sesame oil

Cook the noodles in plenty of boiling water until they are just al dente-take care not to overcook them. Rinse with hot water from the kettle, shake them in a colander and quickly spread them out to dry. Sprinkle over the peanut oil and mix it in with chopsticks to prevent the noodles from sticking together.

Blanch the bean sprouts for a few seconds in boiling water, then refresh in cold water. Drain them well. Squash the chicken breast slightly or whack it with a rolling pink to loosen the fibers, and tear or cut it into slivers about ¼ inch thick.

When the noodles and bean sprouts are completely cold, lay the bean sprouts in the bottom of your serving bowl or bowls. Add the noodles.

To serve, either combine all the seasonings in a bowl and pour the mixture over the noodles, or just scatter them over one by one. Top the dish with a small pile of chicken slivers and a scattering of scallions. Allow your guests to toss everything together at the table.

Serves 4 as a snack, 2-3 as a main lunch dish

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