Posts tagged ‘Barely Blogged’

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Homemade, Artisanal & House Baked

Coppelia
Media-ish parties can be fun (on the rare occasion I'm invited) but they're not generally the best source of food even when hosted in restaurants. After a couple hours of alternating red and white wine and a few nibbles of fancy chicken nuggets and shrimp tempura I needed something substantial yet non-starchy. Hence, Coppelia's take on a Cobb salad with roast pork and chicharrón. A few drops of habanero sauce was my own handiwork. Better than my occasional Cobb-esque salad from Pret a Manger, but probably also twice as caloric. Oh, and and a spicy cucumber cocktail.

Alewife
After spending part of a Meat Hook gift certificate (that I gave James for Christmas) on fancy pork chops (though I scoff, part of me does wonder if my Western Beef meat is giving me diabetes) and lamb casings to make homemade (would you prefer artisanal?) wieners for all-scratch Super Bowl pigs in a blanket, I didn't feel like trying any of the newish restaurants in Williamsburg that I've meant to (Isa, Allswell, Mercado on Kent, Fushimi [really!]) plus it was too early for real dinner. Instead, we headed to beer-centric Alewife in Long Island City. I didn't realize I'd already been to this spot's two former incarnations: Lucky Mojo, the bbq/Cajun mashup and whatever the bbq place was that preceded it (not to eat but to have a drink after that transit strike fiasco in 2005–the midtown ferry is a block away). I didn't even mind that it was the baby dining time after a 21st Amendment Back in Black IPA and roast beef slider. That sounds kind of eh, but it's really two mini sandwiches on rye (supposedly "house baked") with said roast beef, melted swiss, caramelized onions, and the best part: horseradish-spiked creme fraiche on the side which I used as a dip. Too dark for cameraphones and I was SLR-less.

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Eaten, Barely Blogged: Bum-Rushing

Hibino
For only four dollars more than what I pay for my occasional lunchtime chirashi near my office, Hibino, sort-of-near my apartment, presents a selection of raw fish, roe, okra (!) and omelet shreds that is the definition of jewel box precious. Plus, the rotating selection of $5 obanzai, Kyoto-style tapas (somehow it doesn’t bother me that they’ve appropriated the word as much as when it’s used to describe sliders or chicken parm) are unlike anything I’ve had elsewhere. There were meaty chunks of lightly battered, fried monkfish in a broth with baby bok choy and enoki mushrooms, crispy, sliced chicken cutlets served with a fluffy pumpkin tartar sauce, and a selection of soy-stained white blobs that turned out to be potatoes, burdock, and scallops that I’m guessing were dried and reconstituted (the latter dish just showed up, we didn’t order it, and the two others turned out to be more substantial than I’d expected for the price). Just beware that 10pm closing means 10pm—I’m conscientious about lingering to the point where being the last person in a restaurant is a phobia, and we still got the bum’s rush. Previously on Hibino.

Grand Sichuan House
It’s still nice having Sichuan food in Brooklyn, but things weren’t as good as I remembered from past visits. The dan dan noodles and cold tripe and tongue dressed in chile oil, and sautéed green beans with pork were all fine. The slices of double-cooked pork with leeks, though, were gnarled instead of fatty and lush and lamb with cumin was lacking any sear, what you might call wok hay. It was like when I sautee food at home and can never get the pan hot enough or the meat dry enough and end up steaming it into grayness. I’d still probably return if I happened to be shopping at Century 21 and the urge struck. Once again, we ended being the last people in the restaurant at 10:30, closing time, but managed to leave of our own accord, no prompting.

Empire Steakhouse
I finally gave into the late-night commercial (which they no longer run) touting their expensive/expansive/extensive wine list. We cobbled together a Peter Luger-esque meal of grilled bacon, creamed spinach, hashbrown potatoes, and a medium-rare porterhouse for two that was as good as any I’ve had in NYC (or maybe the non-expensive Napa Valley Cabernet clouded my judgment). The biggest difference between Empire Steakhouse and Peter Luger was that the staff was Russian, the clientele Asian, and barely audible ‘80s music kept pushing in and out of my consciousness. Why not eat steak to muffled Journey and A-ha? Thankfully, a couple of tourists came in half-way through our meal so we were only the second-to-last table left in the place.

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Eaten, Barely Blogged: Red-Sauced

Bamonte’s
Ok, I’ll admit that this wood-paneled old-timer’s recent appearance on Bored to Death made me think of going. The deal was sealed when I realized a party I was attending happened to be at a Night of Joy across the street at the end of the block. I try not to talk about Italian food at all because you just come across like a jerk if you say you don’t like Italian food, meaning Italian-American. I don’t want to insult this nation’s favorite cuisine. My hesitation stems from all the tomato sauce–it’s too tangy and one-note. (It could be argued that I just haven’t had a good version. Regardless, I still have zero interest in Torrisi—or now Parm—no matter how life-changing you tell me it is.) Twice a year I might break down and order something like two meaty pork chops smothered in red sauce, pizzaiola. Add clams casino, garlic potatoes, green beans, and a bottle of Chianti, and you’re set. Also, the ladies’ room (maybe the men’s too?) is entirely pink–I want to say that somehow that rosy shade has something to do with red sauce.

San Loco
At the time, a quesadilla made sense five hours after a substantial pork chop. Red wine and beet vodka will cloud decision-making (and stain the cracks in your lips to look like dried blood and no one will tell you). And if I have it out for Italian-American food, San Loco is more like a twice a decade anomaly.

Palmyra & Enoteca on Court
Solo since Saturday, I’ve been living like a bachelor left to his devices, garbage piling up, not shaving, ordering delivery. I like Palmyra because it’s faster than Zaytoons. All I really want is the pick of five mezes to eat with pita: labne, foul, babaghanouj, muhamara, mousaka. The tagine used to be lamb leg with prunes and almonds and now it’s chicken (it now says chicken on the menu, it wasn’t a surprise substitution). And they forgot my baklava. Maybe I’ll go back to Zaytoons next time. Enoteca, the casual restaurant next to Marco Polo, which is very Bamonte’s, has a good spicy, oily pizza, the Calabrese with sopressata, n'duja, and olives. It arrived still very hot and crispy.

Sottocasa
More pizza? This was from last week, though. At this Neapolitan newcomer I tried both the Calabrese (I prefer Enoteca’s because the n'duja is nice touch) and the Emiliana with cherry tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, prosciutto, and arugula. The latter, my favorite, was lighter and the crust held up while the meatier one was a little sogged-up. Maybe not destination pizza, but a fair Lucali alternative in you happen to live in the area (I only went because it’s a few blocks from my Wednesday night Spanish class—if you go on a Friday night it will be packed with waits for tables). Much of the restaurant’s appeal comes from the back garden, which is out of commission for the season.

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Eaten, Barely Blogged: Uncleansed

Zeppelin Hall
Somehow a Saturday juice cleanse (never attempt such nonsense on a weekend) segued into an Oktoberfest celebration at a Jersey City beer hall. By 6pm I felt cranky, useless, and zombie-like, which may have had more to do with caffeine withdrawals than a lack of solid food. I carried beet juice in my purse but ended up with a mug of Spaten Oktoberfest and a shared bratwurst. I am a failure at detoxing and can’t go without one meal a day (today was breakfast and dinner juicing with a Trader Joe’s burrito for lunch and that’s as good as it will get). I would not even continue perpetuating the juicing sham if I had not paid good money for a discounted 18-bottle supply from RueLaLa late one pathetic night. On the walk from the PATH to the subway I noticed the new all mirrors, glass, and flatscreens-filled so-called gastropub, The Fulton, that had replaced The Blarney Stone. Ugh, an opening night party was in full-swing and was pure Meatpacking District mashed with Murray Hill. Will bros and the tanned, hair-straightened ladies who love them really make the Financial District a regular habit?

The Vanderbilt
The Vanderbilt is very likeable, even though I’ve never given it a proper post. I wouldn’t call it a destination even though we drove there and have done so numerous times, and it’s clearly popular because there’s almost always a wait unless you go on the late side. James pointed out (it was his pick) that we don’t have any restaurants like it in our neighborhood. Bullshit, I thought. Doesn’t the entire northwest swath of Brooklyn have small plates (what some like to refer to as tapas) coming out if its ass? But then I started drawing a blank. I can’t think of anywhere in Carroll Gardens that serves well-priced snacks and sharable dishes with an American bent. Things like charred brussels sprouts with honey and Sriracha, perfectly caramelized, sweet and spicy, or the crispy little slab of pork belly flavored with smoked maple syrup and surrounded by cheddary grits. I don’t even like hot dogs and appreciated the Bird Dog, a foie gras and chicken tube steak on a potato roll with fat patatas bravas-esque fries.  Nearly nothing is over $14 and plenty of wine is under $10 a glass. I’m still trying to think of a comp in a ten-block radius from my apartment.

Maria’s Mexican Bistro
I never wanted to eat at Maria’s when it was in Park Slope, but now that it’s in Sunset Park it seems ok. Sometimes you want to eat in that neighborhood but feel like more atmosphere and reprieve from potentially blasting jukeboxes. My trio of enchiladas came with three different fillings—shrimp, chicken and queso fresco—and an equal number of sauces to match. Despite the bandera in its name, tomatillos, red chiles, and mole equaled green, red, and brown. White? Brown? Whatever. One of the flashier things to order is the molcajete Norteño, which is a bunch of sizzling shrimp, steak, queso fresco, and peppers served in one of those nubby lava rock vessels commonly used to pound guacamole in).

Waterfront Ale House
I’ve never had anything except the cheeseburger at this bar with a bustling dining section, and was a little wary after my last experience dealt me a medium-well instead of medium-rare. And I was especially nervous after waiting for 20 minutes on a weeknight after 9pm with harried (it’s a popular place with some oddly high-maintenance customers). I don’t send things back anyway, but if you had to and it took half an hour to receive your food in the first place, would you bother? No worries, the cheeseburger was perfectly pink and juicy with just a little sog; the brioche bun always stays together. Half of the fun is deciding which condiments to use from the twenty or so mustards, ketchups, and assorted savory liquids and goos displayed next to each table. Sweet-hot Inglehoffer mustard and green chile Tabasco for the burger and a mix of ketchup and chipotle Tabasco for the fries, followed by a blob of fruity HP and a dash of Outerbridge’s Sherry Peppers sauce on my finger because I always forget (flavor memories are just as weak as my normal memories) what the unusual amber liquid tastes like. Like alcohol and habaneros. I will return when fall finally stops feeling like summer and have a glass of their famous eggnog. Eggs, cream, sugar, and liquor is the anti-juice cleanse.

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Eaten, Barely Blogged: Seeing Double

FOUR at YOTEL: I don’t know that I’m the target market for clubby far West Side hotel bars with amazing terraces (and a Yobot) but the cocktails and chef Richard Sandoval’s small Asian-Latino plates were fun (and gratis, it must be mentioned). See the  full set of photos. The tiny crunchy shrimp coated in a lemon sake aioli, stood out in particular because they reminded me of a more refined version of Bonefish Grill’s signature Sriricha-mayonnaise-sauced Bang Bang Shrimp. That is not an insult because I happen to love Bonefish Grill (see below). Superficially, I also enjoyed the tuna causa because it sat atop a rectangular mound of purple potato that resembled clay, and I love blue and purple food.

Tacos Nuevo Mexico: The Park Slope branch has been remolded for some time now. It’s all well and good, but the English-only menu poses problems. I fear being pretentious by asking for my tacos by their Spanish names, yet when I want carnitas, I’m unsure if that’s the listed roast pork, grilled pork or spicy pork. I’m guessing grilled pork, though I’m not taking any chances. Why we don’t have real tacos, even gentrified Mexican-produced tacos, in Carroll Gardens is a question I’ve had for seven years. A live guitar-playing duet, not really mariachis exactly, gave way to piped-in Credence Clearwater Revival’s greatest hits.

Bonefish Grill: If asked (I never am) I would likely say that this seafood restaurant is my favorite chain. And I just realized that I only gave it a half-review back in 2007–that needs to be rectified, um, because I've been many times since. Even though it’s in the same Iselin, New Jersey parking lot as the renovated Red Lobster and I am truly curious about the more established chain’s current four courses for $15 deal (really, how do they do it?) and unlimited Cheddar Bay Biscuits, I still went with Bonefish. It gives the illusion of being upscale, at least in comparison to Red Lobster. Martinis with blue cheese-stuffed olives are only $6.90, entrees like my soft-shell crab stuffed with a crab cake are in the teens and you can choose healthy sides like the simple green beans and sautéed zucchini, as I did. Instead of our usual appetizer order, yes, the above-mentioned Bang Bang Shrimp we had ceviche and wagyu beef dumplings instead because we’d just eaten a Manhattan-ized version of the prawn dish three night’s previously. Also of note, FOUR was serving a blueberry shiso caipirinha while Bonefish had a blueberry martini. Blueberry is in season in both the suburbs and the city. I preferred the caipirinha–while I love chain restaurants, their cocktails are always too sweet for my taste.

Der Kommissar: No Falco was played, but Sheila E., Prince and Michael Jackson did their ‘80s duty. Normally, I wouldn’t be in South Slope twice in a weekend, but there was a new condo I wanted to take a peek at on 15th Street. The building didn’t do much for me, but a glass of Ramstein Double Platinum Blonde and a pretzel, more like a mini baguette, with a blue cheese, dried cherry and walnut spread (not particularly Austrian—but they hadn’t made the liptauer yet) made for a fine Sunday afternoon pit stop.

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Eaten, Barely Blogged: Atlantic City

Clearly, my psyche is more attached to my camera than I realized. I toted along my DSLR on a two-day-jaunt to Atlantic City, then decided to leave it in the hotel room. It’s just Atlantic City. Three nights in a row I had bad dreams involving not having a camera when I needed one or the camera not working when I pushed the button. (Objects that demanded photographing were dead horse-dinosaur creatures piled high as a mountain on the side of the road and a ‘70s home movie projected onto a wall that supposedly featured the dead dad of a friend. This friend does not have a dead dad in real life and I doubt he looked like Tom Selleck in a lumberjack shirt.)

White House Sub Shop: Ok, I did take photos because they make a handsome sandwich, which I’ve blogged about before. It’s always weird when I return someplace six years later and end up ordering the exact same thing, but it happens all the time. The youngish counter guys were ribbing me: “No photos! You’re going to steal our secrets.” I couldn’t tell if they were serious or not at first because the waitresses are of the sourpuss, no-nonsense school who just might spazz on cameras. There are an awful lot of rules plastered on the walls. The cheesesteaks are kind of odd, served sub-style with lettuce, tomato and pepper relish, provolone by default. No one should go to Atlantic City, though, and pass up the White House Special; a slab of salami, ham and provolone folded slightly and stuffed awkwardly into a length soft Italian bread. What's pictured is only a half. A whole might kill you.

Dock’s Oyster House: We enjoyed a reasonably priced seafood tower with raw oysters and clams, mussels, half a lobster tail, claw, ceviche and lump crab meat chunks. The panko-crusted soft-shell crabs served on field greens (their wording) was my attempt at limiting carbs despite the breading. As is often the case when traveling anywhere, a Brooklyn couple ended up sitting right next to us. How do I know they were from Brooklyn? Because the female was lamenting the crowd at Brooklyn Bowl. Not a fan of hipsters nor people in their late 30s-to-early-40s. I don’t think there’s even anyone that old in Williamsburg, which only led me to believe that they must’ve been younger than they looked (the boyfriend was balding; she had a mild New York accent, which always makes someone seem older). She whipped out a point-and-shoot for her banana cream pie. I don’t want to be that person.

Borgata Buffet: My first-ever casino buffet. I don’t think I’m a snob. I’d flat-out deny it. But occasionally something horribly pretentious will come out of my mouth. Something like, “This doesn’t really compare to the InterContinental buffet in Hong Kong.” Don’t get me wrong; the prime rib and ham carving stations, waffles, eggs benedict, fried chicken, piles of bacon and so on were exactly what I was expecting in NJ for $26, and I got beyond my money’s worth even if I felt sick for hours afterward. If you want imported Spanish cheeses and jamón instead of cheddar cubes and lunch meat and lobster, sashimi, foie gras and unlimited champagne instead of baked salmon, little piles of shrimp with cocktail sauce and juice, you can pay three times more and spend a day on a plane. It’s up to you.

Chelsea Prime: Steakhouses rarely make it onto my itinerary—the last was Wolfgang Puck’s Cut in Vegas over New Year’s Eve—but it must be done if dining in a casino town. The biggest twist on the menu was having tater tots offered as a side. Tots mean a lot to me. What?! Tater Tots is a proper noun? I learn something every week from The New York Times restaurant review. Shocking because I’m from the Ore in Ore-Ida. I still have the remainder of my bone-in rib eye waiting at home in the fridge, but don’t know if I can eat something so meaty without air conditioning.

Oyster Creek Inn: I wanted waterside dining, but this was more swampside. I’m still feeling the bug bites. Most people eat fried seafood like the crabcake sandwich, but I was curious about the advertised specialty called Crab Norfolk, which turned out to be a pile of buttery lump crab meat seasoned with Old Bay served naked on a styrofoam plate with a lemon wedge. Three Yeunglings in a plastic cup weren’t enough to delude me into believing I was at the Maryland shore (where I wanted to be eating fat blue crabs). That will have to wait unitl July.

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Eaten, Barely Blogged: Out-of-Towners

Radegast Hall: The first in a series of weekend dining of the large and loud variety. Because I’m easily set off, I get aggravated whenever I see (and I feel like I see them a lot) where to take the parents to eat round-ups that suggest places like ABC Kitchen, Joseph Leonard or The Modern because…no, just no. No mixology, tasting menus, vegetable-focused menus or general hipness. My mom and her husband, a.k.a. The Stepdude are visiting from Oregon and after violent windstorms, an intensely fruity passionfruit doughnut at Dough and two candy bars from Liddabit (for later, which my mom declared “not sweet like regular candy bars,” which I took not to be a compliment and gave me insight into my preference for sickeningly sweet desserts and diabetic-ness) at the Brooklyn Flea, I became acquainted with Indian Larry, a Williamsburg motorcycle shop that I had no idea existed because I’m totally ignorant of NYC biker culture (or of any geography). My mom had eggs benedict while the rest of us ate burgers, sausages, sauerkraut and fries. It is odd that brunch is table service while bar food is ordered and picked up from a window. Also, we were the only people over 30 in the entire shoulder-to-shoulder communal seating room.

Pio Pio: My first visit to the newish, sprawling, strangely modern location that sprouted up across the street from the original. There is no going wrong with the Matador Combo (avocado and tomato salad, tostones, roast chicken, salchipapas, rice and beans) and really it’s more sensible for four instead of split between two, as is more typical. I prefer sharing the pitcher of sangria between only two glasses, however. There was nicely spiced, not overly acidic corvina ceviche to start, though not everyone loves raw seafood (or un-battered-and-fried seafood, for that matter) so a chicken tamal was also required and enjoyed.

Dinosaur BBQ: Yes, also big, also booming. I couldn’t even get a reservation for four later than 3:30 on a Sunday, which left some time to kill before the 8pm Yankees game (my first, I’m slightly embarrassed to admit) where I ended up wet and frozen—supposedly, lightening even struck the stadium. Luckily, I had been fortified by a brisket and pork ribs combo with baked beans and a beet, greens and goat cheese side, the vegetable of the day that certainly bested the steamed cauliflower and broccoli at Texas Roadhouse. That the ribs–an optimal ratio of fat to smoky meat–were like a hundred times better, nearly goes without saying. And well, technically Dinosaur is a chain, so there.

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Eaten, Barely Blogged: A Week of Fry-Days

Sel de Mer: Brooklyn Star is only a block or so from where I had gotten my haircut, but pig’s tails, sweetbreads and tripe chili didn’t mesh with the meatless Friday season I’m not taking part in but sympathetic to. Traif’s bacon doughnuts have been on radar sine I first heard about them, but no. We’d already missed Maison Premiere’s happy hour, so another time. I figured restaurants near the Graham stop would be safer on a Friday night, which wasn’t true at all. After 25 minutes or so at Mother’s across the street, a table was ready. Four oysters (I’ve already forgotten which west coasts and which east coasts were being served) and simple moules marinière and frites were eventually consumed.

Carroll Gardens Classic Diner: First, I realized that I eat at pubs way more than I had thought. Now, I’ve gone and patronized a diner twice in two weeks where if asked, I would estimate I eat a diner maybe one-to-two times a year maximum. This was far from my first choice, but the pickings are extremely slim at 3am in the Carroll Gardens/Cobble Hill/Boerum Hill area (BoCoCa really does save typing, but ugh). Bar Tabac was winding down and Domino’s and this 24-hour diner were it. After seeing a 10:20pm showing of Win Win, I checked out newish beer bar, Local 61 and sadly, they stop serving food at 11pm, so I just got drunker and hungrier and ended up eating fries (semi-steak fries, no less) for the second time in two nights (I would eat fries every night—the only thing stopping me is my stern, rational brain that becomes more permissive after a few drinks). The last, and only other time, I’ve eaten at this diner I was dismayed by my monte cristo being served open-faced and assumed it was peculiar to this sandwich that’s always mangled in NYC. This time, I ordered a reuben…and same thing! Two slices of rye side-by-side, topped with sauerkraut, pastrami and a broiled skin of swiss cheese encasing the whole sprawling affair, thousand island dressing served on the side. I like my sandwiches assembled.

Waterfalls: I never see this Atlantic Avenue restaurant that I think is Syrian (despite the generic Middle Eastern qualifier) crowded. We were the only diners after work on a Thursday, though the woman at the cash register answered the phone steadily and the delivery guy was getting a workout. Mouhamarah, the red pepper and ground walnut dip, to start and Lamb schawarma platter with babaghanouj, rice and salad and warm pita that’s practically pizza-sized. They also serve pizza but do not call it pitza like at Zaytoons.

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Eaten, Barely Blogged: The Steak Fry Scourge

The Irish Punt: If there’s anything I’ve learned from this recent recapping exercise, it’s that I eat pub food way more often than I had realized. Ham and cheese panini, side salad and a club soda. Pubs always prompt me to bring up my distaste for steak fries even when no one has asked me my opinion on styles of fried potatoes.

Pearl Street Diner: Cobb salad while the person sitting across from me ordered steak fries and a bunless turkey burger a.k.a. a dry, gray, naked patty on purpose. I’ve decided that there is no more telling a personality indicator than fry preference. Mealy.

The Mermaid Inn: Strange that this is where I ate Friday night (it’s a Lent thing) considering I had a BlackboardEats discount that I’d let expire only five days earlier. My full-priced skate with capers and brown butter and shared oyster, ceviche and clams platter and two glasses of Torrontes were fine. And the freebie chocolate pudding is a nice touch. The odd thing is that I’m using Mermaid Inn for a story I’m working on—their trademark fortune teller fish plays a role—yet, we weren’t presented with the little toy at the end of the meal.

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