A Trip to Latin America

Or, more accurately, a trip to Nuela, on W. 24th Street, where Peruvian haute cuisine is alive and well. Nuela opened last year and has done an admirable job of turning Latin American food into high-end art. The room is a vibrant red, sort of reminiscent of the color wash one might encounter in South Beach. It will appeal to some and not others, and sitting by the floor-to-ceiling windows only offers a vista of down-on-its-luck 24th Street. A better bet is probably to sit at the bar.

Before any food arrives, Nuela sends out tiny warm rolls made with yucca flour. They taste like elevated cornbread and come with a salted cream and honey for spreading. Pork belly with cheese-filled arepas and a ramp chimmichurri didn't disappoint, arranged architecturally into cubes and spheres. The short rib empanada, stuffed with a traditional savory-sweet cross of meat and golden raisins, was a success of flaky crust and earthy meat, even if the pie itself--one small serving--was a little too little to be an adequate appetizer.

The ceviches, as expected, stole the show. Blood red tuna came with a charred pineapple marinade and slices of watermelon and French breakfast radish, a spicy and crunchy compliment to all that sweet. Hamachi was served with a black garlic marinade that did not overtake the delicacy of the fish. Our only regret was not opting for the fish of the day, red snapper with chili, lime, and red onion.

Entrees at Nuela are offered in several ways. Some of the dishes are normal, entree sized portions and some are large format options for the table to share. They offer a suckling pig in three sizes--a quarter, half, and whole pig--as well as chicken, porterhouse, and duck. We chose the duck, served hot in a paella pan over rice, sugar snap peas, and market carrots. The manager came over to scrape the soccarat, or burnt rice bits, from the bottom of the pan. A confit of leg and a breast roasted rare accompanied a fat lobe of duck foie gras, not to be outdone by a duck egg, sunny-side-up. It was a transcendent take of an Andalucian dish.

The wine list at Nuela is heavily South American, not really my bag, and expensive for what it is. I found a bargain in a 2005 Shafer Merlot (not normally the type of wine I would have chosen, but supple enough to live up to the food). And I finished my meal with deep-fried cinnamon churros and hot chocolate for dipping, along with a glass of cream sherry, which may be the perfect way to end a Saturday night in New York.

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Nuela
43 West 24th Street
New York, NY 10010
212.929.1200

For The Love Of Arepas

I was looking for a complete departure from Thursday's day of health, which led me to 1.) attend a matinee of Bride Wars where my friend and I happily consumed one oversized bag of popcorn, one bag of twizzlers, and one Diet Coke (calorie free!) and 2.) brave the cold for a visit to the east village's Yerba Buena, where almost everything is fried.  In a good way.  

What's in a name?  Yerba Buena refers to the plant by the same name, a member of the mint family sometimes found in Latin American cooking.  Literally translated, it means "good herb."  There were no signs of the so-called good herb in my initial cocktail, the Poquito Picante.  That other herb, cilantro, stole the show, along with Tanqueray, jalapeno, cucumber juice, and Cointreau.  It was clean, fresh, and garnished with a dried chili that I was tempted to consume.  I was warned against it.  

For dinner, we shared a number of appetizers and one entree, the rib eye.  In retrospect, I'd probably skip the perfectly fine--and perfectly ordinary--rib eye in favor of more small plates.  First came the picada, a paper cone filled with fried goodies like yucca (a root vegetable), tostones (fried plantain), chorizo, and chicharron (fatty pieces of pork) and served with a spicy salsa.  

Rings of calamari dusted with blue cornmeal were fried and served over a tomato and onion salad.  They were neither chewy nor greasy, a feat in and of itself.  Our pizza cubana contained all of the necessary elements of a Cuban sandwich: sweet pickles, swiss cheese, pulled pork (in this case, suckling pig), and ham.  The pizza's "crust," a crispy wafer-thin bread, did not buckle under the weight of its toppings.  

Arepas were the star of the evening, two barbecued beef short rib sliders on biscuits with a cabbage slaw and pickled jalapenos.  A little less successful were the empanadas, pastry pockets filled with spinach, manchego, and figs and served with a boring vinaigrette.  True, the empanadas were not doughy or dripping with fry oil, signs of a poorly-executed pastry.  They were, however, distinctively indistinctive.  

The rib eye was a rib eye; I wouldn't order it again.  But vegetables made a stronger impression.  Roasted wild mushrooms, called hongos, arrived drenched in a spicy aioli.  How could I possibly decry the marriage of two of my favorite foods, mushrooms and mayonnaise?  I was less moved by the platanos, fried sweet plantains with truffle cream.  They weren't served hot enough, although the flavor ultimately prevailed. 

For dessert we settled on a second round of cocktails--for me, the Jamaica 107: hibiscus tea-infused whiskey, egg white, and lemon juice--as well as the fondue and tres leches cake.  Fondue combined chocolate and dulce de leche in a miniature fondue pot.  Dipping items included fresh strawberries, coconut marshmallows, dense chocolate cakes, churros, and bananas.  The tres leches cake, coconut-flavored and literally soaked in three milks, just tasted soggy.  

But the restaurant, if slightly uneven, is warm, welcoming, and intimate.  If I lived in the evil EVill, I would no doubt make frequent visits, for the arepas alone.   

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Yerba Buena

23 Avenue A

New York, NY 10009

212.529.2919

The Rain In Spain

Despite my still-undefined illness and the cold rain, I did manage to keep up appearances last night at Bar Jamon. Had I not made plans in advance, I would have taken the opportunity to watch Grey's Anatomy over takeout. But my daily goal usually includes leaving my apartment once during the day. So mission accomplished.

Bar Jamon, essentially a more casual version of Casa Mono, with which it shares a wall, features small plates from Spain. Their wine list is more than extensive; it's encyclopedic. I'm not sure there's a more expansive Spanish wine list in New York City.

Like Otto, another of Mario Batali's hot spots, Bar Jamon sells wine by the quartino (more than a glass, less than half a bottle), making experimentation a very real possibility. We started with an old standby of mine, the Vega Sindoa 'El Chaparral' Garnacha from Navarra.

With that Garnacha, we snacked on many, many small plates. Pan con tomate is a Bar Jamon signature dish--crusty pieces of bread doused with tomato and garlic. A lomo (air dried pork loin) and roasted shitake mushroom plate came garnished with a fistful of my favorite salad green, arugula. The duck liver--billed simply as duck liver with apricots--was actually much more. The liver had been prepared au torchon and had the consistency of that other liver. You know, the ethically questionable one with the high fat content and creamy texture? Apricots were reconstituted dried specimens accented by mustard seeds. I could eat this every day for the rest of my life.

Cauliflower with salsa verde was simple and sublime in its simplicity: roasted cauliflower, caper-tomato vinaigrette. The dish was devoid of pork and, consequently, guilt. A slow-cooked and fried egg served over toasted bread had been listed as "Soft Egg Ramesco," but the romesco was actually part of the frisee salad on the side of the plate. The dish was lovely enough, though the egg could have seen a minute less in the pot.

Our tiny quail escabeche--a method similar to ceviche in which a marinade of acid cooks the meat--came with feet intact. It was a lovely touch, though I prefer my quail hot and crisp-skinned. The bird had nice flavor, however, and came atop ribboned greens and dried apricots and over some kind of fruit vinegar reduction, which I couldn't stop myself from dipping extra bread in.

When our plates had been cleared, we were still hungry, so we ordered the Coach Farm piquillo, an ample piquillo pepper stuffed with the iconic goat cheese, as well as the Serrano ham. The Serrano was smoky and just fatty enough, although it could have benefitted from that David Chang's red eye gravy that should be mandatory with all ham plates nationwide.

For dessert, churros with chocolate and cream sherry. The churros were a bit too cold but the chocolate was hot and spicy, made more authentic with the addition of some detectable chili. Two churros for one cup of chocolate was not nearly enough and we resorted to dipping our extra slices of bread in the cup to sop up those final hot gulps.

If you can get a seat--and at Bar Jamon the true challenge is getting a seat--you can do some serious damage here. My final missive? Can New York please be done with the backless stools already? It's killing my posture.

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Bar Jamon
125 E. 17th Street
New York, NY 10003
212.253.2773