For The Land And Sea Faring

Wednesday night found me at Torrisi Italian Specialties, finally, over a year after the buzz-y place opened.  Reservations are now accepted, which meant getting through the hallowed doors is easier, though I got mine--an unfathomably early 5:30--on OpenTable.  The dining room is small and meant to resemble an old Italian home, I think, with lace drawn curtains and old, mismatched plates in varying patterns that could have appeared at my grandmother's dinner table had my grandmother been inspired by things less Liberace and more Fred Astaire.  The menu is fixed, with a series of snacks leading into a pasta course, a meat course, and a cookie course.  The night we were there, and additional dessert special ran for $10.  We had to order it.

Mozzarella, house-made.  A perfect pillow glazed with olive oil and accompanied by two crusty heels of garlic bread.  Then an oil confit of mackerel, hot and cold, savory and sweet.  Sweetbreads came grilled, in my favorite incarnation, over giardinera, Italian pickles.  The acid cut perfectly through the fat of the veal.  Our last snack course: tender fermented broccoli rabe in a feather light robe of tempura batter, bitterness be damned.

Pasta was a clever take on pasta e fagiole.  A fresh linguine in broth arrived with cannellini beans, pork belly, ham oil, and kale.  I could have eaten three more bowls.  Ditto for my fish, breed unknown, which came swimming in a tomato broth with unshelled mussels.  Duck was sliced very thick and cooked skin on and though it and it's accompanying tender were perfect, the hearts were slightly overcooked.  I overlooked the detail because the coconut almond tart, topped with meringue and reminiscent of the best Almond Joy I ever had in childhood made up for any of the meal's indiscretions.  So, too, did a cookie plate of a tiny cannoli that did not betray its ricotta, a rainbow cookie, and a few other perfect confections.

The next afternoon, it was on to lunch at glossy Oceana, where I sat at the bar with a bottle of Aligote and enjoyed a decent lunch.  A beet salad was woefully undercooked ("I like my beets with texture," my companion said, but this was a technical error).  Even though I don't like beets, I appreciated the combination of orange supremes and beet wedges on the plate.  Hiramasa tartare, with just a hint of hot pepper and cubes of pear, was more successful--a clean, well-executed dish that I would eat again.

My soft shell crab entree was fine.  Just fine.  The crust didn't stick quite right and the pineapple salsa didn't have enough creaminess to adhere to the crab.  A side of ramps were cut so small as not to resemble ramps at all.  Alas.  A final plate of cookies satisfied my sweet tooth--the standouts were a coconut macaron sandwich stuffed with chocolate and a soft iced lemon cookie.  Good for lunch, but no brain busters here.

*
Torrisi Italian Specialties
250 Mulberry Street
New York, NY 10012
212.965.0955

*
Oceana
120 W. 49th Street
New York, NY 10020
212.759.5941

Surprise of the Year

I am so frequently let down by New York restaurants that a genuinely delicious experience often sends me reeling. Twice now in the past two weeks I have found elusive culinary grandeur in humble Italian roots. Two weeks ago, it was Il Buco on Bond Street. This past week, I found a similar transcendent experience at Maialino.

Maialino divorces itself from the pomp and circumstance that is the Gramercy Park Hotel, where the rustic, full, and comfy restaurant lives. If the hostess takes you toward the back, know that you are in capable hands and are heading to a row of low, linen-backed banquettes, which make a person feel like she is eating in someone's really nice and comfortable Restoration Hardware-outfitted apartment.

Immediately, cheesy and crispy breadsticks arrive, along with crusty bread that is nothing like the saltless version offered up in Tuscany. Maialino has a wide selection of charcuterie, and on the night we were there they were offering a recently cured bresola, thin sliced-beef that usually has the consistency of rubber tire. But not at Maialino, where the careful plate came with olive oil and lemon juice and salt--nothing more. The tender beef, more akin to a lovely roast than an old steak, required no more frill than that.

A plate of fried things included brains, sweetbreads, and artichokes. Artichokes, rarely my favorite, sang through the light batter and bright squeeze of a lemon. Brains were regrettably gooey and undersalted and reminded me why such things should only be served at their best (I was brought back to a memory of eating them fried in a wine cellar in Spain). But sweetbreads redeemed the plate.

Then a pasta duo, one with a starchy sauce of salt and pepper and cheese and one of stuffed shells with Italian sausage and deep green kale. The plates are small enough to keep a calorie count intact and encourage sharing in favor of ordering other dishes on the menu. We wiped our plates clean, breathless by the time our final course--the restaurant's signature suckling pig--came out. Pressed under the weight of a crispy shingle of skin, the meat was tender and juicy, complimented by a side of crispy Brussels sprouts.

We attempted two desserts, donuts with apple glaze that were delicious if ordinary, and a bread pudding made from chocolate croissants. The latter stole my heart, as did so many things at Maialino.

*

Maialino

2 Lexington Avenue

New York, NY 10010

212.777.2410

Terrible Twos

Well, maybe not terrible. But not great, either. I hit the East Village twice this week, once for a pricey meal at Hearth and once again for a steal at Apiary, even though we splurged on wine. At Hearth, we ordered a massive charcuterie board for a staggering $45, but most of the offal offered was a little too livery for my taste. By the time my delicious quail appetizer arrived--over a vinegary bed of grains--I was almost too full to enjoy it. A spatlese riesling to begin left me wanting more great wine, but a premier cru Burgundy disappointed, as did a dormant 2000 Bordeaux suggested to me by an enthusiastic sommelier. My main course--a selection of meats of which I can only clearly recall a smooth and lovely tongue--was too rich and ineptly composed. I couldn't figure out how to eat it or what to compare it to, besides a hard-up pot au feu. I had wanted the spaghetti and meatballs; next time, I'll go with my gut.

Donuts were average. I left very disappointed and a little broke. Apiary broke my heart a little less. Our seven-course tasting included a bright and clean tranch of hamachi, served with micro greens and hearts of palm. But, like so many of the following courses, it was undersalted. Hake had a perfect crust and came in a creamy pool of razor clams and potatoes and bacon. Papparadelle with rabbit and tomatoes and basil was toothsome and satisfying, even if it defied the season a little (who garnishes with fresh basil in January, anyway?). Sweetbreads, though overcooked, came bathed in a sticky, salty, and sweet sauce and over a fine puree. Duck was perfectly cooked, but the accompanying cabbage had no seasoning whatsoever.

A composed cheese plate offered three cheeses, fruit bread, and a trio of honeys. It was nice, sure, but a little basic for a full course of seven. And the chocolate lava cake was reductive, as was the overwrought and chewy apple puff pastry provided at meal's end.

But Apiary has an enviable wine list, something it has in common with Hearth. Both lists can bring a person closer to Bordeaux with some funk and age than any of New York's other prize places. A 1982 Prieure-Lichine was actually in our price range, believe it or not. And so we escaped tough puff pastry on the back of old Bordeaux. Next time, maybe I'll stick to the bars at both haunts.

*

Hearth

403 East 12th Street

New York, NY 10009

646.602.1300

*

Apiary

60 Third Avenue

New York, NY 10003

212.254.0888

Brooklyn Rustic

These places are opening all over now: local, sustainable, rustic, small. The restaurant is tiny and equipped to handle minimal crowds. We lucked out in scoring a three top right when we came in.

Cocktails are delicious, if a little too small. A tart, red drink tasted like sour cherries or currants, or a mix of the two.

A crispy kale salad was filled with crunch and salt and sweet (and a noticeable tang of fish sauce), but was, regrettably, overdressed and beginning to wilt. A cauliflower soup was thick and rich and bettered by candy sweet Nantucket bay scallops.

Veal sweetbreads a la meuniere was my favorite dish of the night, perfectly cooked and crispy outside with a grenobloise and crunchy romaine lettuce on the side, along with a caesar-y dressing. Pici with mushrooms and pea shoots brought me back to Tuscany and I could have used a bigger plate. But linguine with crab, though fine in its execution, didn't bring much to the table.

Desserts were kind of a failure. A fennel panna cotta was overrun by lemon rind that provided too much texture in a grainy, gross kind of way. A pear clafouti was overcooked and beaten to death by cinnamon cream. Next time, I'll go for the standard chocolate caramel tart.

*

Battersby

255 Smith Street

Brooklyn, NY

718.852.8321

In Season

I don't have too many opportunities to discuss restaurants that I believe to be nearly perfect, but last night's dining experience, at Seasonal, was one such pleasure. I started off on the wrong foot at a table too near the door and hostess stand and without wine or cocktail list for ten minutes before a lanky manager arrived to quench my thirst. From there, the night could have gone sour, but it didn't, not by a long shot. To start, K. and I ordered cocktails made with Sekt and apricot nectar and elderflower. Next, I flagged our thickly-accented server-manager-type and asked for a bottle of 1992 Spatlese riesling from Germany, a surprising steal on an otherwise expensive list. Recognizing my pedigree from my pick, my new manager friend sent, to start, a glass of J.J. Prum.

I should have known from the amuse bouche, a sliver of cured fluke that should speak for all raw fish everywhere, that our meal would sing. We wanted to eat three courses and began with a soft-poached egg, which came with rich lobster knuckles and pumpernickel crumbles and hen of the woods mushrooms. It was delicate and earthy with a touch of salinity from the sea, a stark comparison to the rich pork belly, adorned with silken quince and honey. The belly itself was fork tender, a pink plume of meat that can so often disappoint, rose to the occasion.

Next, a midcourse of consomme with rock shrimp and bone marrow and cubed rutabaga. I didn't know it would be such a pristine show-stopper, elegant and flush with contrasting textures. The bone marrow, no more than an inch wide, would have been fine on toast, but in the clear soup, bobbing around like the world's best butter, it inspired.

The house sent a second midcourse, fried veal sweetbreads with an accompanying cream of celery root, a sliver of onion, a leaf from a blanched Brussels sprout. I was relieved at its arrival--the dish was one I had wanted to order when I had originally considered my options. With our extra course, our manager returned to bestow upon us mystery glasses of wine, on him. I guessed Gruner Veltliner, from its crispness and aroma of green apples and was rewarded with a nod.

And then our entrees arrived, pillowy veal wiener schnitzel with lingonberry jam and soft, creamy, salty scalloped potatoes. On the side, a cucumber salad, cut into ribbons and slickened with mayonnaise, provided crunch. Cheesy spaetzle sent my stomach over the line into deeply full, even though it teemed with vegetables. Still, I had room for a recommended dessert: kaiserschmarrn, or dough dumplings that are pan fried and coated in sugar and spice and served with sliced apple compote on the side.

*

Seasonal

132 West 58th Street

New York, NY 10019

212.957.5550

Sprouts

Last week, I stumbled into a nearly empty Sorella, a pity on a Thursday night. Only a block away, Mary Queen of Scots, the LES newcomer who denied us a table, was filled to the gills with hipsters and mock foodies, leaving poor Sorella to fend for herself. Why would anyone pass up the dense, generous beef carne cruda, or the slick pici with its economical pool of creamy sauce? What misinformed eater would have chosen an overdone burger over the flash-fried and bacony Brussels sprouts, or the potatoes with speck that arrived crusty and lacquered with mayonnaise in the style of fine patas bravas?

I couldn't say. I felt sad for the lonely, crispy, salty, herbaceous breadsticks, which assuaged my hunger before our food arrived. My sweetbreads were a touch overcooked, but their crust--it must be cornmeal--lingered. Even our desserts, scoops of gelato laced with chocolate and caramel and banana and a host of other secrets belied a restaurant that should be remembered and isn't. The food is delicate and modest in its portions. There are no disappointments, aside from the spare following. I hope they keep their doors open through another long winter.

On to other sprouts. In Astoria, on another cold night, I found myself at Vesta, a wine bar with Italian inclinations that opened a year or so ago. Upon first glance, one might think their pizzas a hair too large, but the crust is cracker-thin and so the slices go down easy. I could have used more blue cheese and less sauce on my pie of blue and caramelized onions, but never mind. The fusilli, while too large a portion for sure, came with crisped sweet Italian sausage and a sauce that boasted an old Italian secret: starchy cooking water from the pasta pot. It was a stick-to-your-ribs bowl perfectly suited to the weather. The grass-fed rib-eye is a steal at $25. I would have liked to have sliced it myself, but never mind. It came rare, as ordered, and well seasoned, which says something about the diligence of the kitchen.

For dessert, I allowed the server to talk me into Baby Jesus Cake, which is really just a toffee steamed pudding adorned with fresh whipped cream. My server was right; I was glad I had listened.

*

Sorella

95 Allen Street

New York, NY 11201

212.274.9595

*

Vesta Trattoria & Wine Bar

21-02 30th Avenue

Astoria, NY 11102

718.545.5550

Halloween

Oh, dear blog, fear not; I have not forsaken you. I just got really busy and spent most of my time cooking vegetarian meals for one, topics not worthy of you. I can't promise full redemption--New York is expensive, and my budget is nonexistent--but I will try to do better.

Anyway, what better night to dive back into the New York scene than Halloween? And of all the neighborhoods to choose from, why not torture ourselves with the West Village, home to New York City's most decorated (and possibly most obnoxious) seasonal parade. I don't go to Times Square on New Year's Eve and I sure as hell don't stand on Fifth Avenue on Thanksgiving morning, so my lack of cohesive thought when T. and H. and I decided on a trip to Takashi (Hudson and Barrow) was out-of-character and very non-New Yorker of me. Also, between the three of us, we had over thirty years of New York living, and we still needed a iphone map to figure out the geography of the West Village.

I won't get into the crowds, the costumes, or the overburdened subway that stopped so frequently that we were forced to take a cab home from the 20s. I will get into Takashi, the Japanese steak joint I have been meaning to eat at since June or July. Normally, this small restaurant requires great patience. They are always full and the wait usually exceeds an hour. There was our one gleaming prize in all of this Hallow's Eve madness: No one had gone out to eat. And so we were seated instantly, at a wooden table designed for four and outfitted with a grill top for our own personal use. First came the candy-sweet plum wine (on ice), which the generous waitress decorated with a whole cured green plum. Next, a series of delicate wonders. Here, a scallion salad demonstrating admirable knife skills and a confident condiment hand in the application of sesame oil and soy sauce. There, thick swaths of cucumber bathed in something that rose to a warm spiciness on the back palate. Finally, the appetizer piece d' resistance: four squares of raw and marbled meat, topped with shiso leaves and a spoonful of uni. We were instructed to top the uni with wasabi and roll everything on the underlying nori sheet, dip in soy sauce, put in mouth. The meat was a faint note, earthy and creamy, almost overpowered by the herbal shiso, the briny uni. Almost.

Next came a crispy achilles tendon salad, served cold. Tendon takes some getting used to, but this was one of its finest hours, cut into pieces small enough to render it chewy but not inedible. And then the meats began. We started with a tongue tasting, three different sections of cow tongue, each adorned with a simple seasoning. We were told by our waitress about cooking times (certain parts of the tongue needed as much as one minute per side) and began our grilling session. The tongue was not tough, but supple, meaty, filled with the flavor of beef that beef itself so rarely provides. The short rib did not disappoint, either. It was more like eating a piece of grilled butter. Sweetbreads required the most patience, four minutes per side, but we were rewarded with generous, clean, and silky thymus glands with a well-earned grill crust. Beef cheeks were not the version we were accustomed to seeing in a fine restaurant, stewed to oblivion and dark in pallor. No, these beef cheeks were red and white and thin and we kissed them to the grill, flipped, and ate. They, like the short ribs, came in the house marinade with a side dipping sauce that was just light and fragrant enough to stand up to the meat without subverting its subtlety.

Takashi serves any part of the cow you can think of, and that includes such delicacies as first stomach, second stomach, liver, and heart. We didn't venture too far into the weird, but then again, we've eaten a lot of this stuff before. Instead, we stuck to our favorites--fatty, marbled cuts of meat that could stand up to a hot grill. But if I make it back, braving the West Village and all its insanity, I may opt for a little beef liver and skirt steak, just to make things interesting.

*

Takashi

465 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

212.414.2929

They Aren't Actually Known For Their Kababs

Kabab Cafe has about eight tables (and that's an optimistic estimate). The set up behind the make-shift line more closely resembles the cluttered space of a home cook than it does the professional space of a New York restaurant. There is one chef and one assistant and the chef, donning a green apron and hulking around his tiny restaurant--he's about six foot four and well into the three hundred pound range--takes up a lot of space. When he comes to your table, he lists of a selection of items that he has special tonight. There's no menu and you might not be able to order what you see on your neighbor's plate, since plates seem in a constant rotation of unavailability. Alas, the lamb shank that table is eating is gone, gone, gone, but there are sweetbreads.

Order the sweetbreads.

We told our chef what we did want to eat (vegetables and meat) and what we didn't want to eat (fish, due to a table allergy). He brought us cold mint tea with sugar and green apples. Next, he brought a meze platter with bright hummus, fava bean dip, baba ganoush, and fried lettuce. It's as good as it sounds. Then the sweetbreads arrived. They were lamb, not veal, and carried with them the gamy sophistication of good meat. Sauteed peppers and onions and garlic decorated the plate.

A roasted beet salad wasn't exactly my jam, but I loved the sweet roasted apple that came with them, as well as all the garlic. Lamb chops didn't disappoint, either. We were told to use our hands for the chops and I happily obliged. The potatoes and onions and peppers had been cooked in lamb fat and were dark brown and slick with a pomegranate sauce.

It was late, so we weren't offered baklava and Egyptian coffee (basically the same as Turkish coffee: short, concentrated, served black and unfiltered with sugar in the brew), but we drooled over a neighboring table's good fortune. Their baklava looked flaky and delicious.

*

Kabab Cafe

25-12 Steinway Street

Astoria, NY 11103

718.728.9858

The Longest, Strangest Trips

Back in the late 90s and early 00s, I used to go to this place on the Upper West Side called Pampa.  Pampa was an Argentinian steak house that served large, traditional steaks.  They also served sweetbreads (back then, I didn't know what they were and never would have eaten them) as well as a delicious tortilla that I remember really loving. 

Pampa closed last year and the restaurant that opened in its place, La Rural, retains most of the same qualities.  The decor hasn't changed.  Tables are still equipped with a glass container of chimichurri sauce.  The back still opens into a charming patio.  A large, family-style table still occupies the center of the dining room.  

Sadly, the tortilla is gone, but the steaks remain, as do the crunchy and creamy empanadas--we got corn.  We also had a large, vinegary salad with white onion, lettuce, and surprisingly sweet beefsteak tomatoes.  An appetizer of steamed asparagus came with both goat cheese and shaved parmesan, which was a bit confusing, but still tasty.  Grilled sweetbreads suffered from too little tenderization and too much flame, but they still had that envious fatty texture reminiscent of the fat cap of a very good rib-eye. 

As for steak, I had the churrasco, my old favorite.  It's the thin-sliced top of the sirloin, grilled.  It may be only 11 or 12 ounces, but it spreads out over the plate with abandon.  I've never left one unfinished and, true to form, I didn't last night.  That's one of the benefits of training for a marathon.

*

La Rural

768 Amsterdam Avenue

New York, NY 10025

212.749.2929

Bar Seats

At Dell'Anima, the downtown late-night hot spot that everyone keeps telling me to visit, the worsening economy has not reared its ugly heads.  We entered a fairly empty dining room a little past one in the morning and sat at the kitchen bar.  That is, the line of seats directly in front of the chef.  You can watch the grill and pasta stations as you eat.  

The chef, a friend of my dining companion, informed us that the restaurant had served a staggering 200 people.  On a Sunday night.  In March.  Few restaurants have the loyal following of this one.  No ornery disposition followed us into our late-night meal.  I appreciated that.  All too often, I've been the server on the opposite side, livid at the nerve of the diner before me eating well after normal human hours. 

We ordered four dishes, ate six.  Grilled sweetbreads arrived amidst a fennel marmalade and parsley root puree.  The sweetbreads, unadorned by the familiar trappings of batter and oil, were soft, clean, and delicate. 

Next came Brussels sprouts and a farm egg with lardon.  The egg was runny and bled gooey innards over tender sprouts.  I hated sprouts until last year.  I don't know what took me so long to come around.  

Paper-thin ravioli stuffed with a blood-red beet puree.  Poppy seeds.  Brown butter.  

Homemade tagliatelle (flour-free diet be damned!) with bolognese.  Pliable, toothsome pasta, yolk yellow.  Perfect. 

Gnocchi with oxtail ragu, mirepoix, perfect celery leaves.  

Finally, the most perfect dish of all: skin-on orata (seabream) cooked en papillote with green and black olives, fresh thyme, fingerling potatoes, and lemon.  

They charged us for our lambrusco and amaro.  Where had the food disappeared?  The six-course meal, in all its delicacy and impeccable execution, had been sent out to us for free.  

But I would have paid, and been happy to do so.  And I'll definitely be back. 

*

Dell'Anima

38 8th Avenue 

New York, NY 10014