Second City

I took my first trip to Chicago to accompany my sisters to Lollapalooza, a three-day festival held this past weekend in Grant Park. The food at this year's Lolla deserves a nod; local restaurants were asked to set up shop in the festival's two giant food courts, which made eating at the show less disgusting than usual. Graham Elliot served lobster corn dogs and truffled popcorn, but we skipped those decadences in favor of watermelon gazpacho, as good as you would expect from the tatted, roly-poly chef. At Blue 13, we grabbed perfectly decent pork belly sliders, which we followed with Mexican corn and a pork belly tostada from Big Star. There were plenty of choices, but nothing came cheap; a modest lunch for three rang in at over fifty bucks.

But nevermind. The weekend's most successful culinary adventures didn't begin or end on the concert grounds. Our first night, we trekked across the Chicago River to Blackbird, Paul Kahan's minimalist spot. An amuse bouche of smoked sturgeon left me breathless, as did my appetizer of pitch-perfect sweetbreads. They were at once crunchy and soft, salty and sweet, paired with an unexpectedly delicious (and not at all weird) combination of pickled lime and flash-fried chocolate. The suckling pig worked, too, as did the duck liver pate, smoky like good southern barbecue. Even an endive salad, presented with a runny egg in a potato gaufrette and then dissembled table side, showed the majesty of simple things done well.

We waited over an hour for our entrees, a misstep the kitchen acknowledged with a midcourse of seared halibut, a fine example of the fish in all its glory. When my entree finally did arrive, it was a tad disappointing; my quail was unexceptional and the duck my sister ordered was by the book. We all agreed that entrees had been the weakest aspect of the night. We ordered two desserts and received four for our trouble and these were savory, sweet, crunchy, soft, and everything in between. The best, a coconut cake with passion fruit, disappeared from my sister's plate before the rest of us had time to dig more than one spoon in.

The next afternoon, I convinced our group to take a cab to the outer reaches of Roscoe Village, where there's this hot dog joint that everyone agrees is a must-see: Hot Doug's. Must-wait is more like it; the line progressed at a snail's pace and we waited two hours for our dogs, Chicago-style. But it was worth the wait. Chicago-style means a poppy seed bun, celery salt, green relish, onion, a pickle spear, mustard, and probably other elements that I'm forgetting. The vienna standard was fine on its own, but we got fancy and ordered a bratwurst and some other types of sausage, which came grilled and split with all the same accoutrement. The sausages' flavor was top-notch and even the corn dog--never my favorite--was the best of its breed. Duck fat French fries are only served Fridays and Saturdays, so keep this in mind if you're thinking of doing the dog-waiting thing. It's worth the extra calories.

Saturday night found us in Chinatown at Lao Beijing. Chicago's Chinatown is tiny by comparison to other metropolitan enclaves, but it still boasts great eats. The back alley that is Archer Street is basically a Chinese mall, studded with bubble tea joints, dim sum restaurants, and novelty stores. Lao Beijing is the third in a restaurant trilogy owned and run by Chef Tony Hu, this one serving food from the Beijing province. We started with chewy homemade noodles and pork. The texture won me over, even if the notably bland sauce didn't. It was no match, however, for our beef in garlic sauce, which came next, covered in a spicy sauce and adorned with wood ear mushrooms, bamboo shoots, and peppers. Tony's special dumplings look more like giant pigs in blanket (and taste like them, too). The cylindrical tubes of pork came sheathed in delicious and addictive dough. And while we're on the topic of dough, there was fried dough, simply called, "Fried Dough, Northern Style." It was sheets upon sheets of crispy fried dough, savory and served with two different chili sauces. It put every American incarnation of the stuff to shame.

We had pork and cabbage dumplings, too, as well as a chive cake that failed to resonate. The Chinese couple sharing our table laughed at our gluttony, but we had enough food for another meal. We did, however, regret not ordering the gorgeous bok choy and mushrooms enjoyed by our tablemates. Alas. Next time.

Caught in the rain on Sunday afternoon, we braved the half-hour wait at Mindy's Hot Chocolate in Wicker Park (Chicago's version of Park Slope) and allowed our cheery server to upsell us donuts with raspberry compote while we awaited our meals. But wait--before the food came the hot chocolate. Hot Chocolate serves four varieties: milk, dark, Mexican, and Chai. I opted for dark, the closest to straight melted chocolate. My sisters ordered milk, which came with a heavy hand of caramel and was a notch too sweet for my palate. J's Mexican was spicy and sweet and gone before we looked twice. Each mug came with a homemade marshmallow on the side. By the time my open-faced BLT arrived, I could have called it a day, but I soldiered on, eating my way through heirloom tomatoes, market arugula, local bacon, two sunny-side-up eggs, homemade focaccia (Hot Chocolate makes all of their own breads) and aioli. Brunch isn't my thing, but this version won me over, albeit temporarily.

Our final culinary adventure was a trip to Pilsen, Chicago's Mexican neighborhood. In Pilsen, we stopped off at Nuevo Leon, an institution since 1962. Women in traditional costume brought pickled carrots and jalapenos, fresh chips and salsa, and tiny bowls of chicken soup with stewed drumsticks. An appetizer of taquitos proved heartier than advertised, five open-faced tacos topped with marinated skirt steak, onions, and cilantro. I didn't really need the chorizo tacos afterwards, but food isn't always about need. Those tacos--fatty and served with the traditional American set of tomato, iceberg lettuce, and onion--were equally tasty, though I couldn't finish my plate. Neither could my sister, who had opted for the chorizo tostadas, crispy corn shells with refried beans, meat, and the same set of veggies. We drank our Jarritos (lime, pineapple, and grapefruit) and then decamped for the El. I was impressed by the city's culinary breadth and depth. It's no wonder they call it the Second City.

*

Graham Elliot

217 West Huron Street

Chicago, IL 60654

312.624.9975

*

Blue 13 Restaurant

416 West Ontario Street

Chicago, IL 60654

312.787.1400

*

Big Star

1531 North Damen Avenue

Chicago, IL 60622

312.235.4039

*

Blackbird

619 West Randolph

Chicago, IL 60661

312.715.0708

*

Hot Doug's

3324 North California Avenue

Chicago, IL 60618

773.279.9550

*

Lao Beijing

2138 South Archer Avenue

Chicago, IL 60616

312.881.0168

*

Mindy's Hot Chocolate

1747 North Damen Avenue

Chicago, IL 60647

773.489.1747

*

Nuevo Leon

1515 West 18th Street

Chicago, IL 60616

312.421.1517

Northern Exposure

I home for the weekend, up to the northern reaches of Massachusetts, where the ocean water still isn't warm enough to swim in, even in August. The food in my hometown is generally unimpressive, ranging from greasy pub fare to overpriced seafood. What the locals call fine dining I call Sysco-supported agriculture. You heard it here first.

But my best friend is dating a chef now, and even though said chef works at an equally ennui-inspiring Italian joint, he seems to know a thing or two about food. That means that my best friend, who really has no interest in food beyond her corporeal need for it, has suddenly found herself itching for haute cuisine. "I want to eat something that doesn't disappoint me," she said, so I searched the internet for something--anything--that would fit the wide criteria.

I stumbled upon Mombo in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, which opened two months ago and is still showing some signs of growing pains. The restaurant itself is a sight to behold, a Colonial building tucked into Portsmouth's prestigious Strawberry Banke. The front porch resembles that of an actual home and the wood has been painted a quaint cream. The dining chairs are antique replicas made from dark wood and the room is raftered and equipped with a functional fireplace. I imagine it's lovely in winter, but even in summer, my view from a corner table faced a shingled home and leaning wildflowers and a triangle of blue Atlantic. The bar is minimalist, boasting only a handful of spirits, and the outdoor space in back, covered by a white tent, is a brick patio with cast iron furniture and one small fountain. The cozy atmosphere can't really be matched in even the oldest and coolest New York haunt. I was hoping the food would match.

First, the wine list: underwhelming, but given my surroundings, I was happy to find a perfectly drinkable Saint Emilion on the list. The chef's tasting menu was a mere $55 for five courses, a New York steal. We bought in. Our first course came in white porcelain mugs, chilled melon and heirloom tomato soup with a fiery finish of ground cumin. Our second courses were both different. L. had duck breast carpaccio topped with a poached egg and accented with arugula and green zebra tomatoes; I had seared yellowfin tuna with fresh peaches and black truffles. The tuna took the prize. Next came country pate with spicy yellow mustard, toast, and cornichon. It was L.'s first pate and she ate the whole thing. I felt like a proud parent, having opened the doors to offal. Cod came next, a fat fillet (clearly over five ounces and topped with a crispy sheath of skin) over black trumpet mushrooms and overcooked potato spaetzle, a rare misstep. The fillet came with fatty cod cheeks over black olives, cubed apples, and Marcona almonds. I had been hoping for a proper meat course, or at least a one-and-one, and I must admit I was a little disappointed. But even as dessert arrived, I knew I was very full.

Dessert was the same for both of us and I felt a little cheated with the lack of variety, but for $55, who could complain? We each received pre-dessert ice-cream sodas spiked with bourbon in tiny glasses with cocktail straws, a precursor to our blueberry cakes, cinnamon ice-cream, and grilled peaches. We left and unbuttoned our pants in the parking lot. It is refreshing to see seasonal cuisine arriving in New England, even if they are a few years behind. I wonder what fall will bring.

Today, I crossed back into the city and hit up another local Bosnian restaurant, Ukus, for cabbage pie and cevapi. Cabbage pie is basically cooked cabbage in delicious puff pastry. One piece could feed five. Why we thought we needed a 12-sausage order of cevapi remains a mystery. Our salad came with bright red tomatoes ('tis the season) and a salty, crumbly cheese that tasted like ricotta salata. Cevapi came with a large, puffy, and warm pita on the side, along with the traditional condiments of chopped onion, red pepper paste, and some kind of thick cream cheese. I might have dreams about that cabbage pie. Luckily, Ukus is right across the street.

*

Mombo

66 Marcy Street

Portsmouth, NH 03801

603.433.2340

*

Ukus

42-08 30th Avenue

Astoria, NY 11103

718.267.8587

To The Ends Of The Islands

I spent two rainy days in Montauk, cursing the weather and eating my way through the Hamptons' haul. On Tuesday night, I stopped at Bostwick's, the East Hampton version of a New England chowder house. The prices were reasonable--for the Hamptons. My one-pound lobster, served cleaved in half (an insult, really), was a scant eighteen bucks. Still, the poor beast was sadly overcooked and a far less sweet version of the crustaceans I'm used to. A side of corn, gratis with the lobster, was mushy and tasteless and decidedly not from Long Island. The real winner of the evening was my appetizer of stuffed clams, which was full of texture and salt and crunch, like a clammy Thanksgiving stuffing.

I had a lobster roll the next afternoon at Gosman's, which was a fine specimen, even if the hot dog bun, grilled, lacked butter. The lobster mix itself was heavy with dill and chopped celery and decorated with only a touch of mayonnaise. The roll was approachably priced at fifteen dollars, though I will say that the true Maine version goes for loads less. In a time when lobster is overabundant (you can find them on the Maine and Massachusetts docks for $1.99 a pound), it is hard to justify paying such premium price for mediocre product.

The Hideaway, Montauk's ode to Mexican, is a far more successful establishment. I drank a Pacifico and ate grilled pork tacos and Mexican corn, my own homage to summer. Who wouldn't toss their calorie count aside for grilled corn with cayenne, mayonnaise, and cotija cheese? The Hideway's food is authentic and tasty and causes far less damage to the pocket than any of the seafood joints in town. It is a shame that the finest food in Montauk has nothing to do with ocean fare.

The stretches of Long Island led me to the stretches of ninth avenue this afternoon, where I lunched at Google for the second time in my life. The Google dining room is run by Restaurant Associates and features a grill station, a "special of the day" station, a salad bar, a raw food station, a dessert station, a soup station, a fish station, and other miscellaneous stands with other miscellaneous eats. A map on the wall near the desserts pinpoints all of the farms from which Google gets its produce. Index cards actually spell out what comes from where, right down to the melons in the chilled melon soup. It is a tirelessly modern ideal in a world where local and sustainable often comes up short against corporate interests.

We arrived at Google on the later side; the dining room closes at two every afternoon and the pickings are slim after one thirty. I had a hamburger with extra pickles, a personal favorite, as well as a fresh cucumber salad, roasted fingerling potatoes, and green beans tossed in sesame oil. B. ate swordfish with polenta and T. ate a raw butternut squash salad. Would that all workplace cafeterias offered so many options for so little dough (and by so little, I mean none).

By the time we were finished, the gelato cart had closed up shop, a near miss. We went to the snack room for fresh fig newtons and Red Jacket Orchards Fiji apple juice and plums. The snacks at Google are endless, which must be why so many young workers stay so long.

*

Bostwick's Chowder House

277 Pantigo Road

East Hampton, NY 11937

631.324.1111

*

Gosman's Clam Bar

500 West Lake Drive

Montauk, NY 11954

631.668.2447

*

The Hideaway

364 West Lake Drive

Montauk, NY 11954

631.668.6592

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

Queens Tweet

I was invited to a Queens tweet-up last night at Dutch Kills, the bar that mimics its sister and brother bars in the city: Milk and Honey and Little Branch. In keeping with the Prohibition-era theme of these Manhattan bars, Dutch Kills is dark and wooden with mustachioed barkeeps in suspenders. In the bar's rear, the floor is covered in sawdust like the butcher shops I remember from my youth.

Cocktails are slightly less pricey than in the city at ten bucks a pop and you should order one for the aesthetic alone. The bar produces four separate kinds of ice: chunky granules of even shape and size; smooth cubes; one large block for scotches and other brown spirits; and crushed ice for shaking and muddling. My Marie Antoinette resembled a pretty little sno-cone and came topped with a chilly raspberry. The drink itself, in fading shades of red and pink, was a sweet and tart combination of crushed berries, creme de cacao, and light rum. Regrettably, I kept forgetting that Dutch Kills serves its libations with metal spoons and more than once found my teeth clicking against the straw.

As a follow up to our Queens tipple, we headed over to Sweet Afton, which really looks like the type of place you would find in Brooklyn, not Queens. There is exposed brick and all the food and drink is local and the hipsters seem to have invaded from Williamsburg. The Brooklyn vibe doesn't change the fact that Queens is clearly the borough of choice for ethnic food, but it is nice to feel like Astoria is getting some locavore chops. Finally.

The fried pickles are McClure's, of course, and come with a mayonnaise-based dipping sauce. They erred a bit too far on the side of doughy, but I'll take my pickles any way I can get them, which is why I doused my spicy hot pickle bites with a McClure's pickle martini, one of the house cocktails. Next arrived a truly transcendent grilled cheese sandwich. You can choose your cheese and we chose muenster. We also chose to add to our sando caramelized onions and chewy, smoky bacon. The sandwich's strongest asset is the tasty whole-grain mustard and side of pickles (yes, I'm obsessed).

The French fries that came with our perfect burger were an unnecessary addition to an already-full meal. But that burger... mid-sized patty on white bread with lettuce, tomato, red onion, pickle, and cheese. No mayonnaise, but I can live without. The burger had the oniony seasoning I love. I'll be back for the Irish sausage next time: sausages wrapped in puff pastry and baked until brown. Sounds right up my alley.

*

Dutch Kills

27-24 Jackson Avenue

Long Island City, NY 11101

718.383.2724

*

Sweet Afton

30-09 34th Street

Astoria, NY 11103

718.777.2570

Meat To Beat The Heat

Counterintuitive, isn't it? But then, steakhouses are always well air-conditioned, so steak it was this past Wednesday evening. I had read Alex Witchel's rave reviews of the old school joint Frankie and Johnnie's in the Times a few months back, so it seemed the perfect place to dig into a dry-aged rib-eye. Also, I find an unusual and somewhat secret comfort in traditional steakhouses. I love the leather and the white linen and the dim lights and the booming voices of fat businessmen. This must make me an American.

Pine Island oysters, hailing from Oyster Bay on Long Island, were buttery and fat specimens, even if they came sparsely adorned with lemon, horseradish, and cocktail sauce. I'm a mignonette girl myself, but I'll pardon the omission because the oysters were clean and substantial. A crab cake duo surprised us with a crunch of potato. The outer layer of the cake, generally breaded in something like panko, was sheathed in a mini potato hash brown that was all snap but still yielded to the fork. Okay, the crab itself--the real deal--didn't have enough binding to it and fell apart into shreds of crab and crunch, but I'll forgive that misstep, too.

I can't really forgive the distracted waiter who brought my warm half-bottle of Sauvignon Blanc twenty minutes after I had ordered it, but even he is a distant memory in the face of the massive cut of beef that appeared before me. Frankie and Johnnie's makes their own steak sauce, but there's no need; the fatty dickle and salty crust provided all the condiment this steak required. I prefer my rib-eyes bone-in and this baby was no disappointment. Garlic mashed potatoes were pedestrian, at best, and the mint jelly served with my co-eater's lamb jobs was just gross. But the asparagus, shaved expertly at the ends and sauteed in hot oil with slices of brown garlic, more than fulfilled our quest for a decent green vegetable.

But Frankie and Johnnie's was closing all around us, even though it was just ten o'clock, so we decamped for Keens Steakhouse, home to over 250 single-malt and blended scotches. Laphroaig 10 with a hand-cut ice cube was my particular brand of poison, but the bartender could have pointed me in any direction at all. "Drink what you like," he said. "That's what I tell people all the time."

The morning after, in need of more meat to sop up that lingering Laphroaig, I headed to the end of my street, where there's a Bosnian restaurant that I have, embarrassingly, never visited in my five years living in Astoria. The place is called Old Bridge Restaurant and serves "traditional" Bosnian cuisine, which, nearest I can tell, is a combination of meat, meat, and more meat. I started with a Cockta soda, made with real sugar and "natural plant extracts" (for what it's worth) and no caffeine or phosphoric acid. It tasted like a marriage between Moxie and Coke, and I'm sure it isn't for everyone.

You can forgive the modest decor and scattered waitservice when you come upon your very own cevapi, ten grilled beef sausages served in something resembling muffaletta bread and served with chopped onions, cheese, and a roasted red pepper paste. The sandwich is roughly the size of a dinner plate. So, too, is the pljeskavica, a thin beef burger on that same bread with more chopped onions. As in Croatia, where every meal I ate was accompanied by a slim salad of cucumber, tomato, and vinegar, our meal came with a crisp little ode to summer: cucumber, tomato, iceberg lettuce, and mozzarella cheese with white vinegar and oil. It was crunchy and salty, like most of the food at Old Bridge. I should have eaten there years ago.

*
Frankie and Johnnie's
32 West 37th Street
New York, NY 10018
212.947.8940

*
Keens Steakhouse
72 West 36th Street
New York, NY 10018
212.947.3636

*
Old Bridge Restaurant
28-51 42nd Street
Astoria, NY 11103
718.932.7683

Fort Defiant

If Fort Defiance, in Brooklyn's newly-gentrified Red Hook, were a little more ambitious and on-point, it would be a great concept. Plates are small and inexpensive. One could order every item on the menu for under $150. Cocktails have that Prohibition-era twang.

If only.

The restaurant is unbearably cute, with fine touches here and there. I loved the brass leaf-shaped chandeliers and the lacquered tables that were covered in what best resembled shelf lining or summer picnic tablecloths. The restaurant has the spirit of eclectic Brooklyn bohemian chic down to a science. But the food--however cheap--couldn't stand up to the cuteness of the decor.

First, my drink, billed as "punch," was really just rum with simple syrup and a paltry squeeze of lime. When I asked my overburdened waiter for more lime juice, he took my glass and returned with a drink that tasted exactly the same as it had minutes earlier. Chicken liver pate, smooth and sweet, matched well with tiny slivers of baguette crostini, but deviled eggs lacked the requisite punch. Yes, they were smoky and salty, but where was the heat?

Pimento cheese on Ritz crackers would have been difficult to mess up, but the corn soup was a substantial disappointment, lacking texture and taste. Corn isn't sweet enough yet, maybe, but the dish was undersalted and overblended. I missed the subtle crunch of early season corn.

And then: pork chops. We ordered two. The meat itself was fatty and rich, but our chops, bone-in, were, sadly, overcooked. A side of grits was a little sticky for my taste and the side of squash reminded me of wan vegetable sides in bad pubs. But our side of asparagus, lightly blanched and served with a salty, creamy version of hollandaise, redeemed those soggy squash. Hen-of-the-woods mushrooms, slick with butter and woodier with thyme, almost made us forget those overcooked chops. Almost.

*

Fort Defiance

365 Van Brunt Street

Brooklyn, NY 11231

347.453.6672

Here, There, And Everywhere

Sunday night, my family and I headed out for seafood, the perfect match for a hot June night. Eastchester Fish Gourmet serves clean, honest seafood, the kinds of dishes I crave when the weather gets hot. Truth be told, I feel nostalgic for afternoons that sweep into evenings on decks above the Atlantic in Massachusetts, where lobster comes with a plastic bib and a bright cylinder of corn. New York is full of many culinary possibilities, but I've never felt that the dining scene here ever truly understood a proper New England seafood meal.

I considered the steamers, of course, but they are messy and I was wearing silk. Instead, I settled for east coast oysters, five different ones (Peconic, Blue Point, Malpeque, and Beau Soleil) that were as clean and briny as any served on any fine coastline. My softshell crab appetizer was crispy and well suited for the caper and pepper sauce that accompanied it. The bed of chopped spinach underneath was a nice final touch.

And then, my lobster. They had no chickens in house, so I bumped up to the next bracket, 1.75 lbs. of pure Maine crustacean. Any New Englander will tell you that the smaller lobsters yield the sweeter meat and the greed of diners who order the 3 or 6 or 9 lb. beasts is never rewarded. Lobster is a true measure of quality since it's eaten with nothing but drawn butter and this specimen didn't disappoint. I remember a time when I hated lobster, the one food in my home that my mother permitted me to pass up. More for her, she always figured, and now I know the error of my ways.

Dessert gilded the lily--I could have (and should have) stopped after my shellfishpalooza--but I needed that pineapple upside-down cake, didn't I? Or maybe I just needed the caramelized banana ice-cream that came with it.

From linen tablecloths to cafeteria dining, my next night out found me in Flushing, back to the Golden Mall for noodles, dumplings, and other assorted snacks. At Xi'an Famous Snacks, one must never leave without trying the Liang Pi noodles (cold, thick, glutinous noodles served in a secret sauce with slabs of tripe) or the lamb burger, a spicy combination of lamb and cumin served on a thin and crispy bun. You would never expect from the dinginess of the place that this stall has played host to Eric Ripert and Anthony Bourdain, but they know good tripe when they see it. Next door, the noodle-pullers at Lanzhou Handmade Noodles served us beef and noodles in broth, far tastier than whatever incarnation I had the last time I came (skip the gristly beef itself, but drink the cilantro-flecked broth).

At House of Xie, another mall stall, we sat down to julienned potato salad, slick with chili oil. Then: a perfect, sticky bun filled with savory beef and sweet onions; thin sliced kielbasa, served cold; chewy pig ear cut into fine ribbons. Nan Shian Dumpling House graced us with chive and meat dumplings, pan seared. They were soft-topped and brown-bottomed, like any good fried dumpling should be from a combination of steam and oil. A good dumpling sticks to the bottom of the pan. We ate ours with black vinegar and black garlic.

Back on the street, we stopped at the duck bun vendor for $1 duck buns, flesh and a perfect square of crisped skin served on a white, doughy bun with hoisin, scallion, and cucumber. There is no better dessert.

*

Eastchester Fish Gourmet

837 Post Road

Scarsdale, NY 10583

914.725.3450

*

Xi'an Famous Snacks

Golden Mall

41-28 Main Street

Flushing, NY 11355

*

Lanzhou Handmade Noodles

Golden Mall

41-28 Main Street

Flushing, NY 11355

*

House of Xie

Golden Mall

41-28 Main Street

Flushing, NY 11355

*

Nan Shian Dumpling House

Golden Mall

41-28 Main Street

Flushing, NY 11355

The Queens Vibe

It is a rare pleasure to spend the day at the beach and the night in a fine Italian joint, but that was the story of my Saturday. We started at Cedar Beach, past Jones in Long Island, where we arrived early and inconspicuous enough to pirate a small dog onto our private slice of sand. The heat propelled talk of ice cream and ices and we decided that a trip to Long Island would be incomplete without a pit stop at the Lemon Ice King of Corona on the way back.

The name is a misnomer, because the Lemon Ice King actually serves twenty-five different ices, and only one of them is lemon. Sizes range from pizzeria standard (a whopping $1.50) to a full gallon (price unknown) with a range in between. T. ordered mint chip, a vibrant green, but I prefer a fruitier style. I almost fell for my all-time favorite, rainbow, but I veered at the last minute and found surprising joy in fruit cocktail, which had real fruit floating around in all that ice. The Lemon Ice King is open all year long and if Corona was a little closer to Astoria, I might find myself saving my spare pennies for a daily ice. Where else can you sit in a park full of old timers watching bocce while sucking your ice from a dixie cup?

Our final stop was in Woodside, where we hit up Sapori d' Ischia, known to insiders for its incredible pasta. We could have skipped our sloppy mushroom salad (too many ingredients, we decided) and the passable carpaccio (canned truffles on top were impressive, but not that impressive), but we could go back again and again for that decadent pasta. Our pick? The restaurant's famous fettucini, made fresh and tossed with ham and cheese and heavy cream in--get this--a hollowed wheel of Parmesan. If you're wondering whether this is cheese overkill, well, it isn't. The dish never bores me and I am easily tired of dining trends. But that soft and toothy pasta in all that cheese was our perfect sunset.

*

Lemon Ice King of Corona

5202 108th Street

Corona, NY 11368

718.699.5133

*

Sapori d' Ischia

5515 37th Avenue

Woodside, NY 11377

718.446.1500

To Montauk And Back

It is worth comparing the Hamptons to other seafaring communities, since--externally, at least--this Long Island enclave bears resemblance to them. Like in Martha's Vineyard, farms and farmstands are abundant from Southampton through Amagansett. Like in northern Massachusetts, rolling, verdant hills lead to eroding (but still breathtaking) dunes. Like in most of New England, summer means a return to clams, lobster, and other shellfish.

But unlike New England, where blue collar really does still reign except for in specific places (see: Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard), a lobster roll in Montauk, while delicious, will set you back an astounding eighteen bucks. That's right. Eighteen dollars for a hot dog bun with mayo and lobster. This is even more ridiculous given the fact that last year's lobster bounty was overabundant, sending lobster rates down nationwide. In my hometown, our local grocery store sold summer soft-shell lobsters for $2.99 per pound. A lobster roll weighs in at about a quarter of that.

Of The Lobster Roll Restaurant, known by locals as Lunch because of the large sign out front, I will say this: the roll is good. The elements are mostly there (the crunch of celery, the ample but not heavy-handed application of mayonnaise, the hearty-but-not-over-chopped presence of tail and knuckle and claw, with the noted exception of the buttery bun. My bun, while traditional in style--supermarket-bought hot dog variety--was neither grilled nor slathered with warm butter. For eighteen bucks, they should have offered me a stick to go. Accompanying French fries were wan and once-frozen crinkle cut atrocities. Don't these people know that matchstick is protocol?

I also made a trip to Gosman's, sort of the Disney World of Montauk, where I drank a bad mojito (made with too much Rose's lime juice) and sat out on the water and munched on Blue Points. Blue Point oysters are native to Long Island and were impressive in their own right, much more than the baked clam (which was a Cherrystone, or Quahog, a bit more than I'd bargained for in the chewy department) and the crunchless crab cake (which I'm pretty sure featured Maryland--and not Long Island--crab). Go for the oysters and the oysters alone.

Farther into Amagansett, though, you might find one place worth your mighty dollar. La Fondita sells convincingly good tacos for a small price. They also sell traditional Mexican drinks like watermelon juice and horchata. My watermelon juice could have benefitted from the tart presence of lime, but I will let it slide. La Fondita hawks all different kinds of tacos, but I ordered soft-shell crab ('tis the season) and carne asada (always a good representation of a taco joint's abilities). Limes and various salsas are available in a corner near the pick up station. I brought to my table all shades and varieties of red and green with the exception of habanero, too spicy for this gringa. Tacos arrive open-faced on corn tortillas with a variety of accoutrement. Soft-shell came with mayonnaise and cabbage slaw, while carne asada was graced with cilantro and chopped onions. I could have eaten twenty of these suckers had my diet provided for it.

Still, I was glad for my return to the mainland and its less expensive and hard-to-reach sweet eats. On Wednesday, that meant oysters and scallops at the Grand Central Oyster Bar. Oysters here are still plentiful and inexpensive enough, coming in at just under two bucks apiece, depending on the variety. We ate our way through two dozen of the smaller ones, a mix of both east and west coast. I suggest finding a friendly bartender who will see you through three hours of your evening, and relying on his oyster-y expertise. We did. Of course, oysters aren't the best food for sopping up alcohol, so for that, we turned to a big plate of McDonald's-type French fries and a scallop pan-roast that was a little too goopy for my taste. Certainly Grand Central's lobster is more fiscally approachable than the lobsters of Montauk and that will be the road I head down the next time I find myself waiting for a commuter train.

Yesterday, two friends and I took an adventure to the new Hester Street Fair on the Lower East Side, where we shmoozed with banh mi from An Choi NYC (pork meatballs as well as the rest of the traditional toppings) a chili kimchi dog made with sausage from Williamsburg's Meat Hook, fresh lemonade from Too Good Traders, maple-bacon-cream cheese macarons from Macaron Parlour, and pineapple-mint popsicles from La Newyorkina. Vendors change from Saturday to Sunday and I'm excited to go back some weekend for Luke's Lobster Rolls, meatballs from Meatball Shop, and other tasties. It was a good way to spend an admittedly hot afternoon and it cost nearly nothing for all our treats.

Would that it were all the damage I could do in one day, but evening found us at Kanoyama, one of the most astoundingly awesome sushi places I've found in recent days. For the good stuff, you will pay the price, and some day, when I'm rich and famous, I will sit at the bar and order omakase, but for now, I can live with an a la carte lifestyle, especially if it includes Japanese baby red snapper. Why? Because this snapper, thin-sliced, raw, and skin on, comes with a tuille of fish carcass that our server generously offered to deep fry after we had eaten our meat. First, the fish was impeccable: clean, redolent of a fine ocean, and salty in a splash of ponzu. But the bones, which I have only had once before, were battered (along with head and eyeballs) and fried and served to us with salty green tea powder. It was like the best, crunchiest potato chip you've ever had and not at all gross, if that's what you're thinking. Impressive, too, was a light and peanuty watercress salad, a thin slice of duck breast rolled and served warm, a pan-fried pork gyoza with more ponzu, a roll of spicy tuna and cucumber, an eel roll with cucumber instead of rice as the binder. Hemlock oysters, hailing from Connecticut and arriving with their own version of ponzu and scallions, were as fresh as any others I had in the past few weeks. But the snapper was its own delight and I would return just for it and the other sashimi that I was too poor to try. Next time. Next time.

For dessert, we disappointed ourselves with cupcakes from ChickaLicious, which had turned soggy and sticky in the June heat wave. Our s'more stuck to our hands and faces and the carrot cake cupcake wasn't tart enough on top for my liking. I'm told that this was one poor performance and that I owe it to myself to return on a cooler evening, when the cupcakes are showing better. We'll see if that's in the cards.

*

The Lobster Roll Restaurant

1980 Montauk Highway

Amagansett, NY 11930

631.267.3740

*

Gosman's Restaurant

500 West Lake Drive

Montauk, NY 11954

631.668.5330

*

La Fondita

74 Montauk Highway

Amagansett, NY 11930

631.267.8800

*

Grand Central Oyster Bar & Restaurant

Grand Central Terminal

15 Vanderbilt Avenue

New York, NY 10017

212.490.6650

*

Hester Street Fair

Saturdays and Sundays, 10am to 6pm

Hester and Essex Streets

New York, NY 10002

*

Kanoyama

175 2nd Avenue

New York, NY 10003

212.777.5266

*

ChickaLicious Dessert Bar

203 East 10th Street

New York, NY 10003

212.475.0929