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

Omakase

It would seem unbelievable, to most, that I, devotee to all things culinary, had never before sat down to an omakase sushi dinner. Well, for one, omakase can be insanely expensive and not everyone is comfortable with the wide open unknowingness that comes with sitting down for a multi-course raw fish meal. T. and I were planning to go well before now, but she suffered an allergic reaction to fish over the summer and was told by the doctor to wait it out. And so it was not until cool November that we made it our mission to eat through an omakase menu at 1 or 8, a stylish-but-homey (surprising, since the restaurant is all white) sushi joint in Williamsburg that has gotten anemic press since it opened last year.

First of all, the Sushi Sekis and Sushi Yasudas of the world will happily charge you $200-$300 for an omakase tasting, but at 1 or 8 you can sit at the bar and do the flight for $50, $70, or $90. We chose the middle route, sushi rather than sashimi, though I would have been happier with either. I've decided to list what we ate below, since it was mostly an undulating flow of raw fish affixed to rice with a dollop of wasabi and a faint glisten of soy sauce.

Blood red raw tuna

Yellowtail

King salmon

Red snapper

Raw squid with uni

Chopped mackerel with scallions and yuzu

Poached eel

Sea scallop

Amberjack

Fluke with monkfish liver

Big-eye tuna

Mackerel, unchopped

Sardines

Finally, the piece d' resistance: a thick, toro-like slice of tuna, seared on each side and dusted with salt, pepper, and lemon. It tasted like steak and that heartiness was not lost on us.

I could have lived without the sardines, which were almost unbearably fishy. Eel isn't really my cup of tea, either, but the large mouthful was cut by the sticky rice. I was glad, on both courses, that we had opted for sushi and not sashimi. I missed ama ebi; T. had informed out sushi chef that she had a shellfish allergy, but despite my enthusiastic endorsement, the chef kicked me out of the shellfish dealings, too. T. offered to buy me a hand roll, but I declined. It seemed rude, after all.

I was surprised by the mildness of the raw squid. Squid isn't my favorite fish and I tend to avoid it in restaurants, but this version was chewy and complimented by the soft, briny sea urchin. The yellowtail, or hamachi, was one of the cleanest fish I have ever eaten. 1 or 8 turned out consistently fresh and clean product. At meal's end, they offered us steaming bowls of miso soup where, at bowl's bottom, we found a surprise lurking: house-made soft tofu.

Modern eaters, in the face of heritage pork or American wagyu beef, eat far too little good fish. Forget about the tuna or the swordfish or the prawns; we have forsaken fine raw fish in favor of a little more meat in our diets. I realize that it requires skill and attention and good fishing to produce such a noteworthy meal, but it's worth recognizing that the beauty of fish can sometimes surpass even the fine marble of an aged rib-eye.

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

The North Shore

It is always surprising to me that a town like Newburyport, Massachusetts, hailed for its beauty and proximity to the ocean, has so little to offer the dining community. Everywhere along rolling hills are farms and farmers with corn in summer and apples in fall. The sea coughs up scallops, clams, mussels, oysters, cod, and striped bass. But the local menus reflect a dedication to Sysco, not the earth. It's sad to see such summer bounty wasted.

I've been to Ristorante Molise in Amesbury over and over again. I never liked it, not its massive, encyclopedic menu, and not its repetitious use of the same "Italian" ingredients: mushrooms, artichokes, proscuitto, garlic, and roasted red peppers. Recently, a restaurant consultant revamped the place and pared down the menu, offering up fewer offerings. Less is definitely more. On a recent visit, I asked to order one of the pastas, advertised as homemade, as an appetizer. And homemade it was, thick, unyielding pappardelle in a light dusting of marinara and ricotta salata and tossed with thick cubes of summer's last eggplants. The salad that came with my meal was no longer an exercise in excess (servers used to list a litany of available dressings, but this one came with no more than a hint of oil and white vinegar). It was a small tumble of arugula and lettuce, cherry tomato and whisper-thin red onion. On principle, I'm against the "salad that comes with your meal," but this was best described as an intermezzo. My entree was everything one could want from a summer meal: large local clams, fresh stewed tomatoes, yellow potatoes, fennel, caramelized onion, sausage removed from its casing and seared on a flattop. The bowl of meat and fish and vegetable and broth came with two thick slices of grilled bread, perfect for sopping up the clams' remains. The portion was overgenerous and I could have done without the tomatoes, but the plate was spicy and sweet and an ode to the ending of a season. It made me wonder why more places in Massachusetts don't serve the very foods that crop up in their local gardens.

Two nights later, I found myself in Portsmouth, New Hampshire again, this time along the water and the wharf at a place called Black Trumpet. The restaurant bills itself as a bistro and wine bar, but the wines in the 40-70 dollar range were disappointingly slim pickings. A house cocktail of sparkling sake, muddled nectarine, and pineapple-mint simple syrup saved the alcohol component of the evening. The food was uneven. Rock shrimp cooked in garlic and harissa (one of the restaurant's "small plates") was delicious, but I felt cheated by the name. Had I known that rock shrimp would appear, in place of tender prawns or normal sized shrimp, I would have saved my appetite for something else. Sauteed foraged mushrooms were woefully undersalted, but a plate of house-made sausage and torchon was a resounding success. The sausage itself was livery and more in the vein of a good morcilla. The torchon, made with foie gras and duck bacon, melted into the bread. Pickled cauliflower and carrot provided the requisite tang and crunch and a stone fruit mostarda cut all that salty with a little sweet. Also delicious was a small plate of cured pork and cooked potatoes. There were two types, one closer in style to a chorizo, and the potatoes were browned and chewy. It was a hit with all of us.

Next came a medium-sized plate of quail, cooked over roasted vegetables and served with a heap of cous cous. It was perfectly executed if not terribly inspired. The same applied to my veal chop, weighing in at close to a pound on the bone. The fig sauce underneath was too sweet, the mustard greens too bitter for my palate, and the grain salad simply boring. The dish needed something with more salt to balance the fig, but the sides were yawn-worthy. I applaud Black Trumpet's dedication to local and homemade foods. I applaud that they use good purveyors who bring in meat and fish that is sustainable. But I left a little less inspired than I had hoped to be. At least I know we're moving forward, always forging new territory.

*

Ristorante Molise

1 Main Street

Amesbury, MA 01913

978.388.4844

*

Black Trumpet

29 Ceres Street

Portsmouth, NH 03801

603.431.0887

Down The Cape

We had a run of bad weather. The summer has been hot and sticky and dry, but we picked the week on the Cape when the weather changed and brought in torrential downpours and a night chill. For most of the week, the beach was out, which meant we had to spend our time doing other things (like eating).

On our drive to the Cape, we stopped at Sea Swirl in Mystic, Connecticut for fried food and ice-cream. I shared a scallop roll and a clam roll with my sister. Fried seafood doesn't really do it for me, but the scallops were sweet and delicious. The clams were mostly strips, not at all my bag. Onion rings were the frozen variety. Oh well. I should have stuck with my original philosophy: eat as much lobster as possible. But there was time for that.

Our second night in Harwich, we ate at Twenty-Eight Atlantic. We would eat there twice over the course of the week. The dining room is pretty if a notch too formal, with straight backed upholstered chairs and plush carpeting, but the view makes up for the stodgy appointments. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows face the Nantucket Sound, with its bobbing sailboats and sunfish. A foie gras appetizer--piped pate over duck bacon--was delicious if ordinary. On our second meal, I had the tartare trio (tuna, hamachi, salmon), tasty if non-experimental. The accoutrement was what you would expect with tartare: quail egg, tobiko. What was extraordinary was a fried rice cake (risotto-style) with a creamy interior, possessed of all the right flavors and textures. One night, I had seared scallops over mushroom ravioli. The ravioli was creamy and tasty, but the whole dish was a little too rich and I left it unfinished. My second evening's entree was shelled king crab legs, poached in butter and served with a corn and pea risotto. It was a harmony of salty and sweet but once again I felt assaulted by all the cream and butter and left some uneaten. Desserts were a disappointment and the only element that registered as worth discussing was a basil sorbet, as clean and fresh as August basil itself.

My first gray day found me in downtown Chatham, where I fought my way in to the Chatham Squire, a place I last visited in 1998. I have no recollection of my earlier visit but this time around, I found the place charming enough. I shared a solid lobster roll with my sister (just enough lobster, just enough mayonnaise) and ate my way through a half a dozen raw oysters (salty, briny, perfect) and a crock of onion soup. The Chatham Squire provides fish and comfort and I wasn't looking for much else.

That night, we drove to Orleans to a place called the Lobster Claw, where I enjoyed my first--and only--bona fide clam bake: 1.25 lb. lobster, steamer clams in broth and drawn butter, corn on the cob, and French fries. The ambiance, full of fish netting and decaying buoys, was nothing to marvel at, but the lobster sang. And I had forgotten, in the offseason, how much I love those slimy steamer clams, with their grit and their goo. My father deemed his full-bellied fried clams the best of the trip (he had four separate incarnations), a triumph in itself.

It rained buckets on Monday and it was difficult to get through the wet weather, but we went to Orleans for dinner at Joe's Beach Road Bar & Grille. The best thing about Joe's is their stellar wine list, which is aggressively underpriced and surprisingly comprehensive (for the Cape, I mean). We drank a bottle of Kistler 'Les Noisetiers' for under a hundred clams, but that didn't make up for my undersalted frog's legs or my overcooked seafood pasta (lobster, shrimp, and scallops, but who wants to eat chewy lobster, anyway?). Rumor has it that Joe's slashes their prices on all bottles by fifty percent in the month of October, so maybe the place is better for a bar bottle and a side salad.

On another rainy afternoon, we drove to Wellfleet and ate lunch at Bookstore & Restaurant, a fitting name that describes exactly what this establishment is. As for the restaurant part, it was decidedly New England, with wooden tables and nondescript brown carpeting and valances above the windows that looked out onto Wellfleet Harbor. When in Wellfleet, one must eat local oysters and so I did, another half dozen. But the true star of lunch was local littleneck clams steamed in wine, garlic, and butter, and served with a half loaf of crunchy white bread. We asked for two extra servings of bread and still made no dent on the pool of butter and broth at our bowl's bottom. Alas. Bookstore & Restaurant has a bookstore, too, filled with ancient copies of books you've never heard of, as well as some you have. I stumbled upon a second edition of Emily Post's Etiquette and brought it back to Harwich.

The next day, I drove all the way to the end of the Cape, to Provincetown, a good hour from where we were staying. We wandered into Pepe's Wharf Restaurant and I found myself a perfect plate of linguine with littleneck clams. The sauce, though buttery and full of garlic, wasn't quite as spectacular as my lunch broth at Bookstore & Restaurant. My clams were still delicious, and anyway, the whole meal was redeemed by my sisters' joint order, two giant pork meatballs sitting in a sea of fresh tomato sauce and cheese. We needed extra bread for that, too.

That evening, we tried to get into the Brewster Fish House, which doesn't accept reservations, but a rude hostess sent me away. Next door, at the Brewster Chowder House, I found solace over bacony stuffed littlenecks and a plate of shrimp scampi that exceeded my mediocre expectations. There's nothing fancy about the Chowder House, which is part of its charm. The menu prices are written in by hand and the focus is on simple meat and fish. The restaurant looked like an old Victorian home that had been haphazardly redone. Old flowered wallpaper still clung to the walls, as did antique mirrors. It bore an unsettling resemblance to the house in Psycho, but we managed to leave the property unscathed.

By Thursday, we could see the sun again, so we went to Nauset Beach, where there had been warnings of Great White sightings. Nauset has its own clam shack, Liam's, and we spent the better part of our afternoon waiting in the Liam's line. I was rewarded with a monstrous lobster roll (1/2 lb. of meat, the sign said) and delicate, beer-battered onion rings. My watermelon freeze, one of my favorites up in northern Massachusetts, was too sweet and I drank only a few sips. Now, about that lobster roll: It was too big. I know some people would argue that more lobster is better lobster, but this sandwich was hard to eat and the pieces of claw were completely intact. I felt guilty tossing some of it away, but I had no choice. As far as clam shacks go, Liam's was fine, if a little too expensive. We should have done what neighboring beachgoers were doing. They had set up two grills and coleman stoves with boiling water and were making their own lobster lunch.

For our last Cape dinner, we went to the Academy Ocean Grille in Orleans, where I had my final clams for the week. These ones were littlenecks stuffed with breadcrumbs and served in a thick, bready broth. In clam world, it was the best of both. My pork loin was impossibly tender and matched with fresh, sweet corn, cut off the cob. I skipped the wan and overcooked green beans, but I did order dessert, a sticky toffee pudding that demanded my full attention. It was a fitting farewell.

*

Sea Swirl Seafood Restaurant

30 Williams Avenue

Mystic, CT 06355

860.536.3452

*

Twenty-Eight Atlantic

2173 Massachusetts 28

Harwich, MA 02645

508.430.3000

*

Chatham Squire

487 Main Street

Chatham, MA 02633

508.945.0945

*

The Lobster Claw

52 Cranberry Highway

Orleans, MA 02653

508.255.1800

*

Joe's Beach Road Bar & Grille

5 Beach Road

Orleans, MA 02643

508.255.0212

*

Bookstore & Restaurant

50 Kendrick Avenue

Wellfleet, MA 02667

508.349.3154

*

Pepe's Wharf Restaurant

371 Commercial Street

Provincetown, MA 02657

508.487.8717

*

Brewster Inn & Chowder House

1993 Main Street

Brewster, MA 02631

508.896.7771

*

Liam's At Nauset Beach

4 Nauset Beach

Orleans, MA 02653

508.255.3474

*

Academy Ocean Grille

2 Academy Place

Orleans, MA 02653

508.240.1585

Chicken Little

Somehow, my friends and I miraculously missed the line at Pies 'N Thighs last night. It helps to know the people who make the chicken. As it was my first time at this famed establishment, the group suggested I order the Fried Chicken Box, a three-piece fried set (what pieces you get seem dictated by chance), which comes with a buttery biscuit and choice of one side. Chance fell in my favor: I ended up with two thighs and a bone-in breast. The exterior of PNT chicken is pretty much crispy chicken heaven. New York is no groundbreaker when it comes to the stuff, but no matter. Any southern food worshipper can get a fix in Billyburg.

The sides? The sides were fine. Macaroni and cheese was a slight disappointment, with a grainy and broken cream sauce. My watermelon and cucumber salad was assaulted with a little too much mint, an assertive flavor that tends towards the vegetal in excess. Deep-fried zucchini was the perfect mix of savory and sweet, enclosed in a thin and delicate batter and dressed with honey. Biscuits, if you like that sort of thing, were a standout, too. "These are the real thing," a co-eater exclaimed. It's all about the butter. The other ladies ordered the chicken on a biscuit, one white breast with a hit of spice served in the middle of one of those buttery biscuits and topped with honey or maple syrup (it was hard to tell which). The biscuit meal is less food than the three piece and less money, too, and if it hadn't been my maiden voyage, I may have gone down that road, too.

My watermelon agua fresca proved the perfect respite from the spicy Frank's Red Hot that came drizzled atop my thighs. But what rounded out my meal completely was that final piece, a sour cherry hand pie, which is a polite way of saying that it was deep-fried. Call it a turnover, call it a slice, call it whatever you like. What it was, in its simplicity and brilliance, was a sour cherry pocket doused in hot oil and topped with powdered sugar. What better way to bid adieu to cherry season and to summer?

*

Pies 'N Thighs

166 South 4th Street

Brooklyn, NY 11211

347.529.6090

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