Comfort Me

I'm sort of ambivalent about the comfort food movement. Certainly there are more challenging and original foods out there to make than fried chicken and biscuits. Still, when a hot spot opens in my nabe (a truly rare occurrence), I take notice. Queens Comfort has been building a following all week, with its rakish Williamsburg aesthetic--white wainscoting, chalkboard menus, Stumptown coffee in house and to go, alternative music blasting, cash only. You get the picture. I had to go in.

I sat at the bar, which makes for a comfortable enough brunch. Queens Comfort does their own baking and I had to challenge myself not to eat one of their fresh donuts. I won that battle, but lost others.

My fried green tomato sandwich was a little heavy on the remoulade and a little light on the sweet pepper jam, but I assume they'll find balance after the official week of soft-opening is over. My bread had the coarse texture of cornbread with a tiny bit of the same quality of sweetness. I was aiming for a meat-free morning, which prevented me from ordering the brisket sandwich with horseradish and red onion jam, or the pulled pork sandwich with Stumptown barbecue sauce and slaw, or the fried chicken sandwich with maple butter on a biscuit. The calorie counter in the back of my brain advised against a side of macaroni and cheese, though I'm sure my discipline will only follow me so far. For my family, I brought home three maple bacon biscuits, the last in house.

The staff has advised me that the menu will change and expand in coming weeks. They also plan to delivery and, hopefully, accept credit cards. I'm not sure if Queens *needs* a spot to order a two dollar Mexican Coke, but hey, we have it now. For anyone who was concerned, it should come as a great comfort.

*

Queens Comfort

40-09 30th Avenue

Astoria, NY 11103

646.597.8687

Eat Here Now

Renee's Kitchenette and Grill. Woodside, Queens. Filipino Barbecue.

There isn't much to see, beyond some communal cafeteria-style tables and a slew of strange gift items marked "twenty percent off." But, oh, the meat.

Order the mixed grill. With it, you'll get pork on a skewer and fatty-tender pork belly and a full chicken leg and thigh and spicy sausage, all doused in a sweet Filipino barbecue sauce. Dip your varied carnivorous pleasures in the side bowl of fish sauce and vinegar, spiced with just enough chile to keep you human. Take some of those spicy pickled veggies--mostly cabbage, I think--and drape them over the modestly delicious garlic fried rice.

Spicy, salty, and sweet, and everything takes a cool respite in a crunchy cucumber, tomato, and hard-boiled egg salad. Eat that, too. Save room for a cool coconut drink with "tropical jello" and toasted rice. It is sweet and likely very bad for you. Saturday only comes once a week.

If the meat doesn't fill you completely, take a jog a few blocks down to Red Ribbon Bakeshop, what my dining partner called, "The Filipino version of Crumbs," where everything is extremely sweet and calorie-laden. I don't know what made the frosting on our angel food cake green, but it was sugary enough to chase down any cravings. I finished the slice of chocolate, too, two layers held together with dulce de leche.

*

Renee's Kitchenette and Grill

69-14 Roosevelt Avenue

Woodside, Queens 11377

718.476.9002

*

Red Ribbon Bakeshop

65-02 Roosevelt Avenue

Woodside, Queens 11377

718.335.1150

Del Posto

I had only ever walked into the space in daylight, before they even served lunch. It is a cavernous dining room with marble and wide balconies and lush carpet where the tables are. By night, the glow of candles and table side sconces turns the room into a giant Deco-era piano bar (and yes, there is a piano, under the stairs).

Del Posto offers two menus, both price fixed. We chose the lesser of the two, five courses, which has more flexibility; the seven course menu is set in its courses and does not allow for guests to choose their food from the larger menu.

Prosecco arrived within moments. I didn't complain, even though I had already downed a near perfect white peach bellini at the bar. Next, a trio of amuse bouche: gougeres with mortadella; sticky saffron risotto balls; and a clarified chicken broth striated with egg yolk. Then, crusty bread and whipped lardo, an Italianophile's dream spread.

Our 1996 Riserva Barbaresco had been aged in barrique, which I noted to the sommelier. "Do you prefer a more traditional style?" he asked me. I said yes. He told me he would make a note on my reservation so that the next time I have dinner they would serve me something less pronounced. The night was full of comparable attention to detail.

I let the server steer me towards a beef tartare with porcini mushrooms and shaved parmesan when she told me that the kitchen could not produce the goose liver special without almonds (I'm allergic). Her selection won me over, full of crunch and salt and smooth edges. Then came the first of our two pasta courses, a pasta called caramelle, which looked like cellophane-wrapped candy and oozed with gorgonzola and black truffles. A whole wheat spaghetti came with chunks of mirepoix and shaved bonito flakes. The pastas are the star of the whole Del Posto show.

But my lamb--a mixture of leg, t-bone, and other gamier parts--was not to be outdone. Cloaked in a perfect puttanesca, it was the ultimate combination of unctuous fat and tender meat. I still had room for dessert, a butterscotch semi-freddo with candied melon. Every portion served was modest, preventing the post-meal guilt so often associated with four star dining. There was even room to enjoy the final glorious moments of our meal, served in a box grater: a caramel in edible paper, a tiny ice cream bon bon on a lollipop stick, a chocolate truffle, two pieces of candied fruit, and a golf ball-sized beignet filled with citrus cream.

*

Del Posto

85 10th Avenue

New York, NY 10011

212.497.8090

Thai Style

Before my reservation at Kin Shop, my mother and I made a pilgrimage to Eataly in Gramercy. I call it a "pilgrimage" because that's exactly what it is. We waited in line nearly twenty minutes, pleading our case to two disaffected bodyguards before we were finally granted entree into the most expensive and expansive grocery store I have ever seen.

I won't deny that my tiny, crunchy cannoli was pitch-perfect, nor will I claim nonchalance. Eataly is truly a sight to behold, with its gorgeous fresh pastas, scored breads, fresh fish, and various Italian imported foods. The space, weaved with restaurants and wine bars, is reminiscent of Barcelona's Boqueria, where patrons can shop and eat all in one venue. But price-wise, Barcelona doesn't hold a candle to this New York monstrosity. A small ham that couldn't have weighed more than 3 pounds cost $34.95. Lesson learned: come for the sights and a quick cannoli, but buy your wares elsewhere.

Kin Shop was a welcome relief from the fray. The restaurant has a minimalist feel, in the same genre of momofuku, with blond wood tables and chopsticks in lieu of silver. But the prices at Harold Dieterle's newest hot spot are more in line with tablecloths and china. At the behest of the server, we ordered heavy--and she was right, since portions are fairly conservative--which resulted in a weighty check of over $200 for four people. It isn't expensive by New York standards, exactly, but it isn't cheap, either. Casual dining in the city has retained its cache, but not its price point.

Kin Shop has a deep and interesting wine list, filled with German and French whites with residual sugar, perfect for spicy food. We drank a 1999 Auslese Riesling, well-suited for our creamy bone marrow (which could have used a touch more salt, but never mind), our head-on prawns (no complaints here), our scallops and snap peas in coconut milk (sweet, savory, and full of contrasting textures). Chinese sausage with a soft egg and chopped razor clams was salty and complex, though it would have been better served by leaving the razors whole. Tamarind seared duck breast had been breaded in something light to create this crunchy exterior that was nothing short of addictive. Paper-thin layers of roti had been bound together in clarified butter. I stuffed mine with a cucumber relish that tasted like chopped homemade pickles, an Asian tea sandwich of my own creation. Even a modest dish of egg noodles with Hen-of-the-woods mushrooms and a poached egg failed to miss a beat.

And then: dessert. I ordered a root beer float, but instead of the galangal ice-cream that came with the dish, I had mine with Thai iced tea ice-cream, an authentic interpretation of the real thing. Coconut cookies arrived on the house, as did a scoop of icy but refreshing lychee sorbet. It's all pricey for Thai, but worth the price tag.

*

Eataly

200 5th Avenue

New York, NY 10010

212.398.5100

*

Kin Shop

469 6th Avenue

New York, NY 10011

212.675.4295

Ocean Life

I have retreated, in my old-ish age, from dinners at fancy restaurants, where I once found myself most at home. But every once in a while an occasion arises--a birthday or otherwise noteworthy and celebratory event--that calls me back into three- and four-star New York life. Last night, such an occasion, my sister's birthday, brought me to Marea.

Despite some service missteps (the wine list arrived in the hands of my sister's boyfriend as a matter of gender consequence instead of my own knowing paws; the expeditors brought our crudo course to the wrong seat numbers; the sommelier, when petitioned by me to recommend a "not crazy expensive" and accessible Barolo pointed to a $190 bottle; the captain placed the check at my right, rather than at the payee's place), the food was, in fact divine.

First, green olive focaccia, slick with oil and salt, and a little cup of squash consomme to clean our palates. That gentle taste prepared us for what came next, the unctuous, fatty, and inspired combination of uni and lardo on charred toast, a marriage of the sea's prizes and the land's. It was like eating a combination of many different butters all at once, one with the tiniest briniest reminder of the ocean. Crudo was simple and clean. In retrospect, I should have ordered a fattier fish, since the rest of the table didn't do the menu justice. I had three perfect langoustines, raw on slices of mandoline-thin cucumber. My sister had the same preparation with sweet Maine ama ebi and red chili, but she found it too slimy. The rest of our table ordered oysters, a bit of a snore, even if the mignonette duo--red and wine vinegars--was tasty enough. In the future, I would go for a pink snapper or a tuna or even a branzino.

My next course was yellowtail, also raw, but adorned with chanterelles and thin slices of seared foie gras. In some ways, I found this course, in its entirety, most successful. My sister ordered Nantucket Bay scallops, which, when ill-prepared, reek of fishiness. But these were candy sweet and matched with bright red pomegranate seeds. The Nova Scotia lobster with fresh burrata sang in its simplicity and was complimented by a bright and impossibly summer-like basil puree. Gnocchi with shaved black truffles, stolen from my brother's plate, were the pillowy things they describe ad nauseum in The Godfather III and not those gummy, overdone monstrosities too often found in Italian joints nationwide. And a mushroom risotto across the table from me played to the virtues of fungus while demonstrating the care and caution it takes to make good rice good.

Next were main courses, which, for me, came in the form of delicate orecchiette in a sweet tomato sauce with even sweeter shrimp, just barely undercooked to maintain their texture. My sister shared her bone marrow and octopus fusilli with me, cooked in a deep red wine reduction and filled with all of the extreme decadence that one might expect from such a dish. She pushed her bone marrow to the side and I happily accepted her discard pile with those twists of pasta that were some of the best textured noodles I have ever eaten. My brother's swordfish, though it wouldn't have been my pick, was a study in well-cooked fish, but I didn't make it much farther around the table than that.

I wasn't expecting much in the way of dessert, as the Italians are rarely known for their sweet tooth, but Marea's pastry kitchen is extremely talented and nimble. My rosemary panna cotta was what I think of when I crave a little milk pudding and a wine reduction and sorbet added sweet to an almost savory concoction. My sister's beautiful white chocolate honey cake came with parisienne balls of grapefruit sorbet on top. Her boyfriend's salted caramel and chocolate cake hit all of the obligatory notes and added an extra punch of cream in the center that reminded me of the best kind of Hostess cupcake.

In the future, I will spend more occasions at Marea.

*

Marea

240 Central Park South

New York, NY 10019

212.582.5100

Market Fresh

The food at Market Table reminds me of most of the other food coming out of New York kitchens these days--seasonal, homey, ingredient-focused, and lacking a little bit of fire. That's ok. Sometimes you just need a tasty meal and, for me, last night was one of those times. Anyway, who could pass up sitting in such a pretty little restaurant, with its floor-to-ceiling windows facing snowy Carmine Street, with its colonial Christmas wreaths on the doors and windows, with its string of precious little white lights running up the bar's central wood column? I love Christmas as much as any Jewish girl ever could and I love sitting in a warm and glowing restaurant on a December night wrapped in a soft sweater and a wisp of red wine.

Speaking of wine, the Market Table by the glass list isn't deep, but it is thoughtful. I had an inexpensive (by European standards) Corbieres from the south of France, followed by an Olga Raffault Chinon, one of my long-standing favorites. It was a little young and not as dirty as it gets with age, but I appreciate any restaurant that sells a Chinon by the glass.

And so, the food.

My hamachi crudo starter came with the obligatory sliced fruit--in this case, julienned pears. The dish hit all the right notes, with clean acid and sweet fruit and a slight hint of the ocean, but it was a dish I had tasted before on another night in another farm-to-table restaurant. No spark, no fire.

Next came a generous pork porterhouse, bone-in, cooked to a perfect medium and topped with a red onion and vinegar slaw. The meat was surprisingly underseasoned, forcing me to reach into our complimentary bowl of Maldon salt for some pork triage. It helped. The meat itself was leaner than I had expected but still possessed of the perfect texture of well-cooked pork. The creamy, cheesy spaetzle underneath, dotted with fine leaves of Brussels sprouts, went down easily indeed. So did the crispy, crunchy Old Bay fries with their horseradish ketchup (which really tasted of nothing but cocktail sauce). And so did our two scoop gelato finish, a rich dark chocolate and a nutty bourbon pecan.

It all tasted good and I left nothing for the waiters to scrape into the bins out back, but I still have to wonder if good tasting food is enough anymore. Maybe I miss the fire.

*

Market Table

54 Carmine Street

New York, NY 10014

212.255.2100

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

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