Bay What?

I think the last--and possibly only--time that I visited Bay Ridge was in the late 1980s when my parents went to pick up their Volvo station wagon at the Bay Ridge Volvo dealership.  Pretty much the only details I knew about Bay Ridge were: 1. There was a Volvo dealership there, 2. It was farther into Brooklyn than Park Slope, and 3. My friend Peter lived there and drove to the train station in Sunset Park in the mornings because it was too dang far from the City.  

But I spend a lot of time in Brooklyn and I've learned that you can save more than a few pennies eating in the boroughs instead of eating on the island.  Last night was a terrific case in point.  A google search for "steak" led us to Austin's Steak House in Bay Ridge.  Decor is Sopranos-inspired.  Maitre'd might actually work for the mafia.  More than a few male patrons were wearing loafers without socks.  The woman sitting by herself at the bar in high high heels and a lot of lycra is, my date assures me, a prostitute.  Not that I really care.  A man in his 60s singing misquoted pop songs floats around the dining room with a microphone "delighting" guests.  Or whatever you want to call it.  I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. 

We skipped appetizers, the traditional steakhouse platitudes: shrimp cocktail, caesar salad, crab cakes.  In retrospect, we could have skipped sides, too; our skinny asparagus with browned garlic came undersalted and mashed potatoes were too watery in consistency.  But oh, the steak.  I can't believe I'm writing this, but I'm pretty sure that's the best steak I've ever eaten in New York. 

It was a cowboy steak, otherwise known as a rib-eye.  It came on the bone, an inch-plus thick.  It had the black crust that only comes with super high heat and a butter glaze at the end of cooking.  It was a little too salty (believe it or not), but the meat itself had the dense funk of honest-to-goodness dry aging.  It was just as black-and-blue as I'd ordered it, with a perfect deckle at the top of the rib.  What can I say? I'd put that baby up against a Luger porterhouse any day of the week.  Even my date's filet mignon (ugh), definitely not my cup of tea, tasted remarkably good.  

Austin's is not a whole-package experience.  If you want that, go to BLT Prime, or another trendy steakhouse that serves overpriced and admittedly delicious side dishes and desserts (Austin's sources their desserts from elsewhere and we didn't even bother trying them).  But if you truly want the best rib-eye in New York, I think I've found it.  Trust me, I'm just as surprised as you are. 

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Austin's Steak House

8915 5th Avenue

Brooklyn, NY 11209

718.439.5000

Age Is Just A Number (Or So They Say)

I bring that up because my most vivid memory of Lupa, Mario Batali's bustling Thompson Street joint, is from my 21st birthday.  That seems like ages ago now.  September 11th had just happened.  My family rented out the back room and people drank bellinis and we all ate charcuterie and rigatoni with breadcrumbs.  

It was a transcendent meal, but it was also a long time ago, so it's always amazing to me that Lupa never suffers from diner boredom.  They're busy seven days a week.  Their menus don't change dramatically but people still go back.  

I stopped in for a midday snack yesterday.  I had the shaved asparagus with pecorino, a plate of ricotta gnocchi with a sausage bolognese, and some bavette (thin linguine) with black pepper and cheese.  The bavette was the best.  It was simple, it was rustic, it was al dente, and it was perfectly satisfying.  Which, I guess, is why people go back.  You can get what you want.  No fuss, no muss.  No hundred dollar check, either.  The bellinis lack the spirit of invention, but they are delicious.  Maybe that's all food needs to be sometimes: delicious. 

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Lupa

170 Thompson Street

New York, NY 10012

212.982.5089

Ways To Celebrate The Completion Of A 20 Mile Run

Step 1: Abandon all rules and perameters set for yourself regarding food.  

I ran 20 miles on Monday, came home, sat around for a while thinking about what I should eat, realized it was too late for most delivery, and ordered Domino's, Brooklyn-style.  FYI, 16 inches of pizza is really not that much.  I ate half a pizza in approximately seven minutes.  At least it had vegetables on it. 

Which is more than I can say for the pizza that I ordered yesterday afternoon, at Otto, a small and crispy pie that came topped with a sunny side up egg.  To meet my veggie quota, I ordered asparagus with pecorino and English peas with proscuitto and mint.  To meet my already-met carbohydrate quota, I also ordered bruschetta with white beans and red pepper flakes.  It was a decent afternoon.  The pizza was crispy.  I can't complain.  

Later, it was on to more edibles in Carroll Gardens.  We tucked into a cozy booth at Black Mountain Winehouse for some passable nebbiolo, pretty darn good country pate, and weird-but-kitschy-cool fondue.  Also on the menu?  Salami and lard white bread, a panini stuffed with mayo and mortadella and served with hot peppers and quince marmalade, white bean crostini with warm ricotta, and a tuna nicoise salad.  We got experimental with the fondue and my friend went crazy dipping the mortadella sandwich into the hot cheese.  I'm pretty sure I got back the calories lost on that long, ambitious run.  

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Otto Enoteca

1 5th Avenue

New York, NY 10003

212.995.9559

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Black Mountain Winehouse

415 Union Street

Brooklyn, NY 11231

718.522.4340

Slacking

On Tuesday night, all I wanted to do was put my feet up.  I ran 15 miles through the St. Patrick's Day parade in the afternoon, wishing I had chosen another day to do so.  A trip to the movies to see Watchmen, possibly the longest--and worst--move I have ever wasted 11 bucks on with the exception of Saw II made me hungry and tired.  My partner in crime decided we had spent too much money the night before and suggested we cook. 

I want a meal that requires few pans, little preparation, and a dedication to product.  We found chicken thighs (skin off, a vast disappointment, but oh, well), thick asparagus, perfect white potatoes, Persian cucumbers, decent-enough arugula, and sugar snap peas at C Town, my most local and most ethnic supermarket.  Back home, I tossed the thighs and asparagus together with olive oil, salt, pepper, and lemon juice.  I put the thighs on a baking sheet and sent them on their way at 400 degrees.  When they were half done, after about ten minutes, I added the asparagus to the tray.  

We sliced the Persian cukes and put them together with arugula, halved sugar snaps, wide strips of peeler-sliced Parmesan, and red onion, tossed with the remainder of my lemon, salt, pepper, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar.  Peeled and boiled potatoes came together with two tablespoons of nonfat Greek yogurt, a half cup of warmed skim milk, some butter, salt, and pepper.  We mashed, then whisked.  They were perfect. 

Our meal took 30 minutes, just enough time for us to polish off a glass each of Gruet, New Mexico's own methode champanoise sparkler.  In the time it took to shop for and cook dinner, Watchmen would have been finishing its introductory sequence. I'll take the chicken thighs over that Marvel failure any day.  

Using What You Have

I hear a lot of people say things like "I don't have time to cook," and I completely understand that sentiment.  When I used to come home late from a night of service, the last thing I wanted to do was spend time in my kitchen.  The immediacy of my hunger was often either ignored or placated with a quick fix slice. 

Pretty soon I'll be headed back to my late-night life, which means some internal adjustments.  I'm pretty sure that I've found the answer to feeding oneself well and often and it isn't as hard as I'd once believed.  The key?  Keeping lots of food in the apartment.  

I know. It sounds ridiculous.  Actually, I used to avoid buying fresh produce because it often went bad before I had a chance to use it.  Read: I was too lazy to do anything with it, which is why it so often went bad.  Last night, I got home in the evening after a trip into the city.  I was starving and I didn't want to go to the grocery store.  I decided to improvise with whatever I had in my refrigerator.  

I had one frozen chicken breast, which I was able to defrost under hot water. 

I had one bunch of leftover asparagus. 

I had a whole Texas scallion.  

I had a persimmon.  

I had a cucumber. 

I had an open can of black olives. 

I had a shallot and lemon vinaigrette from the night before.  

I put the asparagus, sliced persimmon, Texas scallion, and chicken breast on a baking sheet.  Then I poured the vinaigrette over everything, mixed it with my hands, salted and peppered the mess, made sure nothing overlapped, and threw it in a 400 degree oven.  I chopped the cucumber and black olives and put them in a bowl and ate them with balsamic vinegar, olive oil, salt, and pepper.  After six or seven minutes, I flipped the chicken, but left the veggies to turn scorched at the edges.  Not too long after that, I pulled the whole roasted mess out of the oven and tossed it into one very large bowl.  Ta da.  Dinner is served. 

If you surround yourself with foods that don't require much thought or preparation, you can make a delicious and fresh meal in less than half an hour.  People think too much about ingredients, or amounts, or the time it takes to chop an onion.  But if you're lazy and hungry, like I often am, you'll take the path of least resistance, chop the onion as coarsely as you can, toss everything with a thin layer of olive oil and leave it to its own devices in a very hot oven.  

Cooking is not brain surgery.  All you have to do to make yourself decent meals is care about ad understand your product, whether it be canned olives or an overripe persimmon.  Keep your fridge stocked and force yourself to use what you have.  Nothing is more satisfying than creating something out of nothing. 

By the way, those Texas scallions char really nicely, almost like the onion bits left at the bottom of a Sunday roast pan.  

Spring Springing

Here is what any knowledgeable foodie can look forward to during the burgeoning weeks of spring, which are almost upon us: ramps, asparagus, morels, fava beans, spring garlic, sweet peas. Spring harvest is almost here, which means a welcome wish goodbye to all those root vegetables we've spent the winter eating.

As an early celebratory move towards a spring feast, I cooked myself a spring meal last night. I grabbed asparagus from the market. It was from California, and I don't usually like to buy produce that's spent so much time traveling, but I was really craving asparagus, and besides, I had 15 quail eggs in the refrigerator, and what vegetable goes better with eggs than asparagus?

I blanched the asparagus for five minutes in boiling water and then transferred them to an ice bath to retain their color. Then I made a simple vinaigrette of chopped chive, shallot, lemon juice, olive oil, salt, pepper, and a little bit of truffle oil.

The quail eggs were a little more complicated. I decided to make a good old project out of dinner and found a recipe for deviled quail eggs. Boil the eggs for three to four minutes and remove. Cool the eggs under cold water and peel. Slice in half. Removing the yolks is tough; I used my fingers, which seemed to work better than any kitchen tool. I mixed the yolks (from seven eggs) with one tablespoon mayonnaise--I use olive oil based mayonnaise only--the juice from half a lemon, a teaspoon of dijon mustard, salt, cracked black and cayenne peppers.

The final part of dinner involved sea scallops from the fish market. A note to anyone buying scallops for searing: if the market sells "dry scallops," buy them. Sea scallops are brined in order to make them appear more white and larger. As a result, when you put them over a high flame, they release their internal moisture, making it impossible to achieve a proper sear. My market didn't have dry scallops, so my scallops were lightly brown instead of brown-to-black. But they still tasted good. I kept it simple, with salt and pepper the only adornment.

But added to my asparagus with vinaigrette and deviled quail eggs, that was more than enough. I'm eagerly awaiting the arrival of spring produce.

Monday, Monday

I always like to start the year off by breaking my resolutions immediately. I'm not much of a reformer, as evidenced by yesterday's descent into the opium den that is the New York restaurant scene.

First: We were planning on eating lunch at Flex Mussels on the upper east side, which would have changed the course of our day considerably. A call revealed that Flex opens at five daily. So that obviously wasn't going to work.

Instead, we went to TriBeCa for sausage. Lots and lots of sausage. Chef Kurt Gutenbrunner's Blaue Gans specializes in Austrian food and wine and their lunch menu is incredibly affordable. We're talking $8 for sausage and side.

Ambitious eaters we are. We ordered three types of sausage (slender frankfurters that arrived with cucumber dill potato salad, one fat bratwurst, and a sausage whose name I couldn't pronounce if my life depended on it). Sausages came with sauerkraut, shaved horseradish, and sinus clearing mustard.

We also ordered a terrine, flanked by sweet pickles, more mustard, warm bread. We were comped--because the former wasn't enough food?!?--jaeger schnitzel with spaetzle, thinly pounded pork, pan fried and topped with a bacon lardon/mushroom butter sauce and served with scallioned spaetzle that more closely resembled transcendent macaroni and cheese.

We didn't order dessert, but it came anyway: one very large and tasty almond croissant, a perfect apple strudel that was flaky and complemented completely by unsweetened fresh whipped cream, and the house specialty, known as the Sulzburger Nockerl. What is it? Springy white meringue baked over fresh huckleberries.

You'd think that three comped desserts, one entree, and one round of Austrian wine would have sent us and our spared wallets back to the boroughs. But no. Instead, we headed to Chelsea for early evening cocktails at East of Eighth, a warm little dive off 8th Avenue. Once the sun had safely slipped below the horizon, it was time to eat again.

This time, it was appetizers and sparkling wine (ok, for me a champagne cocktail) at Bobby Flay's spacious midtown brasserie, Bar Americain. House made potato chips with a melted blue cheese dipping sauce and grilled asparagus with green peppercorns prepared us for our final destination, a few avenues east.

Where we finally landed for our so-called dinner was Mia Dona, Donatella Arpaia's semi-casual spot. She was actually next to us at the bar while we ate. New York can be such a small place.

Again, free food. We ordered baked clams oreganata and two pasta dishes--gnudi and papparadelle--to share. Before the clams, however, an amuse bouche of fried risotto balls arrived, stuffed with melted mozarella and served with candy-sweet caramelized onions and eggplant puree. And then the clams, topped with a piece of roasted garlic apiece. They weren't my favorite (a little too heavy on the butter, which masked the clamminess of the dish), but the dish that came with them, a freebie plate of mussels served with basil pesto, ricotta salata, and fregola (a tiny ball-like pasta) satisfied our earlier mussel craving.

Then the pastas. Pillowy gnudi with crispy proscuitto and fried sage were, to my taste, slightly undersalted. Their texture made up for that. Toothsome papparadelle came in a light cream sauce with a traditional veal and pork base. Had my stomach any room left, I would have finished the pasta on my own.

Of course, we didn't order dessert, but it arrived anyway, this time sublime vanilla panna cotta with maple syrup, a honeycrisp apple compote, and a anise-flavored cookie for texture.

All in all, the day left me heading back to the drawing board in my quest for a healthier 2009. But what's life without a little excess?

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Blaue Gans
139 Duane Street
New York, NY 10013
212.571.8880

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East of Eighth
254 W. 23rd Street
New York, NY 10011
212.352.0075

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Bar Americain
152 W. 52nd Street
New York, NY 10019
212.265.9700

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Mia Dona
206 E. 58th Street
New York, NY 10022
212.750.8170