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.

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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.

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Seasonal

132 West 58th Street

New York, NY 10019

212.957.5550

Detox And Retox

I was "keeping it clean" this past week, in preparation for yesterday's ING New York Marathon. (Yes, I finished; no, I did not qualify for Boston.) That meant a bunch of whole grains, vegetables, and lean meats leading into the race. On Tuesday, a friend and I opted for nice, clean Asian cuisine, and, for lack of better ideas, stumbled upon Indonesian at Minangasli in Jackson Heights.

I've never had Indonesian food before, so I'm not sure what I would compare it to. An egg pancake was more like the delicious skin of an egg roll, deep-fried and served with a viscous soy sauce that was almost good enough to eat straight. Our satay combination platter included beef, lamb, and chicken (though the meats were virtually interchangeable) and came with the traditional accoutrement: peanut sauce, cubed cucumbers, red onion. It was tasty enough. But the true meaning of Indonesian food was best expressed to us upon the arrival of our noodles.

They were medium-width noodles like the ones you might find in Pad Thai, covered with browned mushrooms, bean sprouts, and ground meat. On top, three delicate fried wontons greeted us. They were stuffed with an equally delicate meat. On the side arrived a bowl of fragrant broth with tiny, perfect meatballs. We divided the broth, squeezed in some of whatever hot sauce happened to be on that particular table, and dumped our noodles in. The result was perfumy, light, and all in all worth the trip.

That was my last real meal of note until last night, when, in celebration of my own feat (and feet), I lined up for a rib-eye at Prime Meats in Carroll Gardens. I've written about Prime Meats in the past, but I have been waiting for the select opportunity to sample their 36-day dry-aged prime rib-eye (bone-in, of course), priced $1.80/ounce. If you know anything about steakhouses in New York, you know that this per ounce price is criminally low. I hoped it would be worth it.

We began with a crispy salad of celery and celery greens, a plate of addictive (and addictively fatty) lamb ribs, and a soft pretzel with butter and mustard. The salad was dressed with sunflower oil, showcasing the celery-ness of it. The lamb ribs were smoky, charred, and perfect, accompanied by beautiful roasted slices of local squash.

And then the steak. Nearly fifty ounces of it. By the time it arrived, by body had started to revolt. I wasn't hungry, but I soldiered on, making not even a small dent in our chop. The dickle, pure fat, melted. I skipped the chimichurri sauce--an applaudable version--in favor of the steak on its own, showcased only by Maldon salt. The char was perfect, the meat tender (it almost did not require a knife). I ate two pieces and packed the rest up, a moment of clarity that will bring much joy during tonight's Yankee game. Our big bowl of perfect French fries remained untouched and I offered it to the kitchen gods. It was my mistake for over-ordering. But I brought the tender mushroom spaetzle home; it, too, was not worth parting with.

*

Minangasli

8610 Whitney Avenue

Elmhurst, NY 11373

718.429.8207

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Prime Meats

465 Court Street

Brooklyn, NY 11231

718.254.0327

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