My mother is not a revelatory cook.
Don't worry. She doesn't read blogs.
Growing up, the go-to cookbook in our house was a little number by the name of 365 Ways to Cook Chicken. Even with all of those options, we rotated between two or three chicken recipes per week. This made room for random fish night (whatever was available at the supermarket) and random meat night (either pork chops or pork stir-fry, since my stepfather had spent time in Thailand and loved to use his wok). Side dishes included, but were not limited to: steamed Brussels sprouts, steamed broccoli, steamed asparagus, steamed cauliflower, steamed green beans, and sauteed summer squash/zucchini with chopped dill and dried chopped garlic.
There were, however, certain long-standing recipes that my mother executed perfectly. Her bread stuffing is now my bread stuffing. She taught me to roast a chicken. Her butterscotch blondies are out of this world. And on cold winter nights, if I begged long enough, she would make me my favorite dish, adopted from an old recipe in an old vegetarian cookbook (The Moosewood) by Mollie Katzen. Minestrone soup.
I was not raised vegetarian but I have gravitated towards vegetables my whole life. This may sound surprising to those of you who view me as the consummate pork-fat lover, but the truth is that my daytime diet--essentially, what I eat before I go out to eat--consists of a lot of fruits, vegetables, and simple proteins like eggs. If I ate restaurant food for every one of my meals I would be wearing a size 20 and tapping my heart in the mornings to make sure it still worked.
I live what I like to call an omnivorous lifestyle. My diet cannot be confined to one or two types of food; I eat everything and in any given week I eat very diversely. In the world of professional eating, it's probably the best anyone can hope for. Incidentally, living this lifestyle requires a serious amount of body work. My routine of eating opulent dinners is countered by my rigorous routine of exercise: pilates refomer on Fridays and Saturdays; weight-lifting on Wednesdays; running on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. That's right. I'm a runner. I run to eat.
Running obviously burns calories, but the sport also changes the way the body metabolizes food. Because of the sport's required endurance, the heart works hard and continues to work even after you stop running. This means that distance runners burn calories even when they aren't running. So that's the secret to staying trim and eating like a hedonist: short runs, long runs, tempo runs, interval runs, hill runs... all of it.
Why am I telling you this? Because it's important to know that eating like an ovine has consequences and those consequences are only mitigated by serious and dedicated exercise. End of story.
But I digress. I was thinking, yesterday afternoon, as I hit up the grocery store, that I would prepare my favorite vegetarian meal, not because I had any particular desire to go healthy for a day, but, rather, because it was really the kind of day (unbearably cold) that warranted a hot soup. So I bought vegetables for the soup--eggplant, green bell pepper, carrots, yellow onions, fresh garlic, and zucchini--and some ingredients for a salad that caught my attention. The C-Town grocery store in my neighborhood has produce aisles filled with exotic foods from Mexico and the Middle East. I found beautiful Persian cucumbers, smaller than pickling cukes and seedless. I couldn't resist.
Back home, I tackled the soup's biggest challenge: chopping. The key to making soup easily is doing all of your chopping first, separating the vegetables that cook together. Five diced cloves of garlic and one whole onion go in for the first round of cooking. Diced eggplant and carrot go in next (the recipe essentially calls for mirepoix, but I drop the celery because I have a weird aversion to mushy celery in soups). Then the diced zucchini and green pepper. The structure is: sweat down the onions in olive oil for a few minutes with garlic and salt, add dried herbs/eggplant/carrots and cook covered for ten minutes, add four cups of water (here's where I cheat: I always use chicken stock, but if you're a tried-and-true vegetarian you can use veggie stock instead) with a can of tomato paste and the zucchini and green pepper, cook for fifteen more minutes at covered simmer, add can of kidney beans (your call on can size; last night I used two cups), cook five more minutes, serve. Usually, I cook macaroni on the side and add it to each serving of soup, but this time the extra beans were substantial enough to forego the pasta. I like to serve my soup with fresh grated parm.
I had a friend coming over, so I also made a quick salad. I tossed together pre-washed arugula, ribboned red onion, and those two Persian cucumbers with thinly sliced parmesan cheese. I made a quick dressing of fresh lemon juice, a hint of balsamic vinegar, cracked black pepper, and olive oil.
We drank a spicy little red, the 2005 Weninger Zweigelt from Austria, and ate my favorite hand-me-down recipe, The Moosewood Minestrone. The best part? There's enough left for lunch.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Finally, A Decent Burger Spot Opens In Astoria
The long-hyped Petey's Burger has finally opened in Astoria. Bloggers have already dubbed Petey's the east coast In 'N Out. I respectfully disagree. The product is good, and, surprisingly, holds up to the challenge of delivery--no soggy burger, no wilted fries, no long wait. Below are Petey's pros and cons, for the burger lover in all of us.
Pros:
*Flavorful patty that is neither too large nor too small. The burger is comparable in size and execution to the Burger Joint burger, arriving in waxed paper and flanked by a traditional store-bought bun (which I like).
*'Special sauce' (Thousand Island) is another hit.
*Burger comes loaded with lettuce, tomato, and big onion rounds.
*Fries are skin off (another plus for me) and are cooked perfectly and well-salted.
*Considering the recent surge in expensive burgers--Irving Mill's Skeen Burger, City Burger's Black Label, DB Bistro's Foie Burger--this baby is more than affordable (delivery cost for the combo of burger, fries, and a Diet Coke ran under $8).
Cons:
*Burger contained no pickle, a big no-no.
*Diet Coke arrived in a can. I'm not sure if that's because of the delivery but in my mind all proper burger-and-fries combos should come with a fountain soda. Canned soda is just... unnatural.
*Delivery came sans ketchup. I realize that the burger was already dressed but all fries deserve ketchup.
*Unlike Blue 9 or In 'N Out, there were limited options in terms of burger preparation. Both Blue 9 and In 'N Out offer choices; you can get barbecue sauce on a Blue 9 burger or order your In 'N Out burger 'animal style' (that means with extra pickles, grilled onions, and other assorted goodies). The purist in me accepts the limited option menu, but the opulent burger lover in me would love a little more stuff on her burger.
Conclusion:
Petey's Burger falls somewhere between Burger Joint and a very good Whopper. Regardless, Astorians should be happy to have the freedom to get a decent sando.
*
Petey's Burger
30-17 30th Avenue
Astoria, NY 11102
718.267.6300
Pros:
*Flavorful patty that is neither too large nor too small. The burger is comparable in size and execution to the Burger Joint burger, arriving in waxed paper and flanked by a traditional store-bought bun (which I like).
*'Special sauce' (Thousand Island) is another hit.
*Burger comes loaded with lettuce, tomato, and big onion rounds.
*Fries are skin off (another plus for me) and are cooked perfectly and well-salted.
*Considering the recent surge in expensive burgers--Irving Mill's Skeen Burger, City Burger's Black Label, DB Bistro's Foie Burger--this baby is more than affordable (delivery cost for the combo of burger, fries, and a Diet Coke ran under $8).
Cons:
*Burger contained no pickle, a big no-no.
*Diet Coke arrived in a can. I'm not sure if that's because of the delivery but in my mind all proper burger-and-fries combos should come with a fountain soda. Canned soda is just... unnatural.
*Delivery came sans ketchup. I realize that the burger was already dressed but all fries deserve ketchup.
*Unlike Blue 9 or In 'N Out, there were limited options in terms of burger preparation. Both Blue 9 and In 'N Out offer choices; you can get barbecue sauce on a Blue 9 burger or order your In 'N Out burger 'animal style' (that means with extra pickles, grilled onions, and other assorted goodies). The purist in me accepts the limited option menu, but the opulent burger lover in me would love a little more stuff on her burger.
Conclusion:
Petey's Burger falls somewhere between Burger Joint and a very good Whopper. Regardless, Astorians should be happy to have the freedom to get a decent sando.
*
Petey's Burger
30-17 30th Avenue
Astoria, NY 11102
718.267.6300
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Adventures in Manhattaning
Yesterday couldn't have been more prototypically New York. While waiting for friends outside the Whitney Museum, I couldn't prevent myself from buying a dirty water dog. To be fair, I haven't had one in years, and though the bread is always mushy and the onions swimming in some red sauce that no one has ever properly described (why is it red, anyway?), it was the perfect midday snack.
Fewer than two hours later, we were done with the Alexander Calder exhibit (amazing) and the William Eggleston exhibit (not the day's prize winner, I'm afraid). Outside, it had turned cold and dark and so we walked down Madison Avenue in search of a bar. We landed at Park Avenue Winter, the seasonal restaurant that changes decor, theme, and menu on the quarter. Lucky for us, winter had come early to the Upper East Side; the restaurant changed from autumn to winter at the beginning of the week. We sat on fur-backed chairs at the ice bar, a built in trough of ice housing several vodkas and sparkling wines. Park Avenue makes three seasonal simple syrups for their make-your-own seasonal cocktails. This season, it's litchi-elderflower, Bartlett pear, and lemongrass. I had the Bartlett pear and Prosecco, but after trying my friend's litchi-elderflower and Prosecco I regretted my choice. The good news? I can always go back.
Next up, a trip to Chelsea to test the waters of the recently-reviewed paella bar, Socarrat. When we arrived--there were three of us awaiting a fourth--the maitre'd (if you can call him that) informed us that they could not seat incomplete parties. It didn't seem like a problem because, although there was one other woman waiting ahead of us, the resturant was rife with empty spots. I should add here that the restaurant consists of one long bar where diners sit across from one another in addition to one raised four-top. All told, the restaurant can accomodate about 25 people, no more. My friend showed up 15 minutes late, and by then other parties of four had arrived to take the seats over which we had been hovering. The paellas themselves take between 35 and 45 minutes to cook, so turn time... well... there is no turn time. Our plans, dashed.
Two of my friends, a married couple, offered to dine elsewhere. I bought their drinks to make the trade fair. The seating system, notably, makes little sense and inspires stress and irritation, which are never good qualities to impart on guests before they even have a chance to look at the menu.
Regardless, my tardy friend and I were eventually able to dine, and the paella didn't take nearly as long as they said it would. To start, we had roasted piquillo peppers (no spicy ones in the mix this time), the traditional Spanish 'pan con tomate,' essentially a very garlicky bruschetta, and deep-fried artichokes. The tapas menu is extensive and I could have picked a bunch more to snack on if given the time.
And then. Paella. Socrarrat offers about six paellas nightly. Paellas are for two people or more and arrive in a large cast iron skillet on a raised trivot. The word socarrat itself refers to the caramelized rice at the bottom of the paella pot. These pieces are eaten last and with the most gusto. I'd go back just for the black rice.
The paella we ordered--Valencia, featuring sugar snap peas, asparagus, scallions, pork rib, rabbit, and snails--looked incredible. Tender snails arrived in large and gorgeous shells. The pork rib, though often still attached to the bone, had tremendous flavor. But the rabbit was dry and tough and the asparagus was nowhere to be seen. Next time, I would opt for the traditional paella, enjoyed by our dining neighbors: head-on prawns, mussels, cockles, and vibrant fava beans (not in season, but who cares?). At paella's end, the restaurant's owner, speaking with a thick Castillian accent, came over to scrape the pot for us. "This is the best part," he instructed, as he divided the socarrat between our plates. He was right.
Desserts are minimalist. A delicate creme brule with a thin crust and a lemony finish was a nice way to end the meal. Wines cover important Spanish regions of interest without exhausting any possibilities. I had a nice garnacha rose followed by an aggressively oaky tempranillo from Ribera del Duero, which was probably the perfect match for Spanish home cooking and a blustery, snowy evening.
*
Socarrat
259 W. 19th Street
New York, NY 10011
212.462.1000
*
Park Avenue Winter
100 E. 63rd Street
New York, NY 10021
212.644.1900
Fewer than two hours later, we were done with the Alexander Calder exhibit (amazing) and the William Eggleston exhibit (not the day's prize winner, I'm afraid). Outside, it had turned cold and dark and so we walked down Madison Avenue in search of a bar. We landed at Park Avenue Winter, the seasonal restaurant that changes decor, theme, and menu on the quarter. Lucky for us, winter had come early to the Upper East Side; the restaurant changed from autumn to winter at the beginning of the week. We sat on fur-backed chairs at the ice bar, a built in trough of ice housing several vodkas and sparkling wines. Park Avenue makes three seasonal simple syrups for their make-your-own seasonal cocktails. This season, it's litchi-elderflower, Bartlett pear, and lemongrass. I had the Bartlett pear and Prosecco, but after trying my friend's litchi-elderflower and Prosecco I regretted my choice. The good news? I can always go back.
Next up, a trip to Chelsea to test the waters of the recently-reviewed paella bar, Socarrat. When we arrived--there were three of us awaiting a fourth--the maitre'd (if you can call him that) informed us that they could not seat incomplete parties. It didn't seem like a problem because, although there was one other woman waiting ahead of us, the resturant was rife with empty spots. I should add here that the restaurant consists of one long bar where diners sit across from one another in addition to one raised four-top. All told, the restaurant can accomodate about 25 people, no more. My friend showed up 15 minutes late, and by then other parties of four had arrived to take the seats over which we had been hovering. The paellas themselves take between 35 and 45 minutes to cook, so turn time... well... there is no turn time. Our plans, dashed.
Two of my friends, a married couple, offered to dine elsewhere. I bought their drinks to make the trade fair. The seating system, notably, makes little sense and inspires stress and irritation, which are never good qualities to impart on guests before they even have a chance to look at the menu.
Regardless, my tardy friend and I were eventually able to dine, and the paella didn't take nearly as long as they said it would. To start, we had roasted piquillo peppers (no spicy ones in the mix this time), the traditional Spanish 'pan con tomate,' essentially a very garlicky bruschetta, and deep-fried artichokes. The tapas menu is extensive and I could have picked a bunch more to snack on if given the time.
And then. Paella. Socrarrat offers about six paellas nightly. Paellas are for two people or more and arrive in a large cast iron skillet on a raised trivot. The word socarrat itself refers to the caramelized rice at the bottom of the paella pot. These pieces are eaten last and with the most gusto. I'd go back just for the black rice.
The paella we ordered--Valencia, featuring sugar snap peas, asparagus, scallions, pork rib, rabbit, and snails--looked incredible. Tender snails arrived in large and gorgeous shells. The pork rib, though often still attached to the bone, had tremendous flavor. But the rabbit was dry and tough and the asparagus was nowhere to be seen. Next time, I would opt for the traditional paella, enjoyed by our dining neighbors: head-on prawns, mussels, cockles, and vibrant fava beans (not in season, but who cares?). At paella's end, the restaurant's owner, speaking with a thick Castillian accent, came over to scrape the pot for us. "This is the best part," he instructed, as he divided the socarrat between our plates. He was right.
Desserts are minimalist. A delicate creme brule with a thin crust and a lemony finish was a nice way to end the meal. Wines cover important Spanish regions of interest without exhausting any possibilities. I had a nice garnacha rose followed by an aggressively oaky tempranillo from Ribera del Duero, which was probably the perfect match for Spanish home cooking and a blustery, snowy evening.
*
Socarrat
259 W. 19th Street
New York, NY 10011
212.462.1000
*
Park Avenue Winter
100 E. 63rd Street
New York, NY 10021
212.644.1900
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Back To The Cheese Board
I can freely admit that my diet this week has been less omnivorous and more carnivorous. I disclose, also, that it was my intent to eat more fish but I just kept finding myself at restaurants where meat and cheese were the name of the game. Case in point? Last night's visit to one of my favorite restaurants, Casellula.
Last night was a cold night and Casellula is the type of place that makes you feel warm even if it's 100 degrees below zero outside. Possessed of all the warming elements of a fine New York apartment--high ceilings, exposed brick, hardwood--Casellula is the type of haunt that makes it impossible to feel ill-at-ease.
Which may be why the place was so crowded, a luxury in such rough economic times. In fact, my friend was halfway through her Xarel-lo by the time I arrived, ten minutes late. (I drank the Kingston Pinot Noir from Chile, by the way.)
We began with the miso-mustard pickles, a melange of whole baby carrots, green beans, cippolini onions, and cucumbers. (The pickles used to include radish; where did they go?) This recipe actually appeared, alongside an arranged cheese plate from Casellula, in last month's issue of Food and Wine. Next up, four cheeses, selected by the lovely and knowledgable fromager, Tia Keenan. I mistakenly failed to take notes and cannot tell you which cheeses we enjoyed (Casellula regularly keeps 50 or so in rotation), but I can tell you that, in order, they were served with a sage pesto, a chocolate hazelnut brittle, a red-wine poached pear that tasted of Christmas, and a butternut squash puree. Rather than serving a condiment to cover all bases (say, honey), Casellula pairs each cheese indivudually. A peek near the cheese station before I left revealed lemongrass fudge and candied rose petals, as well as other goodies.
Next arrived our crostini, three tiny pieces of toast topped with fresh ricotta, honey, and hazelnuts. Followed by a beet salad with goat cheese and, my personal favorite, the Pig's Ass sandwich, Casellula's take on the cubano. The Pig's Ass comes stuffed with pulled pork, house-made bread and butter pickles, ham, and cheese. The bread is buttered and cooked in a panini press until crispy. The sandwich arrives with a spicy aioli for dipping.
The kitchen sent, with compliments, a new addition to the menu: a short rib sandwich. Braised short rib comes atop a thick and toasted piece of focaccia and is topped with roasted tomatoes and onions. This is the kind of sandwich that would make any slow-cooked meat-lover (actually, I'm thinking of my sister here) drool over her keyboard.
For dessert, we ordered the necessary chocolate cake, a many-layered chocolate buttercream-frosted fiasco (and I mean that in a good way) that is drowned, tableside, in an ample helping of local heavy cream. To honor the holiday spirit, we also had the egg nog, served in a large cappucino cup with three small salty cookies for dipping.
And even though the meal contained no fish, it was exactly the kind of fortification I needed.
*
Casellula Cheese and Wine Cafe
401 W. 52nd Street
New York, NY 10019
212.247.8137
Last night was a cold night and Casellula is the type of place that makes you feel warm even if it's 100 degrees below zero outside. Possessed of all the warming elements of a fine New York apartment--high ceilings, exposed brick, hardwood--Casellula is the type of haunt that makes it impossible to feel ill-at-ease.
Which may be why the place was so crowded, a luxury in such rough economic times. In fact, my friend was halfway through her Xarel-lo by the time I arrived, ten minutes late. (I drank the Kingston Pinot Noir from Chile, by the way.)
We began with the miso-mustard pickles, a melange of whole baby carrots, green beans, cippolini onions, and cucumbers. (The pickles used to include radish; where did they go?) This recipe actually appeared, alongside an arranged cheese plate from Casellula, in last month's issue of Food and Wine. Next up, four cheeses, selected by the lovely and knowledgable fromager, Tia Keenan. I mistakenly failed to take notes and cannot tell you which cheeses we enjoyed (Casellula regularly keeps 50 or so in rotation), but I can tell you that, in order, they were served with a sage pesto, a chocolate hazelnut brittle, a red-wine poached pear that tasted of Christmas, and a butternut squash puree. Rather than serving a condiment to cover all bases (say, honey), Casellula pairs each cheese indivudually. A peek near the cheese station before I left revealed lemongrass fudge and candied rose petals, as well as other goodies.
Next arrived our crostini, three tiny pieces of toast topped with fresh ricotta, honey, and hazelnuts. Followed by a beet salad with goat cheese and, my personal favorite, the Pig's Ass sandwich, Casellula's take on the cubano. The Pig's Ass comes stuffed with pulled pork, house-made bread and butter pickles, ham, and cheese. The bread is buttered and cooked in a panini press until crispy. The sandwich arrives with a spicy aioli for dipping.
The kitchen sent, with compliments, a new addition to the menu: a short rib sandwich. Braised short rib comes atop a thick and toasted piece of focaccia and is topped with roasted tomatoes and onions. This is the kind of sandwich that would make any slow-cooked meat-lover (actually, I'm thinking of my sister here) drool over her keyboard.
For dessert, we ordered the necessary chocolate cake, a many-layered chocolate buttercream-frosted fiasco (and I mean that in a good way) that is drowned, tableside, in an ample helping of local heavy cream. To honor the holiday spirit, we also had the egg nog, served in a large cappucino cup with three small salty cookies for dipping.
And even though the meal contained no fish, it was exactly the kind of fortification I needed.
*
Casellula Cheese and Wine Cafe
401 W. 52nd Street
New York, NY 10019
212.247.8137
Friday, December 5, 2008
Late Night
I was supposed to have dinner at one of my favorite late-night spots last night but my friend came down with a cold, leaving me to fend for myself with takeout and bad television. The place we had planned to visit, Hagi, is actually a late-night destination restaurant. There aren't enough of these serving decent grub in New York.
For those of you looking for something to eat into the wee hours, I've compiled the following list. If this list doesn't do the trick, you can always take the trip to K-town, where kimchi flows 24/7. Enjoy.
*
Hagi
(Sake, yakitori, sushi Bar)
Open 5pm to 5am
152 W. 49th Street
New York, NY 10019
212.764.8549
Smith and Wollensky
(Grill only; steaks available)
Open until 2am
797 3rd Avenue
New York, NY 10022
212.753.1530
Momofuku Ssam Bar
(Pork-heavy snacking)
Open until midnight weekdays, 2am T thru Sat
207 2nd Avenue
New York, NY 10001
212.254.3535
Blue Ribbon Sushi Bar and Grill
(Sushi, cocktails, full grill menu)
Open until 2am
308 W. 58th Street
New York, NY 10019
212.309.1404
Blue Ribbon Brasserie
(From matzos ball soup to hanger steak)
Open until 4am
97 Sullivan Street
New York, NY 10012
212.274.0404
Casellula Cheese and Wine Cafe
(Cheese, chocolate cake, delicious sandwiches)
Open until 2am
401 W. 52nd Street
New York, NY 10019
212.247.8137
'inoteca
(Truffled egg toast, traditional Italian treats)
Open until 4am
98 Rivington Street
New York, NY 10002
212.614.0473
Landmarc Time Warner
(Ample wine list, bistro fare)
Open until 2am
10 Columbus Circle, 3rd Floor
New York, NY 10019
212.823.6123
Terroir
(Wine bar with many options)
Open until 1am
412 E. 12th Street
New York, NY 10009
646.602.1300
Sushi Seki
(Where the chefs go for omakase)
Open until 3 am; closed Sundays
1113 1st Avenue
New York, NY 10021
212.371.0238
For those of you looking for something to eat into the wee hours, I've compiled the following list. If this list doesn't do the trick, you can always take the trip to K-town, where kimchi flows 24/7. Enjoy.
*
Hagi
(Sake, yakitori, sushi Bar)
Open 5pm to 5am
152 W. 49th Street
New York, NY 10019
212.764.8549
Smith and Wollensky
(Grill only; steaks available)
Open until 2am
797 3rd Avenue
New York, NY 10022
212.753.1530
Momofuku Ssam Bar
(Pork-heavy snacking)
Open until midnight weekdays, 2am T thru Sat
207 2nd Avenue
New York, NY 10001
212.254.3535
Blue Ribbon Sushi Bar and Grill
(Sushi, cocktails, full grill menu)
Open until 2am
308 W. 58th Street
New York, NY 10019
212.309.1404
Blue Ribbon Brasserie
(From matzos ball soup to hanger steak)
Open until 4am
97 Sullivan Street
New York, NY 10012
212.274.0404
Casellula Cheese and Wine Cafe
(Cheese, chocolate cake, delicious sandwiches)
Open until 2am
401 W. 52nd Street
New York, NY 10019
212.247.8137
'inoteca
(Truffled egg toast, traditional Italian treats)
Open until 4am
98 Rivington Street
New York, NY 10002
212.614.0473
Landmarc Time Warner
(Ample wine list, bistro fare)
Open until 2am
10 Columbus Circle, 3rd Floor
New York, NY 10019
212.823.6123
Terroir
(Wine bar with many options)
Open until 1am
412 E. 12th Street
New York, NY 10009
646.602.1300
Sushi Seki
(Where the chefs go for omakase)
Open until 3 am; closed Sundays
1113 1st Avenue
New York, NY 10021
212.371.0238
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Crocodile Beers
My only real experience concerning 'authentic' eastern European beer halls has been a few nights in the Astoria Beer Garden in Queens, a seasonal delight. At the Bohemian Hall and Beer Garden, one can enjoy grilled burgers and kielbasa, pitchers of Hoegarden and, on occasion, some fine pierogi. Bohemian's space is mostly outdoors and closes once the cold weather hits.
Last night I had the good fortune to visit Bohemian's counterpart, Radegast Hall in Brooklyn, more German than eastern European and possessed of a slightly more elaborate menu. Also, the venue is indoors, a cavernous hall filled with wooden communal tables. Decor includes waitresses in ridiculous Heidi-esque costumes, wooden posts and beams, vaulted ceilings with old-looking chandeliers, and a general feeling of medievalness.
Do not visit Radegast for the barely adequate service. That would be a mistake. Visit Radegast for the thirty-or-so beers on tap, the nightly beer specials, or, just in time for winter, for their delicious mulled wine. Choose white or red (we chose white) and for your patience you will receive a stout glass full of warm wine, honey, cinnamon, and cloves. It's the kind of cocktail one can imagine coarse, unshaven warriors enjoying after an afternoon of plundering.
No beer garden adventure would be complete without snacks and Radegast has plenty of those. The grill station offers burgers, sausages, fries, and pulled pork. The pork is slow cooked for nearly a day and topped with onions that have been slow cooking as well in some kind of outstanding ketchup reduction.
As for the regular menu, expect hearty and heart-stopping selections, from pate on down. We enjoyed steak tartare, served finely chopped beneath a raw egg yolk and with the traditional condiments of worcestershire sauce, onion, cornichon, and whole grain mustard. Bread and butter pickles, caramelized pearl onions, and walnuts accompanied a creamy chicken and duck liver pate. Raisin walnut bread, hot cherry peppers, and fresh charcuterie--two versions of sopressata and one speck--brightened a cheese plate (six cheeses, ranging from very soft to very hard, none of which were ever explained to us).
The plates, billed as appetizers, were all very large and very affordable, falling in the 8-12 dollar range. We would have been fine with one fewer dish, but that wouldn't have been nearly as fun. Given the medieval setting, it felt appropriate to overindulge. After all, we're all just trying to store up for winter.
*
Radegast Hall and Biergarten
113 N. 3rd Street
Williamsburg, NY 11211
718.963.3973
Last night I had the good fortune to visit Bohemian's counterpart, Radegast Hall in Brooklyn, more German than eastern European and possessed of a slightly more elaborate menu. Also, the venue is indoors, a cavernous hall filled with wooden communal tables. Decor includes waitresses in ridiculous Heidi-esque costumes, wooden posts and beams, vaulted ceilings with old-looking chandeliers, and a general feeling of medievalness.
Do not visit Radegast for the barely adequate service. That would be a mistake. Visit Radegast for the thirty-or-so beers on tap, the nightly beer specials, or, just in time for winter, for their delicious mulled wine. Choose white or red (we chose white) and for your patience you will receive a stout glass full of warm wine, honey, cinnamon, and cloves. It's the kind of cocktail one can imagine coarse, unshaven warriors enjoying after an afternoon of plundering.
No beer garden adventure would be complete without snacks and Radegast has plenty of those. The grill station offers burgers, sausages, fries, and pulled pork. The pork is slow cooked for nearly a day and topped with onions that have been slow cooking as well in some kind of outstanding ketchup reduction.
As for the regular menu, expect hearty and heart-stopping selections, from pate on down. We enjoyed steak tartare, served finely chopped beneath a raw egg yolk and with the traditional condiments of worcestershire sauce, onion, cornichon, and whole grain mustard. Bread and butter pickles, caramelized pearl onions, and walnuts accompanied a creamy chicken and duck liver pate. Raisin walnut bread, hot cherry peppers, and fresh charcuterie--two versions of sopressata and one speck--brightened a cheese plate (six cheeses, ranging from very soft to very hard, none of which were ever explained to us).
The plates, billed as appetizers, were all very large and very affordable, falling in the 8-12 dollar range. We would have been fine with one fewer dish, but that wouldn't have been nearly as fun. Given the medieval setting, it felt appropriate to overindulge. After all, we're all just trying to store up for winter.
*
Radegast Hall and Biergarten
113 N. 3rd Street
Williamsburg, NY 11211
718.963.3973
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Star Struck
No doubt the following rant will make me wildly unpopular with some equal-opportunity foodists in New York, but I've never been afraid of a few divergent opinions. I feel it my obligation to delve a little deeper into the three-star phenomenon that has now officially bludgeoned the City.
Here's the thing: I'm a liberal, a democrat, a socialist when it comes to all things, well, social. Anyone who knows me would probably think that, in accordance with all of my other political views, I would support a system that encourages a larger cross-section of the population to enjoy extraordinary dining experiences. My confession? I am a food elitist. I do not believe that every Tom, Dick, and Harry is equally entitled to the so-called scene because, frankly (no reference to Mr. Bruni here, I swear), not every Tom, Dick, and Harry really appreciates food.
Do I believe that every American, regardless of income, should have at his or her disposal healthy, sustainable food? Of course. But the attempt to level the playing field of fine dining is nothing short of ridiculous. Changing the structure means an overhaul of the way things are and some of us still have fond memories of nice meals out, back when Chinese restaurants used real china and tablecloths, back when ordering a Shirley Temple served in a tall crystal glass with extra cherries epitomized luxury.
The process of awarding stars to restaurants based on their excellence was never an attempt to bring restaurants to the people. Refinement, class, luxury: these tenets established the framework for fine dining in New York. Three and four-star spots were meant to provide respite from the hectic world outside. A dining experience should be two hours of uninterrupted grace. The materials that don't surround us at home--silver, crystal, truffles, caviar, fine linen--surround us in nice restaurants. What we gain when we go out to eat at a nice restaurant is an experience, something that cannot be replicated and something that exceeds the corporeal need to feed our stomachs. Good restaurants feed something diminished in the human psyche.
Which is precisely why I take umbrage at the elevation of Momofuku Ssam Bar to three stars. The food is unparalleled, it really and truly is. And for the most part, it is consistent, although you can bet your pork buns that you're getting better treatment if you're Frank Bruni and you can also bet that the buns at 10pm are much better than the lackluster ones served to drunk foodies at 1am. But what you get when you enter Ssam Bar is not an experience; it's good food prepared well and it's cool and hip and yes, you will probably run into that food celebrity you've been stalking if you hang out there long enough. That's food for the stomach. That's food worth remembering. That isn't, however, the two hour meal without the clamor and clang of real life. All that Ssam Bar isn't--refined, delicate, service-oriented--is all that separates two-star dining from three.
The best two-star restaurants are an extention of our living rooms, and that's always how I regarded the Momofukus (with the exception of Ko, of course). That system wasn't so bad. At the end of the day, most of us seasoned diners visited two-star restaurants with the most frequency. Three and four-star dining was a treat, reserved for birthdays and other special occasions. So where does one draw the line? If backless stools and rude waiters have become our milieu, what will happen to the antique dining traditions that our parents and grandparents enjoyed?
I am an elitist, yes, but I am also a preservationist. Our culture demands immediacy, constant stimulation, babying. Our position as cultural critics, or conscious eaters, or lazy Americans, even, should be to care about preserving the way things were as we usher in a new era. Ten years from now, it might be impossible to sit down at a table in New York where you can still hear conversation over the din, where you can enjoy two uninterrupted hours of time with friends and lovers before returning to the real world. That predictive reality would be a sad thing, indeed.
Here's the thing: I'm a liberal, a democrat, a socialist when it comes to all things, well, social. Anyone who knows me would probably think that, in accordance with all of my other political views, I would support a system that encourages a larger cross-section of the population to enjoy extraordinary dining experiences. My confession? I am a food elitist. I do not believe that every Tom, Dick, and Harry is equally entitled to the so-called scene because, frankly (no reference to Mr. Bruni here, I swear), not every Tom, Dick, and Harry really appreciates food.
Do I believe that every American, regardless of income, should have at his or her disposal healthy, sustainable food? Of course. But the attempt to level the playing field of fine dining is nothing short of ridiculous. Changing the structure means an overhaul of the way things are and some of us still have fond memories of nice meals out, back when Chinese restaurants used real china and tablecloths, back when ordering a Shirley Temple served in a tall crystal glass with extra cherries epitomized luxury.
The process of awarding stars to restaurants based on their excellence was never an attempt to bring restaurants to the people. Refinement, class, luxury: these tenets established the framework for fine dining in New York. Three and four-star spots were meant to provide respite from the hectic world outside. A dining experience should be two hours of uninterrupted grace. The materials that don't surround us at home--silver, crystal, truffles, caviar, fine linen--surround us in nice restaurants. What we gain when we go out to eat at a nice restaurant is an experience, something that cannot be replicated and something that exceeds the corporeal need to feed our stomachs. Good restaurants feed something diminished in the human psyche.
Which is precisely why I take umbrage at the elevation of Momofuku Ssam Bar to three stars. The food is unparalleled, it really and truly is. And for the most part, it is consistent, although you can bet your pork buns that you're getting better treatment if you're Frank Bruni and you can also bet that the buns at 10pm are much better than the lackluster ones served to drunk foodies at 1am. But what you get when you enter Ssam Bar is not an experience; it's good food prepared well and it's cool and hip and yes, you will probably run into that food celebrity you've been stalking if you hang out there long enough. That's food for the stomach. That's food worth remembering. That isn't, however, the two hour meal without the clamor and clang of real life. All that Ssam Bar isn't--refined, delicate, service-oriented--is all that separates two-star dining from three.
The best two-star restaurants are an extention of our living rooms, and that's always how I regarded the Momofukus (with the exception of Ko, of course). That system wasn't so bad. At the end of the day, most of us seasoned diners visited two-star restaurants with the most frequency. Three and four-star dining was a treat, reserved for birthdays and other special occasions. So where does one draw the line? If backless stools and rude waiters have become our milieu, what will happen to the antique dining traditions that our parents and grandparents enjoyed?
I am an elitist, yes, but I am also a preservationist. Our culture demands immediacy, constant stimulation, babying. Our position as cultural critics, or conscious eaters, or lazy Americans, even, should be to care about preserving the way things were as we usher in a new era. Ten years from now, it might be impossible to sit down at a table in New York where you can still hear conversation over the din, where you can enjoy two uninterrupted hours of time with friends and lovers before returning to the real world. That predictive reality would be a sad thing, indeed.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Have You No Decency, Sir?
Dear Frank,
I feel like I can speak honestly and freely with you. We've had all of these intimate encounters, after all. Remember that time I poured you Budweiser from the bottle? Remember the time I accidentally poured Saratoga sparkling into your tap? How many times have we met now, five? Six? How many times did you pass up the corporate American Express card under the name John Maroni?
There they are. Three stars in the New York Times for Momofuku Ssam Bar. Three stars! Frank, I really feel you've betrayed me. Worse, I feel you've betrayed New York. We all looked the other way when you started awarding three stars to restaurants without tablecloths. We all looked the other way when you practically made out with Mario Batali on the page every effing time the man opened a restaurant. And we all hoped that the unhealthy David Chang obsession would end with last April's Ko review.
Don't get me wrong, Frank. I love Ssam Bar just as much as the next offal addict. I loved the grilled sweetbreads so much it broke my heart to see them go. I hold every pork up to the Chang standard and I never eat butter at other restaurants because the butter just isn't as good. But do I believe--honestly believe--that Ssam Bar, a haven created for the carnal enjoyment of overworked restaurant employees, is worthy of the same number of stars as, say, Babbo, or Bouley, or Blue Hill Stone Barns?
No. No, it isn't.
Anyway, have you ever heard of a PX? Personne Extraordinaire. That's restaurant-speak for really really damned VIP. Have you ever heard the term 'soignee'? Soignee. Root: French. Definition: Polished and well-groomed; showing sophistication and grace. Applicable translation? A small piece of paper alerting restaurant staff to the presence of a PX. Other applicable translation? Service that is so disgustingly over the top in its execution that no restaurant critic could ever write a bad review afterwards.
My point? They know you and your fake names over there, dear friend. So if you think you can be objective, tossing extra stars out because you think everything is so vastly different this time around, you have another think coming. Not everyone gets that extra-special Macari poured tableside. Trust me, I know soignees and you were one soigneed cat.
And awarding three stars, Frank, well, it's going to change absolutely everything in New York. Congratulations. Your vigilante-ism will 1.) destroy a place that some of us actually enjoy eating at, 2.) encourage industry a-holes to employ the Ssam Bar method of service (see guest; act rude; throw plates in plastic bins; refuse to offer second drink; drop check), and 3.) perpetuate the already rampant 'too cool for school' fallacy of the East Village. So thanks, Frank. Thanks a lot. For those of us who actually respect what we in the FOH (front of house) call POS (points of service), the New York Times has now proven itself the least reliable source of food-related information.
I mean really, FB. Three f@*$&ing stars? Are you f@*$&ing crazy?
Love Always,
Genavieve
I feel like I can speak honestly and freely with you. We've had all of these intimate encounters, after all. Remember that time I poured you Budweiser from the bottle? Remember the time I accidentally poured Saratoga sparkling into your tap? How many times have we met now, five? Six? How many times did you pass up the corporate American Express card under the name John Maroni?
There they are. Three stars in the New York Times for Momofuku Ssam Bar. Three stars! Frank, I really feel you've betrayed me. Worse, I feel you've betrayed New York. We all looked the other way when you started awarding three stars to restaurants without tablecloths. We all looked the other way when you practically made out with Mario Batali on the page every effing time the man opened a restaurant. And we all hoped that the unhealthy David Chang obsession would end with last April's Ko review.
Don't get me wrong, Frank. I love Ssam Bar just as much as the next offal addict. I loved the grilled sweetbreads so much it broke my heart to see them go. I hold every pork up to the Chang standard and I never eat butter at other restaurants because the butter just isn't as good. But do I believe--honestly believe--that Ssam Bar, a haven created for the carnal enjoyment of overworked restaurant employees, is worthy of the same number of stars as, say, Babbo, or Bouley, or Blue Hill Stone Barns?
No. No, it isn't.
Anyway, have you ever heard of a PX? Personne Extraordinaire. That's restaurant-speak for really really damned VIP. Have you ever heard the term 'soignee'? Soignee. Root: French. Definition: Polished and well-groomed; showing sophistication and grace. Applicable translation? A small piece of paper alerting restaurant staff to the presence of a PX. Other applicable translation? Service that is so disgustingly over the top in its execution that no restaurant critic could ever write a bad review afterwards.
My point? They know you and your fake names over there, dear friend. So if you think you can be objective, tossing extra stars out because you think everything is so vastly different this time around, you have another think coming. Not everyone gets that extra-special Macari poured tableside. Trust me, I know soignees and you were one soigneed cat.
And awarding three stars, Frank, well, it's going to change absolutely everything in New York. Congratulations. Your vigilante-ism will 1.) destroy a place that some of us actually enjoy eating at, 2.) encourage industry a-holes to employ the Ssam Bar method of service (see guest; act rude; throw plates in plastic bins; refuse to offer second drink; drop check), and 3.) perpetuate the already rampant 'too cool for school' fallacy of the East Village. So thanks, Frank. Thanks a lot. For those of us who actually respect what we in the FOH (front of house) call POS (points of service), the New York Times has now proven itself the least reliable source of food-related information.
I mean really, FB. Three f@*$&ing stars? Are you f@*$&ing crazy?
Love Always,
Genavieve
From The Makers Of The Harrison...
...Comes Braeburn, a small-but-cozy spot on Perry Street, west of Hudson. My memories of The Harrison are dim, but I do remember a pleasant atmosphere, pleasant wines, and pleasant looking and tasting food. Pleasant. I remember seasonal American cuisine and a dining room that was warm and open. Most of these definitions apply to The Harrison's West Village sibling, Braeburn.
Take, for instance, a cornbread biscuit served with sweet butter at the meal's beginning. Perfectly pleasant, but somewhat predictable in the age of newfangled bread plates. The 'quail sausage' (their quotation marks, not mine) was actually a pressed torchon of breast, stuffed, rolled, and sheathed in quail skin, seared until crisp. It was innovative in its inception and it was pleasant enough, but something about the spaetzle disrupted the originality. Haven't I seen this dish a million times before?
Other appetizers were similarly quaint: seared sea scallops over a walnut puree, short rib pastrami over sauerkraut. The limited menu and its few entrees (six, I believe) followed suit. The usual suspects (duck, steak, pork) came with the usual suspects (Brussels sprouts, cippolini onions, savoy cabbage). The duck breast was rich and somewhat stunning, though a few pieces came overcooked. The steak, billed as a rib eye, looked and tasted more like a filet. And the pork was not nearly fatty enough to arrive medium well, which it did.
Desserts were good. More than pleasant, even. Banana pudding took the traditional route, a parfait layered with nilla wafers, slices of banana, whipped heavy cream. An apple 'hand pie' looked a lot like a McDonald's number, though it tasted better. Pumpkin cheesecake had been left too long to set and donut holes with a cider dipping sauce were good but... didn't I just have fresh donuts yesterday? I loved the petit fours, slivers of dark chocolate topped with marshmallow kisses and blow-torched, an homage to the s'more (sans graham cracker, of course), but all in all the meal served expensive comforts that reminded me of, well, other expensive comforts served elsewhere in this same large city.
It's no repudiation. Sometimes we all need a bit of comfort.
*
Braeburn
117 Perry Street
New York, NY 10014
212.255.0692
Take, for instance, a cornbread biscuit served with sweet butter at the meal's beginning. Perfectly pleasant, but somewhat predictable in the age of newfangled bread plates. The 'quail sausage' (their quotation marks, not mine) was actually a pressed torchon of breast, stuffed, rolled, and sheathed in quail skin, seared until crisp. It was innovative in its inception and it was pleasant enough, but something about the spaetzle disrupted the originality. Haven't I seen this dish a million times before?
Other appetizers were similarly quaint: seared sea scallops over a walnut puree, short rib pastrami over sauerkraut. The limited menu and its few entrees (six, I believe) followed suit. The usual suspects (duck, steak, pork) came with the usual suspects (Brussels sprouts, cippolini onions, savoy cabbage). The duck breast was rich and somewhat stunning, though a few pieces came overcooked. The steak, billed as a rib eye, looked and tasted more like a filet. And the pork was not nearly fatty enough to arrive medium well, which it did.
Desserts were good. More than pleasant, even. Banana pudding took the traditional route, a parfait layered with nilla wafers, slices of banana, whipped heavy cream. An apple 'hand pie' looked a lot like a McDonald's number, though it tasted better. Pumpkin cheesecake had been left too long to set and donut holes with a cider dipping sauce were good but... didn't I just have fresh donuts yesterday? I loved the petit fours, slivers of dark chocolate topped with marshmallow kisses and blow-torched, an homage to the s'more (sans graham cracker, of course), but all in all the meal served expensive comforts that reminded me of, well, other expensive comforts served elsewhere in this same large city.
It's no repudiation. Sometimes we all need a bit of comfort.
*
Braeburn
117 Perry Street
New York, NY 10014
212.255.0692
Monday, December 1, 2008
Meatatarians
Brunch isn't really my thing. I'm over egg-y attempts at the perfect fritatta and over-crisped bacon. The more excited I get about food the less excited I get about brunch. Because, let's face it: if brunch were a sandwich, it would be peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off, satisfying but not particularly adventurous.
That being said, I had heard great things about Back Forty's burger and they do serve said burger at brunch, so I found myself dining with other Bloody Maryied New Yorkers early Sunday afternoon.
I'll get to the burger in a second, but it should be noted first that Back Forty makes a mean Bloody Mary, adorned with pickled vegetables (fennel, wax beans) and served a little spicy. If I hadn't been driving, I would have indulged in the Voodoo Root Beer (house-spiced rum, stout) or the Honey Margartia (honey sourced from the rooftop apiary of the chef himself).
And still, before the arrival of that infamous burger, we had other treats to enjoy. First up, two perfect donuts, topped with a concord grape syrup. They were still warm. Following the donuts, three equally impressive pork jowl fritters arrived atop a lovely jalapeno jam that reminded me of something I couldn't quite place. It was both savory and sweet and more than a little spicy, which worked perfectly with those fried and fatty jowls of love. Had they posed no danger to my ability to fit into my pants, I would have chosen to eat those things all afternoon.
And then... the burgers. The ketchup arrived first, billed as a "spicy house-made ketchup." It was darker than the processed variety and, yes, it was a bit on the spicy side, but mostly it was rich and sweet and full of molasses. The burger itself--about a 6oz patty, if I had to guess--was grassfed beef served on a buttered sesame bun. With it came sliced pickles, red onion, and some beautiful Boston lettuce, along with a hearty helping of rosemary fries. No tomatoes with this burger until tomatoes hit the markets again next summer. Back Forty puts a clear and present emphasis on seasonal, local, and slow.
The burger was perfect and well-seasoned. I passed on the additions of heritage bacon and cheese, but those options are available. The only disappointment suffered with Back Forty had to do with their fries, which were overcooked and, for my taste, sliced far too thick. The rosemary imparted very little flavor and what remained were too crispy potatoes. I would have preferred a second helping of the jowls instead.
*
Back Forty
190 Avenue B
New York, NY 10009
212.388.1990
Early in the day, my Back Forty friend and I decided that we'd have dinner at BLT Prime, an old favorite. But as the day (and the rain) wore on, we decided to head back to Astoria for a more local dinner. We had already spent the day dreaming of a steak dinner, so we decided to try Christos Steak House, which a friend had once lauded as completely reasonable and completely delicious.
Christos is an American steak house with Greek influence, but we were really looking for the traditional goodies, so we skipped the tzaziki dip and the veal sweetbreads sauteed in lemon in favor of clams casino. I'm not sure I've ever ordered clams casino in my life, but it was as predictable and yummy as I could have imagined, six Cherrystones stuffed with bread and minced peppers and topped with a squirt of lemon juice. Bread service included a grilled assortment and a black olive tapenade that was neither too oily nor too aggressive.
For dinner, we shared a 24oz bone-in rib eye, grilled asparagus, roasted mushrooms, and creamed spinach. The rib eye was perfect, charred on the outside and fatty inside. The meat was tender and well-rested and had definitely been dry-aged. I'm not sure if it was prime or not, but it certainly tasted so. The asparagus were thick-stemmed (my favorite) and came topped with a chiffonade of basil (an interesting touch, but completely unnecessary). The creamed spinach seemed to please my friend, the spinach connoisseur, and the roasted mushrooms (shitakes and oysters, mostly) were buttery and rich. At the end, I struggled not to pick the bone up and chew from it like the old ladies I always mocked during my steak house days.
For dessert I visited Greece, ordering a sheep's milk yogurt with walnuts, honey, and quince. Fine Greek yogurt has the consistency of sour cream and this was no exception. The honey cut the assertive tanginess of the yogurt and the walnuts offered crunch. I was not disappointed.
And neither was my friend, who finished every last bite of her apple crumble. It seems we've found a new spot for our iron-deprived Sundays in Astoria.
*
Christos Steak House
4106 23rd Avenue
Astoria, NY 11105
718.777.8400
That being said, I had heard great things about Back Forty's burger and they do serve said burger at brunch, so I found myself dining with other Bloody Maryied New Yorkers early Sunday afternoon.
I'll get to the burger in a second, but it should be noted first that Back Forty makes a mean Bloody Mary, adorned with pickled vegetables (fennel, wax beans) and served a little spicy. If I hadn't been driving, I would have indulged in the Voodoo Root Beer (house-spiced rum, stout) or the Honey Margartia (honey sourced from the rooftop apiary of the chef himself).
And still, before the arrival of that infamous burger, we had other treats to enjoy. First up, two perfect donuts, topped with a concord grape syrup. They were still warm. Following the donuts, three equally impressive pork jowl fritters arrived atop a lovely jalapeno jam that reminded me of something I couldn't quite place. It was both savory and sweet and more than a little spicy, which worked perfectly with those fried and fatty jowls of love. Had they posed no danger to my ability to fit into my pants, I would have chosen to eat those things all afternoon.
And then... the burgers. The ketchup arrived first, billed as a "spicy house-made ketchup." It was darker than the processed variety and, yes, it was a bit on the spicy side, but mostly it was rich and sweet and full of molasses. The burger itself--about a 6oz patty, if I had to guess--was grassfed beef served on a buttered sesame bun. With it came sliced pickles, red onion, and some beautiful Boston lettuce, along with a hearty helping of rosemary fries. No tomatoes with this burger until tomatoes hit the markets again next summer. Back Forty puts a clear and present emphasis on seasonal, local, and slow.
The burger was perfect and well-seasoned. I passed on the additions of heritage bacon and cheese, but those options are available. The only disappointment suffered with Back Forty had to do with their fries, which were overcooked and, for my taste, sliced far too thick. The rosemary imparted very little flavor and what remained were too crispy potatoes. I would have preferred a second helping of the jowls instead.
*
Back Forty
190 Avenue B
New York, NY 10009
212.388.1990
Early in the day, my Back Forty friend and I decided that we'd have dinner at BLT Prime, an old favorite. But as the day (and the rain) wore on, we decided to head back to Astoria for a more local dinner. We had already spent the day dreaming of a steak dinner, so we decided to try Christos Steak House, which a friend had once lauded as completely reasonable and completely delicious.
Christos is an American steak house with Greek influence, but we were really looking for the traditional goodies, so we skipped the tzaziki dip and the veal sweetbreads sauteed in lemon in favor of clams casino. I'm not sure I've ever ordered clams casino in my life, but it was as predictable and yummy as I could have imagined, six Cherrystones stuffed with bread and minced peppers and topped with a squirt of lemon juice. Bread service included a grilled assortment and a black olive tapenade that was neither too oily nor too aggressive.
For dinner, we shared a 24oz bone-in rib eye, grilled asparagus, roasted mushrooms, and creamed spinach. The rib eye was perfect, charred on the outside and fatty inside. The meat was tender and well-rested and had definitely been dry-aged. I'm not sure if it was prime or not, but it certainly tasted so. The asparagus were thick-stemmed (my favorite) and came topped with a chiffonade of basil (an interesting touch, but completely unnecessary). The creamed spinach seemed to please my friend, the spinach connoisseur, and the roasted mushrooms (shitakes and oysters, mostly) were buttery and rich. At the end, I struggled not to pick the bone up and chew from it like the old ladies I always mocked during my steak house days.
For dessert I visited Greece, ordering a sheep's milk yogurt with walnuts, honey, and quince. Fine Greek yogurt has the consistency of sour cream and this was no exception. The honey cut the assertive tanginess of the yogurt and the walnuts offered crunch. I was not disappointed.
And neither was my friend, who finished every last bite of her apple crumble. It seems we've found a new spot for our iron-deprived Sundays in Astoria.
*
Christos Steak House
4106 23rd Avenue
Astoria, NY 11105
718.777.8400
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
