Goodies First

Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napoletana

For not being much of a pizza aficionado, I managed to try two very good, very different Neapolitan pies in one week. First Brooklyn’s Motorino, then New Haven’s famous Frank Pepe. I know I was just bemoaning the lines at Lucali (Saturday at 5:25pm there were already about eight people out front and they don’t even open until 6pm) so it might seem nonsensical to drive two long hours in a violent rainstorm in order to stand in line at a potential tourist trap.

But it all ended up being worthwhile, the 35 minutes or so, mostly under an awning, didn’t kill me. (I didn’t partake, but I did like that drinking bottles of beer from paper bags while waiting outdoors seemed perfectly acceptable.) And the pizza was better than expected.

The non-New York-ness of being in a genuine pizza parlor--spacious wooden booths, enormous $11 pitchers of beer and big metal serving trays clanging around--was refreshing. I perked up immediately; the second I picked up the laminated one-page menu, I felt less bedraggled and damp. Or maybe it was the heat of the coal oven that they claim burns at 2,200 degrees Fahrenheit.

The menu was kind of baffling in the amount of variations offered. Maybe I'm not used to choice. Small, medium and large then fresh tomato pie or original tomato pie, mozzarella or not, toppings were grouped into different prices and you could also go half and half. We were confused because there’s a pricing matrix at the bottom of the menu as well as prices listed at the top. We had to pull out a calculator to determine if they were the same (they were).

Getting a clam pie was a given, but if we drove all the way up there we needed to try another style too, so we piggishly ordered two mediums: a white clam pie with no mozzarella and another with spinach and bacon. I guess that’s a weird combo but the novelty of bacon on a pizza was impossible to resist and the clumps of greens gave the illusion of a healthy counterbalance. The other vegetables like mushrooms or broccoli just didn’t seem right. I have a hard time with broccoli on a pizza. As you can see above, there is a fair amount of cheese on these pizzas.

There's nothing delicate about a Frank Pepe pizza. The browned crust is stiff and more than a little chewy. These are filling irregularly shaped slices. The squiggles of briny clams are substantial as well, with nice chunks of soft garlic, rivulets of olive oil and a dusting of parmesan that all meld into one oozy layer. I think mozzarella would've been too much, though the popular addition of bacon I could totally get behind. But it's best to experience tradition before going wild with extras.

I'm not sure if this original location is the best (there are currently branches in Fairfield and Manchester) but I didn't want to take any chances. Pizza-loving gamblers should note that they will be opening a Frank Pepe location inside Mohegan Sun this coming Wednesday. In some ways that makes more sense than transporting Rao's, Bouchon and the like to Las Vegas. At least they're keeping it local.

Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napoletana * 157 Wooster St., New Haven, CT

Motorino

Motorino was one of the two new wave pizzerias that made The Village Voice blog’s (not sure why I can’t just say Fork in the Road but it doesn’t sound right) recent top ten list. I can see why. I’d swap it for Lucali, mere blocks from my apartment, if such feats were possible. With its overly eager patrons huddled outside, that Henry Street star has completely discouraged me from paying a visit for quite some time. Now, I assume all well-regarded pizza places will be equally prohibitive. Not so, Motorino. On a Wednesday evening there were plenty of free tables, no problems, no nonsense.

If you ever read lame diet advice for fun (I’m still not cool with epicurious recommending only eating three bites of your food to lose weight. Yes, duh, but really?) you’ll be familiar with all the menu descriptors that signal you should stay away from an item—obvious stuff like crispy, smothered, breaded, etc. I’m certain that bacon-wrapped would make such a list but everyone knows that phrase usually signals deliciousness. This creamy, salty and gooey appetizer was a promising start. Hmm, and realistically these figs enrobed in smoked porky strips dotted with crumbly goat cheese fit the three-bite restriction if divvied up amongst three diners like I had at my table. We followed up the tiny decadence with a simple arugula salad.

I do like that both purist and non-traditional pies are available because I lean more toward the latter. Of course, I can also appreciate the simplicity of a margherita, and we opted for the version with flor di latte rather than mozzarella di bufala. The proportions of ingredients seemed just right with nothing dominating. I guess the crust was a little puffy (I happened to be with a crust avoider and didn’t think about this until I saw the uneaten remnants sitting on his plate) and took up space that could’ve been devoted to more toppings. The pizza was overwhelming good, despite a bit of sog in the middle of the pie. The flimsiness didn’t even detract. And I certainly ate more than three bites.

The soppressata piccante also used cow’s milk mozzarella, as well as spicy sausage, garlic and chile oil. The little charred rounds of soppressata added character you don’t get from pepperoni and the spiked oil added a layer of fresh hotness that complemented the sausage. When we asked for crushed pepper we didn’t only receive a small dish of flakes but also extra slivered red chiles in oil.

I would like to try the cured meats and cheeses so another visit is definitely in order. I left feeling happy (though that could’ve had something to do with the $5 glasses of pinot noir), happy enough to check out goth night at Legion up the street. I’m still coming to terms with 40-something men in full-on make up, teased hair and brooches spinning Siouxsie and the Banshees for 22-year-old guys in denim shortalls and espadrilles.

Motorino * 319 Graham Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Sonic Boom

I see a most amazing two-fer in my future. I normally stick to Middlesex County on my weekend New Jersey excursions but I will have to make an exception for the new Sonic that just opened a mere 18 miles from my home. Those ads for candy topped Sonic Blasts have been taunting me for too long.

What would make it the ultimate experience, though, would be to ultimately end up at P.F. Chang's in West, NJ just 11 miles from the Sonic. This chain, that I imagine being the Cheesecake Factory of Asian food, has also been elusive and on my radar forever.

Speaking of, there was just an odd bit on NPR from a former Saveur editor (why did I know she would be wearing a pashmina?) about going to the Cheesecake Factory for her eleventh anniversary. My tenth (dating) anniversary is creeping up. I was thinking about maybe Corton or Marea but who needs a $100+ per person tasting menu when P.F. Chang's offers a $39.95 four-course "Chang's for Two?"

Beyond Chilean Sea Bass

I balk at broadcasting freebies-to-me (what few there are) but Chilean food is so scarce in NYC (to my knowledge we only have so-so Pomaire in the Theater District and wonderful San Antonio Bakery #2 in Astoria) that I feel ok with mentioning the ProChile promotional menu being offered at Centrico until July 3. Who cares if it’s a Mexican restaurant—chef Aaron Sanchez makes a convincing ambassador for the South American country’s products. (I was most taken with merken, a spice blend using dried, smoked cacho de cabra chiles and coriander.)

The continent’s cuisine is certainly gaining in popularity. Peruvian chef Gaston Acurio opened his first American restaurant last fall and appears to have plans for US expansion (I almost tried Astrid y Gaston in Madrid a few months ago but it didn’t seem right to be eating high end Peruvian food in Spain). And grill master Francis Mallmann seems to be everywhere lately due to his new cookbook, “Seven Fires: Grilling the Argentine Way.” Could Chile be next?

These are the four courses you'll receive for $35 at Centrico.

Ceviche de Salmon
Chilean salmon, myrtle berries, chile habanero, passion fruit

Tostadas de Centolla
Chilean king crab, merken aioli, baby lettuces, avocado

Lomo de Carne
Strip loin, Olave salsa verde, bone marrow, cactus fingerling potato picadillo

Chilean Olive Oil Cake with Carica
Chilean honey ice cream and Miski goat’s milk dulce de leche cream

Accounting for This Monte Cristo

Many regional specialties get bastardized beyond comprehension once they leave their home state. I wouldn't necessarily know that first hand since the only vaguely NW-specific food I can recall eating are jo jo potatoes (definitely no morels or cedar-planked salmon).

I think California might lay claim to the monte cristo (proper version, above) but it has been a bountiful favorite of mine for years, one that I rarely indulge in here not out of concern for my health but because NYC has done terrible things to the poor sandwich. I learned this lesson a decade ago when I used to frequent Odessa in the wee hours. This weekend I relived the shock and horror at Carroll Gardens' Hill Diner (the dearth of post-midnight options in the area is sad).

The monte cristo I've always known and loved is essentially a club sandwich on French toast served with jelly (strawberry if you're classy, grape if you're not) and fries on the side. I'm pretty sure there's a layer of mustard too. Sweet, savory and yes, a little weird but if you like poultry, pastry and powdered sugary bisteeya like I do, this isn't much of a stretch. Moroccan…Californian…whatever.  Some go as far as battering and deep-frying the whole thing, Disneyland-style, though I've yet to encounter such as beast.

My first clue that something was awry in New York was the sandwich's inclusion in the breakfast section, mingling with the omelets and pancakes. My version is lunch or dinner fare, tidy, not what I would consider overstuffed, and definitely handheld, which is why I balked when I was brought an enormous slab that nearly filled an entire plate. It seems that the NYC diner version (I've never had or seen one outside of a diner) is French toast—they have that part right—topped with thinly sliced turkey and ham and gelled together with a solid layer of melted swiss cheese, served open-faced. A pitcher of syrup is brought out with the confusing amalgam.

Not that I can't learn to love this gooey sugared package. I will say that this is a sandwich for these times; not only did I get post-Cyclones meal (beer and pretzels didn’t cut it) but also breakfast the following two mornings. Now that's good value.

After nearly forgetting about this sandwich—I think this was my first monte cristo of this millennium—my passion has been renewed. I am now determined to find a true monte cristo. There must be one lurking somewhere in the city. Anyone know anything?

Leave it to Martha Stewart to come up with a Ghost of Monte Cristo sandwich.

Example of normal monte cristo from LAist.com

Nurnberger Bierhaus

1/2 Like many rewarding experiences in life, the most fun are often those you never saw coming. While errand running in New Jersey I didn't imagine that by 11pm I would be surrounded by karaokers in a Staten Island German restaurant. It happens.

Relying on a GPS for food advice has rarely panned out. With its perpetual crowds out the door, cheap Tex-Mex go to, Jose Tejas, is unapproachable before 9:30pm. We turned to the Garmin Nuvi to find other nearby Mexican/Spanish options (I'll never understand why people think burritos and paella come from the same geographic region) and were directed to downtown Linden. I love the township's down and out fading Polish main drag and was once lured into a tavern, but wasn't sure I wanted to eat in the neighborhood (I only recently read about White Diamond and can't figure out why I hadn’t encountered them yet). It turned out that both recommended restaurants, Don Alex and suspiciously named, The Mexican Restaurant, were nowhere to be found. Thanks for nothing, GPS. 

Apropos to nothing, I decided I could use something porky and big mug of beer. Easy, we have to go through Staten Island to get back to Brooklyn, anyway. My only sadness with Staten Island German (Killmeyer's being the other) is that they don't offer pork knuckle, one of the finest examples of porcine extremes: the crackliest skin housing a mound of tender, moist meat. I just realized that I've bemoaned the lack of pork knuckles and shanks in practically every German write-up I've ever posted. I guess I really like pork knuckles. They do a great rendition at Bay Ridge's Schnitzel Haus and possibly the best version I've had was at King Ludwig's in Hong Kong. Yes, Hong Kong—I can't live on congee and dumplings, alone. 

Instead, I settled for kassler rippchen, smoked pork chops. They’re nothing like a knuckle, all soft and yielding with little textural contrast, but there is charm to salty smokiness buffered by a scoop of mashed potatoes and a bed of mild sauerkraut.

Hmm, I thought we asked for the game sausage trio, the same appetizer we had on our last visit, but were presented with three all-the-same sagey links that I figured out where rostbratwurst, baby brautwurst. I'm not sure if we were misunderstood or if after 10pm (the remaining tables were all wrapping up by the time we sat down) you get what you get.

As we finished up leisurely, half the waitresses began changing out of dirndls and into street clothes and some of the staff began pushing dining tables to the edge of the wall and setting up speakers and lights. A new boisterous crowd, composed of quite a few revelers who barely looked out of high school, supplemented by a few middle aged men, slowly started trickling in. Laminated spiral bound books were being placed on tables. Ah ha, karaoke.

"Ok, time to go" immediately popped out of James mouth.

Not so fast. I wasn’t feeling so quick to flee. "No, we have to stay for at least one song," I pleaded.

"This is going to be bad," James countered, not instilling confidence with his kill joyness.

"No, this is going to be good," I affirmed. And another beer would certainly improve matters, so we shifted to the bar to watch from a safer distance. I don’t sing. 

I will admit to brief hesitation, my only ever NYC neo-nazi encounter occurred in an outer borough German bar attached to a restaurant, but I can judge each far flung German bar in the city as an individual.

Would it surprise you that the first song was "99 Red Balloons?" Thankfully, that was the bulk of '80s nostalgia, things sped rapidly into the '90s with the exception of an older gent's rendition of The Eagles' "Take it Easy," a song I always associate with being made to jog in circles around the gym in grade school. (In a similar not terribly blood-pumping vein America's “Ventura Highway,” somehow managed to get on my iPod shuffle I use at the gym and nearly conjures P.E. nightmares.)

No pork chops after 11pm, that's when the bar menu inserted on the front page of the song choice guide, becomes standard. I’m still marveling over the concept of "Bavarian Bizza." (6/14/09)

Bamboo Pavilion

I'm happy that Brooklyn has real Sichuan restaurants at all, the strange thing is that both of them happen to be in unlikely spots (and if you're aware of more than these two, please spill the beans). Bay Ridge's Grand Sichuan House has always been good to me but I've been meaning to try Bensonhurst's Bamboo Pavilion for eons. I finally got around to it this weekend and I still can't declare either a winner; the food is comparable. I would only give GSH the edge for being slightly closer to me.

Neither is big on atmosphere, though both are a small notch up from typical Chinatown fluorescent bulbs and formica. Actually, Bamboo Pavilion has an interesting solution to keeping the tabletops free of impossible-not-to-splash chile oil: a plastic hospital-green disposable tablecloth that they grab all the plates up in bindlestiff-style.

The most tangible difference was that BP seemed to have a lighter hand with the Sichuan peppercorns, or a weaker batch, perhaps. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, the Sichuan food I've had in Hong Kong (I've never been to Chengdu…one of these days) is so wildly metallic and buzzy that you lose all sense of taste.

The "banchan" (I don't know the word for small Chinese dishes that come with a meal) was an unexpected extra. I've never received more than peanuts at any other Sichuan restaurant. Here, there was also cold, smoked duck and pickled bean sprouts.

The tripe and tongue in chile oil was spicy and perked up by the cilantro and chopped peanuts, but like I said, no extreme mouth numbing effects.

James always orders dan dan noodles, though I'm content with just a plate of chile oil drenched offal to start. These were served warm. I've never been able to get a clear sense of optimal dan dan noodle temperature since I've encountered hot, room temperature and cold versions. Even sticking to ground pork or beef isn't consistent. This was pork. 

Nobody can beat the cumin lamb at Little Pepper, but I'll always give a lamb dish a chance. This was hot and contained lots of oil-softened leeks and red pepper slices but the meat needed some char. It appeared to have been coated in flour before sautéing but didn't get enough time in the pan, which resulted in some doughy patches.

We wanted seafood and were hesitant to try the fish with hot bean sauce after being told, "Americans like this one." That made me want to pick one of the piscine delights only labeled in Chinese characters that was displayed in the free standing photo flip menu, instead. I actually have no idea what species this white-fleshed fish was, but it was what I expected: delicate meat smothered with a strong chile sauce, toban djan. Don't expect the saltiness of fermented black beans, the beans here are favas. Favas seem so greenmarket and now, and well, European, but they grow in Asia too.

Green beans with pork are a basic, always welcome vegetable. You have to have at least one non-meaty item. The whole back page of the picture menu was devoted to dishes using wild mushrooms. The strict focus on fungi was kind of cool but I balked at prices in the mid-teens because I am cheap that way. I would consider swapping a mushroom creation for a fish preparation if I go again.

Bamboo Pavilion * 6920 18th Ave., Brooklyn, NY

A Breath of Fresh Air

Maybe someone is listening to me because I got what I wanted in this month's Gourmet (well, not a grill-free June issue…I can't have everything). Yes, a totally natural alfresco photo shoot, discussed in detail in Ruth Reichl's editor's letter.

“…it is not difficult to understand why Richard had reservations about shooting, 'Fiesta Forever' in real time with real people. There was no casting, no script, no backup food. There would be no margin for error. If the light was wrong, if the guests did not show up, or if all the food got eaten too early, we would have no story.”

Plus, the menu from Maricel Presilla’s (which reminds me, I need to try one of her restaurants, I'm usually in NJ twice a month and could stand a break from Cheeseburger in Paradise) annual barbecue contains tons of things I would really want to eat and cook, never mind the insanity of 16 recipes in total. I could probably tackle 3-4 at a time, though.

I wonder if it's only a matter of time before I start longing for those miniature lighthouses and portable '70s TVs tossed in as random props.

Chickening Out

After my less than convincing experiment with farmers' market chicken this weekend, I was pleased to read Pete Wells' Cooking With Dexter column (which I normally ignore because I can't handle the foodie kid theme), "The New Chicken Economy." Apparently, a $35 chicken has sent him fleeing for the supermarket. I've been there along, good times or bad.

Perhaps even more notable was his mention of a pay cut in the publication that cut his pay. If the six-figure salaried think greenmarkets are expensive, what hope is there for the rest of us?

At least no one has resorted to chicken in a can yet. 

Photo from I Hate My Message Board

Eating Like a Girl

Forget all this dude cooks like a lady gender in restaurant kitchens business. What about eating like a girl? I was bemused to note that in Ed Levine's recap of a recent Bay Area excursion, he mentions throwing out Bi-Rite Creamery ice cream”

"I ordered a large cup with scoops of salted caramel, roasted banana, malted vanilla, and some hot fudge. It was insanely, seriously delicious, rich and creamy, and vividly flavored. It took all the self-control I could muster to throw most of it out."

How girly of him. Or not.

I've always found the concept of normal eating totally confusing, meaning that I don't know what normal is. And food blogs have only added to my uncertainty. I've always associated behavior like throwing food in the trash or sprinkling Drano on irresistibles with bingey (maybe purgey) women…and possibly Frank Bruni, which I’m sure we'll learn all about in his memoir. I'm still disturbed by a scene in Heroes from seasons ago where The Cheerleader makes a big batch of cupcakes with her mom, and then they throw them out. Seriously? People do that? Who does that benefit except freegans?

I just can't throw good food away or not take substantial leftovers to go (I was kind of shocked yet happy to see a waiter at Kevin's during my rare brunch foray, asking a customer if he wanted his food wrapped up. It was seriously like three bites of blueberry pancake. And the guy said yes.) and maybe that's what's keeping me from losing those 13 pounds that will get me to my "goal" weight (not my goal, but BMI standards) a number I haven't been since my teens. Clearly, tossing non-essential food is working for Ed. I see the benefits of strictness and self-discipline but it's tough. Me, I wouldn't have ordered an ice cream in the first place, knowing I shouldn't eat the whole thing.

Then I get all conflicted when I read many food blog maintained by young women, that give the impression they eat junk food, rich fatty food and/or sweets every day (then again, people think I eat out every day because I blog, when realistically I only go to restaurants maybe twice a week). I'm genuinely curious if they eat whole portions, if they share or if they throw a bunch in the trash. Maybe it's simply the difference between mid-20s and mid-30s, a decade ago I  ate whatever I felt like too (um, and maybe that's why I have troubles now). I'm not supposed to eat sugar at all, though I do drink alcohol and splurge on sweets every couple weeks (Amish sticky buns and gelato in Philadelphia two weekends ago), and maybe that's why I'm so hyper-attuned to the eating habits of others. Because I’m freaking sugar deprived. I had to turn down mini Crumbs cupcakes at work today and it pained me despite my scorn for the whole tired cupcake trend. I'd eat Crack Pie and Concretes (I've still never been to Shake Shack) on regular basis if I could. And no, I wouldn't throw one bite in the garbage.