Goodies First

Margon

1/2 I spent the past five months working one block from Margon and yet I never made it over until my final day. It’s wasn’t a laziness issue (though I did find myself in the ground floor Au Bon Pain more than I’d like to admit—hey, I had a discount).  I just try to go easy calorically during the day (after 6pm I go nuts). If I had a guy metabolism I swear I’d eat a cubano at least weekly. It’s not like roast pork, ham, swiss cheese, mustard and pickles should kill you. Oh yeah, and the salami, Margon’s wild card touch. I would’ve liked to have tried the tripe steam table special but it wasn’t on Wednesday’s list (that’s Monday or Thursday), plus the office was populated by culinary joykills (I suspect my new office contains more of the same—where are the coworkers who appreciate a fine spleen or somesuch?). It’s for the best that I’m no longer employed near midtown because now that I’ve given in I doubt I could resist the little lunch counter’s pull.

Funny, I just looked at Midtown Lunch and their person on the street interview jumped out because there aren’t many news librarians in the world. Then I realized the woman being questioned had listed my old intersection, the Newscorp building, but didn’t work at the New York Post. Ah yes, Fox News. Those freaks put me through three interviews, three months apart for a weekend freelance job. I lost interest about half way through the process because I like my Sundays more than I like extra spending money. I’m so done with news librarianship. For real. But now I’m in the Financial District—and I thought midtown was bleak food-wise…

Margon * 176 W. 46th St., New York, NY

Gino's

Frankly, I would’ve been fine sampling neither deep dish pizza nor Chicago style hotdogs, but if I had to choose one regional specialty it would be the pie. I envisioned a circular, super dense lasagna that would be bready rather than noodly, and that wasn’t too far off. Deep dish isn’t terribly different from Middle American thick crust though the layering is reversed with cheese on the bottom, a sausage strata (assuming you order that meat) and a slew of red sauce the crowning glory.

I became well acquainted with thick crusts during a summer stint between high school and college as dough maker at a takeout-only Pizza Hut. I wasn’t crazy about the style then either (at the time there were two other crust options: hand tossed and thin but we didn’t promote them because they were a pain in the ass to prep and couldn’t be made in advance). The 7am start time was a killer but working alone in wee hours I made a few adjustments like using two squirts of oil instead of three in the big metal pie pans. My brilliant health-inducing plan only succeeded in getting me into trouble when the pizzas all stuck that evening. I seriously don’t think I’ve touched a thick crust pizza since 1990.

To be fair, I couldn’t give our large, which we were warned away from by our beefy ponytailed waiter, my full attention since I’d been on a Mexican food binge earlier in the day. One slice was all I could muster. Maybe I was distracted by all the Blues Brothers memorabilia, Thompson Twins tunes and writing on the wall (I couldn’t figure out if the reason why none of the graffiti predated 2006 was because the location was new or because they periodically paint over all the scribbling and start fresh). We’d intentionally over ordered so we could transport our leftovers back to NYC. Heck, they’re charging $26.97 plus $18 shipping for the same service. And I will say that Saturday evening after returning home, I really enjoyed the pizza. The hefty, buttery crust had held up well. The toppings also survived suitcase transit. Chicago makes one tough pie. A perfect New York slice would’ve been soggy, flimsy mess.

Gino’s * 633 N. Wells St., Chicago, IL

Chao Thai

1/2  Read my Nymag.com review.

Phew, I was finally able to squeeze in some non-Latin food (I was getting a little plaintained-out). Thai is my go-to happy cuisine (I really want to delve into Korean food because what I know of it I like but I just can’t figure out where to jump in. I need to find a place that wouldn’t be intimidating to newcomers but goes beyond basic kalbi and bibimbob) but there was no way I was going to attempt Sripraphai on a Friday night. I’d only been once before but recalled tiny Chao Thai having serious potential.

There was an empty table amongst the five or so on offer (unfortunately, it was closest to the frequently opened front door. Even though they had a space heater whirring, by the end of our meal we were practically frost bitten from our knees down) so it started well. It didn’t kill me but I was freaked out the vanilla scented Glade candle sitting in front of me, next to the napkin dispenser. James loves those artificial smelly things so I kept sticking it on his side of the table and he’d torment me my putting it back in its original spot. I find air fresheners to be headache-inducing, I’d much rather smell fried fish, cigarette smoke, wet dogs (ok, maybe not the canines) and the like. Luckily, this was low on the offensive scale. If it were one of those Thomas Kinkade monstrosities (two of which reside in my home), I might’ve lost my shit.

I was immediately agog over a dish on the specials list called Three Buddies Crispy Salad. They already had me at crispy because I can’t resist that fatty style of pork coming from any ethnicity. But buddies? That was the cutest thing I’d ever heard. I’m not sure what the three edible pals were exactly. The pig and the fish were the only two living components—could they be buddies with vegetables? The ingredients were fish maw, crispy pork, cashews, red onions and kind of Chinesey scallions and celery leaves. There weren’t expected herbs like mint of cilantro, though the dressing was explosively Thai with roughly chopped orange, green and red bird chiles peeping out from the pile of mysterious buddies.

A basil chile duck we ordered was also very Chinese in flavor, with a prominent star anise perfume. We had pad prik king with chicken (I got irked over James ordering a second poultry dish, but the other two items were my doing so I had to relent control, plus it was good).

It’s easy to forget about Chao Thai, and if you’re on that stretch of Whitney Avenue you might be tempted to try one of the two Indonesian restaurants across the street instead. But it’s worth a stop. The food is way better than typical Ameri-Thai, very close to Sripraphai’s caliber with a lot of different dishes. I gave it 2 1/2 shovels last time and I'm nearly inclined to bump that to 3 (if you haven't already noticed, my shovels tend to be fairly arbitrary). My only complaint would be no dessert case. Just like last time I picked up some galub jamun from Bappy Sweets up the street. Buddies and Bappy are a great combo. (2/23/07)

Frontera Grill

1/2 Just this month I started catching Rick Bayless reruns on one of the public broadcasting channels. I don’t know what his deal is but his breathless, sing-songy stoner mannerisms are kind of distressing yet impossible to ignore. He almost sounds like he’s speaking to children, as if Mr. Rogers wore a dude necklace instead of a cardigan. I don’t usually laugh out loud when watching cooking shows (besides, he seems to know his craft) so we added Mexico: One Plate at a Time to our DVR queue.

I hadn’t considered trying his restaurants at all while in Chicago but what I feared might happen did. It was too bitterly cold for traipsing about on multiple subways and trudging through snow. We did that on Friday for hole-in-the-wall Mexican and by Saturday didn’t have the wherewithal to scout out the Lithuanian restaurant, Healthy Food, which I’d intended to visit. I’d heard about kugilis and bacon buns and was intrigued. I never ever eat Slavic, so Eastern European fare is exotic enough to go out of my way for on vacation.

Walkable (well, we cabbed it there and hoofed it back) plan B became brunch at Frontera Grill. I’m scared of the whole celebrity chef, memorabilia for sale in the foyer thing. But prejudices aside, the food was really pretty good, as were the cocktails, which are shaken tableside. Service is well informed and friendly, though I would say that they clearly pander to a certain audience. Or maybe it’s Chicago in general.

I don’t want to be an NYC know-it-all, but at Moto I didn’t really need an explanation of what shiso is. At Frontera we were told that a tamale was corn masa wrapped in a banana leaf. Does their typical diner not know what the heck a tamale is? Maybe our waiter was explaining their tamale since it could come in a corn husk. No biggie, I’m probably overly sensitive about over explaining.

We shared an order of sopes rancheros, which were crispy masa disks topped with shredded beef, roasted tomatoes, avocado and fresh cheese. The accompanying red and green salsas matched well. We were bummed when they took away the tiny dish of spiced pepitas and peanuts when are entrees arrived.

I should’ve stuck to my original guns and chose something eggy but I’ve been on a pozole kick lately and couldn’t resist their red version filled with pork chunks and hominy. The stew was satisfying but about ¾ of the way through I grew tired of the heavy, slightly salty flavors. I would’ve preferred a smaller portion, which is something I never thought I’d say.

At least I still had room for a cup of  rich, tequila-spiked hot chocolate and chamomile and lime leaf infused flan with candied orange peel.

Frontera Grill * 445 N. Clark St., Chicago, IL

Moto

When describing what I did for Valentine’s Day, the words Moto or Homaro Cantu don’t always register much recognition but if I say, “you know, the laser and ink jet guy from Iron Chef” the response is generally better. “Oh, that guy. Cool.”

Yeah, it was cool. I get the sense that Moto is less serious (or taken less seriously) than the other experimental game in town, Alinea, and that was what I was in the mood for. Surprises without stuffiness. Despite hardly being a thrifty meal, I liked the general informality and sense of whimsy.

I’m not sure if it’s a NYC vs. Chicago thing or Moto vs. comparable local restaurants but the servers seemed young in a way you don’t find here. Maybe it’s because they’re not aspiring models, stylists or actors (maybe they are—that’s not the type of thing I ask). I liked our doughy guy who had a slight Capote lilt to his speech. There was another waiter with floppy blonde hair who made me nervous because he could never quite get his descriptions out right and had a spazzy, surfer-inflected delivery. A general feeling of bright-eyed proud-ness was present, though. 

Minus all the molecular bells and whistles, I was surprised at how American the food actually was. I appreciated the takes on nachos, mac and cheese, rib eye, popcorn and cotton candy. I’m not sure if that’s the Midwestern influence at work or what. Tweaking familiar favorites, evoking nostalgia. It works for Brit, Heston Blumenthal, right? There is a lot of texture and temperature play, crunchy and soft, cold and hot, sometimes it’s brilliant and occasionally it’s unsettling.

Moto was most definitely fun, though it’s not the type of food that you crave when you simply want something good to eat. Sometimes you’re just hungry and don’t want to think too hard or need to be delighted by unorthodox plating and presentation. It’s certainly not an emperor’s new clothes situation but I wouldn’t feel the need to dine this way on a frequent basis. Of course there’s middle ground between grubbin’ and avant-garde and the whole range is exciting to me.

Random Aside: I’m the one who’s usually annoyed by strangers’ antics but James was losing his shit with the male half of the couple on my left. I couldn’t really see him because we were seated on the same side of the table. During the middle of our meal he confidently explained to his date, a mousy, brunet Reese Witherspoon lookalike in a charcoal gray skirt suit, “I have one word for you: MO TO” while chopping the air for emphasis. (My internal voice changed his proclamation to MO ROCCA.) He also took credit for the metal suspended spoon contraption used on Iron Chef. I don’t know what his deal was; he didn’t work at the restaurant but seemed to know everyone and appeared to be getting special treatment. His bravado didn’t appear to put off anyone except us, though, so perhaps we’re crybabies. I’ve yet to encounter a female taking this same gourmand show off approach at an upscale restaurant though I frequently find myself seated near the reverse.

Initially, you’re presented with an edible menu with the GTM parade listed on one side and the ten and five course options on the flip side. We thought ten courses seemed about right. Five would be sadly lacking and the grand tasting menu seemed a shade over the top. We chose well, and stayed sharp until two sweet courses arrived. The menu on this occasion was Mexican themed and tasted like chile-cheese frico. There was a spicy dip beneath the readable cracker.

Unless I write as I eat, which I don’t do when I’m out for fun, I tend to forget finer details of the dishes. Their descriptions are obliquely simplistic so there’s a lot of filling in the blanks. I’ve copied wine pairings from the website. There’s no way I could remember any of that. I’m only moderately about wine, James not at all, but he loved the Bechtheimer Heiligkreuz Sheurebe, comparing it favorably to Vitamin Water (he thought our rose cava at Ureña tasted like “expensive soda”). He asked about it (we couldn’t remember the name to save our lives) and the nice wine stewardess gave us a second pour. I could understand why after looking all the wines up—it was the cheapest of the lot, only around $12 a bottle. I guess we’re easy to please.

salmon and sesame
larmandier lernier, 1er cru blanc de blancs, vertus, brut nv

If I’m correct, liquid nitrogen (which is stirred up in a copper pan tableside) is mixed with lime juice and drizzled atop the cubed salmon and sesame crisp. Little tangy white blobs form. Chilly, soft, crunchy, acidic all at once.

acorn with bacon
geil, bechtheimer heiligkreuz, scheurebe, kabinett, rheinhessen 2005

Maybe because our taste buds were still sharp but I really liked this one. The maple and squash cake is frozen but creamy on mouth contact like that astronaut ice cream you could get a science museum gift shops when you were a kid. The tiny squares of warm squash meld well and contained the world’s tiniest strip of bacon.

 
merluzzo and popcorn
waugh cellars, indindoli vineyard, chardonnay, russian river valley 2004

The chunk of fish is wrapped with noodles made from mango (no starch, just juice) and the mustardy swipes of sauce taste surprisingly like popcorn. The green blobs are crafted from shisho. I can’t recall what the white powdery substance is.

pomegranate and caped gooseberry

A sour palate cleanser. One husk contains a real gooseberry while the other holds a square of gooseberry gel which tastes nearly the same.

bbq pork with the fixin's
sutton cellars, trimble vineyard, carignane, mendocino county 2004

I think this was intended to mimic a pulled pork sandwich. The saucy meat sits on the right and on the left is a toasty but frozen square of squid ink covered bread sitting atop what I think was described as a praline sauce. We weren’t sure about the crumbs sitting next to it. I just know realized that the black chunk is meant to resemble a lump of charcoal.

pasta and ribeye
ramey, claret, napa valley 2004

The elbow macaroni looked like it came straight from the bag but it wasn’t tooth-shattering, just slightly crispy. The strange thing is that I took this title from their menu but I don’t remember meat being in this. Perhaps the wine had fuzzed my mind by this point but I thought the brownish blobs were savory cheese curds (that’s frightening if I can’t tell the difference between cheddar and beef). I’ve looked at photos of this dish on other websites and there appears to be steak strips in the glass and diners can pour the cheese sauce from a separate cup. Ours was self-contained. I might be the only American who’s not crazy about macaroni and cheese, but this dish was great.

lychee rigatoni fruit plate
meinklang, trokenbeerenauslese, bouvier, burgenland 2001

The pastas tubes are made of lychee and the sauce is a sweet, thick concoction containing white chocolate (which also struck me as very American—I love white chocolate but it has a lowbrow stigma, doesn’t it?). Beneath the crisp is a candied slice of fuji apple and a slice of a fruit that I’m forgetting.

two and three dimensional truffle

This was the cotton candy in orb and paper form. The truffle reminded me of iced circus cookie filled with cold water. I’m not sure if that was the intended effect. I liked the edible paper better than the bonbon.

graham cracker and quince
elio perrone, moscato d'Asti “sourgal” 2006

A strange but tantalizing malty, graham cracker-ish soup topped with fruity pellets.

kiwi, mango, mint and maize

I thought were done at this point. I didn’t realize that we were getting nachos (and some chocolate krispie doo dads) and my stomach capacity was at maximum. When describing this dish to a friend I found it hard to articulate how this was more than mere novelty. They use kiwi for chiles, grated mango as cheese, chocolate for ground beef and a lemon sauce for sour cream. In my head I kept picturing a Kraft Foods abomination. I assure you that there was nothing atrocious about these flavors.

I don’t know why I felt compelled to snap a photo of myself in the bathroom. So MySpacey. It was my one moment of calm, a buffer from the sensory overload on the other side of the door

Moto * 945 W. Fulton St., Chicago, IL

Emergen-C Isn't Food

I have a very poor sense of portions and what’s normal, which is why I’ll never be wispy. I hate depravation. This morning I finally got around to skimming this week’s New York and became fixated on a few industry types’ eating diaries during Fashion Week (I was on the toilet while reading this, mind you, it was number one not number two. There was just something appropriate about expelling waste while reading such crap).

I was kind of appalled by the Elle editor’s regimen, but then I was like well, maybe that’s typical. I don’t really know, that’s not my world (though even the model ate some onion rings and rice krispie treat), I guess that’s how you stay thin. But only eating two ounces of ceviche (and knowing that you’d consumed two ounces) completely creeped me out.

I eat ceviche when I’m trying to be restrained and it’s lime-marinated fish instead of something fried, breaded or starchy. Like last night I was at Sofrito and skipped empanadas (which I might normally lean towards but I’d already eaten half a Margon cubano for lunch) in lieu of octopus salad. But I know I downed more than two ounces of the chopped cephalopod and I wasn’t bothered in the least. I proceeded to drink four glasses of Pinot Noir and then I cared even less.

So, I was very relieved when this afternoon I noticed Gawker and Gothamist had both called out this woman’s minimalist approach to dining. I can’t believe I’m relying on  blogs as a window onto acceptable eating habits. Ok, so this style of eating is weird?

I actually do record (almost) everything I eat and drink because I’m one of those nasty point counters. Today was atypical because I stayed at home (since I start a new job Monday I thought I’d take off Thursday and Friday and be lazy and take care of odds and ends around the apt.) and I eat differently than if I was in an office. But so far I’ve had the other half of my leftover cubano from yesterday (I swear, it wasn’t as huge as a standard style Cuban sandwich so I didn’t feel so bad), ¼ cup white rice topped with chile radish, a handful of wasabi peas, two corn tortillas with a couple avocado and tomato slices and lots of black coffee and water. I guess I would call that a day if I were in the fashion industry but it’s only 6pm.

Around 9pm I’ll make Chairman Mao’s Red-Braised Pork (using ribs instead of belly) the cover star from my new Hunan cookbook and eat that with more white rice and leftover black bean chile Chinese broccoli from Tuesday night, while watching DVR’d Ugly Betty and The Office. And believe it or not, if I keep the pork to about six ounces I’m still within my point limit (I spent an hour on an elliptical trainer and lifted a few free weights so I could eat fatty pork). So there. If I’m lucky I’ll shed .25 pounds this week. No, the pound a month approach isn’t ideal.

Billy Goat Tavern

1/2 You know you’ve entered strange territory when a double cheeseburger starts sounding like light fare. My original itinerary placed us at touristy Gino’s for a deep-dish pizza lunch but our flight was delayed slightly and I became concerned about such a heavy item ruining our 8pm Moto meal. There’s something about Chicago that allowed me to feel uncharacteristically shameless about cheesy venues. Since I was on the tourist track and scouting walkable options, Billy Goat Tavern (made famous from the ‘70s Saturday Night Live cheezborger, cheezborger sketch.) seemed as good a choice as any.

We liked how one second you’re on shopping central, Magnificent Mile, then after descending a staircase you’re in a spooky subterranean enclave like Batman’s Gotham City. After opening the front door festooned with a goat painting (the first of two I’d find in 24 hours), you travel down another level of stairs into a barebones, wood paneled, resolutely lowbrow joint, the kind of place people might think still exists in NYC but sorely doesn’t. The bar that occupies a good portion of the right half of the room is as prominent as the center grill. 

I hate crowds, but I also get nervous when a place is empty. We were practically the only occupants at 4pm on a Wednesday but that was soon rectified. By the time we were ready to leave they were doing brisk business with baffled vegetarian tourists (they got the grilled cheese) and batches of Chicago Tribune employees from across the street, some nursing whiskeys and chain smoking, others conducing business meetings.

You order from the brief wall menu at the counter and a bartender comes around to take your drink order. The animated qualities of the counter guys (yes, they’ll do the SNL shtick) were balanced by the flat surliness of the Scatman Crothers-looking bar keep (though after we lingered over six Billy Goat lagers and tipping probably a little generously by local standards he warmed up and began encouraging us to stay and drink more).

The simple double cheeseburger on a roll is the way to go. It comes on a paper plate and you can dress it up with typical condiments like mustard, ketchup, pickles, onions and relish. This meat sandwich tempered with three beers was my healthy lunch. At least I was saved from caloric fries because they don’t serve them. The only available side is a bag of potato chips, plain or bbq, and I’ve never been a chip eater. I still say it was less filling than Chicago-style pizza.

Billy Goat Tavern * 430 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, IL

Sunday Night Special: General Tso's Chicken

Ok, this isn’t technically a Sunday Night Special, but I didn’t cook on the day of rest because I had a huge late lunch at Pio Pio. Tonight I made what I would’ve wanted to cook on Sunday night if I'd been hungrier.

I’m sure I’m not the first to discover what a deal Amazon’s free super saver shipping is. You’re entitled if you spend over $25 and they warn that it will take 5-9 days just to scare you off but it never takes that long. Just Sunday I ordered Fuchsia Dunlop’s brand new Revolutionary Chinese Cookbook: Recipes from Hunan Province (as well as Memories of Philippine Kitchens and Nueva York: The Complete Guide to Latino Life in the Five Boroughs [I'm trying to learn more about the Bronx]). I was inspired after killing time in the airport the day before, reading her recent General Tso’s chicken article off a handheld device from a copyright violating website. I couldn't believe that an Amazon box was sitting in the hall when I left for work this morning. Very impressive.

I must not get out much because I’d never heard of this popular chicken dish referred to anything other than Tso’s or possibly Tsao’s, and I grew up in a city completely lacking in authentic Chinese food. This Gau’s and George’s business is nuts (but then, I’ve also heard that you can get white bread with Chinese take out in Boston)

I’m all about the dark meat, despite always having a stash of listless Costco chicken breasts in the freezer. Thighs are so much tastier, so I followed this suggestion in the recipe. Unfortunately, we didn’t scrutinize the cooking instructions before shopping on Sunday afternoon and only picked up a pack of three thighs. To make up the difference, I tossed in a sliced chicken breast. There was no contest between the two cuts. Funny that General Tso has recently prompted a light vs. dark discussion elsewhere.

The only thing we had to pick up was potato flour and some gai lan as a side (I realize American broccoli would’ve been truer to take out form). Loosely based on a water spinach recipe in the Revolutionary Chinese Cookbook, I stir-fried garlic, black beans and sliced red chile, then added the broccoli and covered for a few minutes to steam. I finished the dish with a splash of rice vinegar and a drizzle of sesame oil.

This Hunan by way of Taiwan recipe isn’t sweet as typical General Tso’s is, and that’s fine by me. (I just noticed that the recipe floating around on the internet is a copy of what was in The Times and has been edited differently than what's in the book. ) There is a Changsha version on the following page of the cookbook that looks nearly the same yet uses white sugar, more ginger and no garlic. I stuck with the more savory approach even though I will admit to enjoying the crispy, candied, hyper-battered, American-Chinese meat chunks. Lightly sauced, velvety slices of moderately spiced chicken aren’t so bad either.

General Tso’s Chicken (Taiwan Version)
Zuo Zong Tang Ji

4 boned chicken thighs with skin (about 12 oz. total)
6-10 dried red chiles
2 tsp. finely chopped fresh ginger
2 tsp. sesame oil
Peanut oil for deep-frying
For the marinade:
2 tsp. light soy sauce
½ tsp. dark soy sauce
1 egg yolk
2 tbsp. potato flour
2 tsp. peanut oil

For the sauce:
1 tbsp. double-concentrate tomato paste mixed with 1 tbsp. water
½ tsp. potato flour
½ tsp. dark soy sauce
1 ½ tsp. light soy sauce
1 tbsp. clear rice vinegar
3 tbsp. stock or water

Thinly sliced scallion greens to garnish

1. Make the sauce by combining all the ingredients in a small bowl. Set aside.

2. To prepare the chicken, unfold the chicken thighs and lay them on a cutting board. Remove as much of the sinew as possible. (If some parts are very thick, cut them in half horizontally.) Slice a few shallow crosshatches into the meat. Cut each thigh into roughly 1/4 -inch slices and place in a large bowl. Add the soy sauces and egg yolk and mix well. Stir in the potato flour and 2 teaspoons peanut oil and set aside. Using scissors, snip the chilies into 3/4 -inch pieces, discarding the seeds. Set aside.

3. Pour 3 1/2 cups peanut oil into a large wok, or enough oil to rise 1 1/2 inches from the bottom. Set over high heat until the oil reaches 350 to 400 degrees. Add half the chicken and fry until crisp and deep gold, 3 to 4 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the chicken to a plate. Repeat with the second batch. Pour the oil into a heatproof container and wipe the wok clean.

4. Place the wok over high heat. Add 2 tablespoons peanut oil. When hot, add the chilies and stir-fry for a few seconds, until they just start to change color. Add the ginger and garlic and stir-fry for a few seconds longer, until fragrant. Add the sauce, stirring as it thickens. Return the chicken to the wok and stir vigorously to coat. Remove from the heat, stir in the sesame oil and top with scallions.

Serves 2 to 3

Adapted from “The Revolutionary Chinese Cookbook” by Fuchsia Dunlop. W.W. Norton & Company, 2007.

Carnitas Uruapan & Birrieria Reyes de Ocotlán

1/2 There’s a tendency to believe that shops focusing on one item must be masters. Like you don’t want to buy banh mi where you get your pho, and the same goes for sushi and ramen. Of course there are tons of bad pizzerias, which kind of ruins this theory.

While on mini-vacation I did some single-minded sampling in Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood. Clueless whiners eat at Benny’s Burritos and Señor Swanky's, then complain that there’s no good Mexican food in NYC. That’s completely untrue, but the good stuff congregates in pockets and our immigrants tend to come from only a few regions, Puebla in particular. Chicago seems to have a little of everything, geographically, and treats we definitely don’t have. Since I only had two days in the city and my stomach is only so iron-clad, I decided to just try two dishes: Michoacán carnitas and Jalisco-style birria.

First we stopped at Carnitas Uruapan. It’s on the same block as the 18th Street el stop and you can spy the red white and green storefront from the air. If you didn’t know what carnitas were, you’d quickly get a rough idea based on the pig paraphernalia decorating the otherwise spartan room. It’s hard not to chuckle at the horrors portrayed comically: pigs cooking each other in a caldron, an angry knife-wielding chef chasing talking piglets and a bas relief sculpture of pigs nuzzling each other…so sweet…never mind the ribbons of fried pork rinds encased in glass inches behind my head.

Year of the pig aside, pork is having its foodie heyday. Though anyone who’s ever eaten Filipino lechon, Latin American chicharrones or Chinese pork belly or my favorite, Thai crispy pork with chiles and basil, is well acquainted with the crackly, fatty appeal.

There are variations, but essentially carnitas are chunks of pork that have been simmered in fat until meltingly tender, then crisped up through roasting. They’re a typical taco filling but I’d never been to an establishment wholly devoted to the fruits of this oily labor. At Uruapan you can get them in tacos or buy them by the pound. We split a pound of mixed bits. They ask if you only want meat. Not exclusively wanting meat means you also get skin, snouts, ears and heaven’s knows what else. Whole hog, for sure. 

I seriously could’ve eaten the whole plateful myself but then I would’ve been useless for our second stop. Whole pickled jalapeños, red salsa and tortillas are the only accompaniments. We could’ve stood for a little chopped white onion and cilantro, though our self-made rollups didn’t suffer without. Our plate of meat easily yielded ten tacos. I hate mints and love caramel so the after-meal cajeta lollipop made me like Carnitas Uruapan even more.

It was only half a mile in a straight line to get to Birrieria Reyes de Ocotlán but we almost froze to death on the icy journey--remind me not to complain about brutal NYC weather. I would’ve been more excited about the prospect of warming goaty consommé strewn with meat, scattered onion and cilantro and a squeeze of lime if I hadn’t just loaded up on the other white meat. I ordered a small bowl to share with James but he hardly touched it because we only had one spoon and he was preoccupied with his BlackBerry (I couldn’t really complain because he was subsidizing most of this 48-hour excursion and hadn’t taken time off work. I guess his office assumed he was working from home).

I’ve only eaten goat a couple times in my life but that’s more of a scarcity than a scared issue. I’m not sure why Americans are so grossed out by goat meat, we don’t even really eat lamb—it’s too gamey, I suppose. But purportedly, it’s low fat (on a recent F-Word, Janet Street Porter showed up with goat at a Weight Watchers meeting to convince British dieters of its charms) so I told myself that I was balancing out the badness of the previous pork fest.

Orange-brothed birria is soothing and fortifying. There’s nothing offensive about the flavor, which is slightly sweet and not really lamb-y in the least. I’d love a bowl for breakfast and that would most definitely bug out coworkers (this Times piece about eating at your desk irritated the hell out of me, and this quote in particular “‘When I’m interviewing someone and I see their bones protruding, I know it’s a good hire,’ he said. ‘They’re extremely disciplined.’” Er, or have emotional problems.  Eating habits aren’t anyone else’s business in the workplace, though I will admit to being dismayed at my current soon-to-end job where no ones takes lunches at all. Seriously, no one eats or takes breaks. I bring yogurt, granola bars and apples from home to eat at my desk because they’re inoffensive and inexpensive. I’m going to get smelly, greasy Cuban food tomorrow--see ya, suckers).

I’d like to figure out tortilla eating etiquette. I was trying to watch how two women seated across the room were consuming their flattened corn disks. With a soupy dish it seems like you might dip pieces in the broth or maybe tuck some shreds of meat into a substantial torn off wedge. Even so, I might use three tortillas total. Four if I was making an effort. But you’re brought a stack of eight or so and halfway through your meal you’re asked if you want more. No más, gracias, I’m going to explode. Is one person really supposed to consume eight-plus tortillas? I love my starch, but that seems excessive.

Both Carnitas Uruapan and Birrieria Reyes de Ocotlán tickled me with devotion to few items done well and their sense of humor about the animals being served as food. A taxidermied goat head with a toothpick in its mouth and pigs stewing each other are the best anthropomorphic antics I’ve seen beyond southern barbecue signage.

Carnitas Uruapan * 1725 W. 18th St., Chicago, IL

Birrieria Reyes de Ocotlán * 1322 W. 18th St., Chicago, IL

Is There an M&M Inside of You?

In the junk email realm, PBTeen, Ann Taylor LOFT, Macy’s, Newport News and Spiegel all implored me to shop their Presidents’ Day sales. There does seem to be considerable leeway on the proper name of today’s holiday, but I’m convinced that it’s Presidents Day, plain and simple, no apostrophe before or after the s. Wikipedia backs me up on this, though they’re not the most definitive source in the world (and they include an apostrophe in the URL). George Washington and Abraham Lincoln do not own Feb. 19, there’s no possession. It’s just a day for presidents.

Phew, I had to get rankled about something today. I’ve been trying to come to terms with old songs, indie songs, whatever being used willy-nilly in ads. A friend mentioned that she’s more upset by old song misappropriation, loathing M&M’s recent use of The The’s “This is the Day.” I’m more offended by the notion that we all have an M&M inside of us. I most definitely do not.

But I finally found an example of repurposing a lightly obscure song from the past in a genius way. Juxtaposing The Buzzcocks’s "Everybody's Happy Nowadays" with fogey-ish AARP was a brilliant move. Instead of focusing on aging they’ve put the spotlight on birthdays and make getting older seem downright fun.

Best Presidents Day Ever

Ok, it pains me to be upbeat and uncomplaining but everything has gone strangely right for the past few days. We were able to fly out of NYC to Chicago on Thurs. morning with only minimal delay. I was seated directly behind Mo Rocca (who you might recall, I am no fan of), like his salt-and-pepper head was inches from my face, as evidenced in the photo on the right. I had to try super hard to not say anything inappropriate using references from titles of shows he’s co-hosted like Things I Hate About You (I might not have even remembered this short lived reality bit but a friend edited it and brought the pilot over to my apt. to watch). I was showing James a pointless trend article in the New York Times about people using handheld devices to settle bets (see, in the old days you’d have to wait until you got home to look up the answer and gloat) in bars, at parties, etc. I quietly paraphrased the following paragraph aloud:

"The digital instant answer, it turns out, has been put to all sorts of uses: People say they have relied on it to judge whether a Scrabble player has spelled out a legitimate word or to surreptitiously identify the B-level celebrity seated next to them at dinner."

And Mo turned his head like his ears had been pricked by the phrase B-level and James got all mad at me and I was like, “he’s C-list if he’s lucky.” It’s not my fault if Mo was projecting on my conversation.

Anyway, 48 hours in Chicago was brief, bone-chilling (the admittedly frigid weather here seriously feels balmy by comparison. I had on every layer I could think of and kicked myself for being anti-scarf [I packed one but refused to wear it]. You practically need a face mask if you’re going to be walking around for more than ten minutes. And no one else seemed to care. Thank goodness you’re allowed to smoke indoors) and gut-busting. I had no idea that I would end up devoting 50% of my six meals to Mexican food, especially since I’ve been reaching Latin American food overload since taking on reviewing duties. But Chicago has amazing edibles not found in this part of the country, for good and bad. I could live another hundred years and never bemoan lack of deep dish pizza in NYC. I’ll discuss individual restaurants in further missives. For now, I have some food-centric, uncaptioned photos to be looked at.

I’m an obsessive email checker, and since I don’t have a cell phone my home phone voicemails also get routed to my email. I’m not sure who I think might be writing or calling me but as I’m always in interview mode I half expect that a job offer will eventually trickle my way. I didn’t anticipate freelancing at the New York Post for over five months. It was a stop gap measure between my horrendous foray into PR research and flat out quitting/financial destitution (though last week’s paycheck was $32 less than what you earn sitting on your ass collecting unemployment).

So, even though Blackberries irritate me, I couldn’t help but desperately paw the evil device, scrolling for good news while in the airport shuttle van. And lo and behold, a potential employer was asking me to call them back. Apparently, I’ll be starting a new job next Monday, and with a salary considerably higher than I’d anticipated. Good fortune is shocking to me so I’m still feeling inexplicably uneasy. Being able to quit this afternoon takes away a little of the sting of working the midnight shift on a pseudo-holiday. Plus, I’m seeing Norbit in a few hours. Does it get any better than that?

Heavy Hearted

This is the first year that I haven’t had any Valentine’s plans on Feb. 14 proper (though it’s still not too late for a Norbit viewing later tonight). I took James out to Ureña last night (my non-home computer crashes every time I try uploading my ever-so-important take on this restaurant) and he was intending to take me out to Moto tomorrow evening. But I’m starting to get scared with all this blizzard shit. Because I’m a nervous nellie, I checked all American Airlines flights from La Guardia to O’Hare today and they’ve been cancelled. If this shit keeps up till tomorrow morning someone’s going to be in a world of hurt (I haven’t decided who yet). It’s not like we can change our reservation on such short notice either (and I’ve wasted a lot of time crafting a jam-packed itinerary that includes deep dish pizza, carnitas, birria, brats and kugelis with detailed subways and walking directions). I’m very afraid that this is shaping up to be the worst day after Valentine’s Day ever.

My favorite illiterate romantic photo from yesterday's internets.

Ureña

*Ureña is now Pamplona

I don’t tend to revisit higher end restaurants, even when I’ve had a remarkable meal. There are such an overwhelming number of options in NYC (sometimes I wonder if living in a second-tier city would be more manageable food-wise and otherwise). I could eat at a new-to-me establishment weekly and barely make a dent in my to-try list by year’s end. But I thought Ureña warranted a second look, especially since it’d been almost a year since my first visit. And lord knows the creative yet un-flashy (some might say frumpy by New York standards, on the other hand, it looks like an respectable, non-casino restaurant in Las Vegas) restaurant might not last until next winter.

They have dimmed the lights, which was a criticism when they first opened (moody is nice but it makes crisp flash-less photo taking problematic) Service is gracious and never stuffy. With recent attention drawn to discrimination lawsuits, I couldn’t help but note that the wait staff was entirely Hispanic. I have no issues with accents, but when we were presented with an amuse both James and I thought our server said martian rather than mushroom. We kind of hoped we’d heard correctly since a shot of Martian soup would’ve been brilliantly bonkers. I would expect such a thing more from Moto, but that’s tomorrow evening’s dinner (assuming that this blizzard lets up soon).

We started with cocktails at the bar. I had a Martine with lemongrass, bitter orange and possibly rum (I’m blanking on the spirit). With dinner we chose a sparkling, scarlet Mont-Ferrant Rosé Cava. I love the promotional copy I found this morning, “a spring like cava, perfect for young people.” See, I’m a young person. Actually, we were easily the least decrepit diners in the room for about half or our meal. The narrow space was around 75% full when we arrived and only 25% occupied when we left around 10pm. That might not be good business for them but it’s rare to be granted a spacious four-seater for two with an empty table separating you from the nearest party.

Unfortunately, a bland (the guy was prep school attractive, the female was dull, ponytailed and turtlenecked), likely younger twosome with MBAs (which I obviously wouldn’t have known if they hadn’t been squawking about their degrees) were eventually seated next to us. The male sent a bottle of wine back, which I almost could’ve predicted. (I’ve never understood the etiquette. I always thought that it was the customer’s responsibility to choose wisely with or without advice from a sommelier, but sending a wine back would only be warranted if there was something wrong with the wine, not that the flavor wasn’t to your liking. Anyone who sends wine back becomes an automatic asshole in my eyes. It’s not impressive.)

Tarta de Ropa Vieja: foie gras, duck confit, short ribs, suckling pig and micro greens.

There wasn’t any mention of cheese so the dairy was a surprise. I’m assuming that the different meats had been shredded and combined into one carnivorous powerhouse. Everything was placed on crouton toasts.

Empanada de Cordero: lamb and goat cheese, Bunuelo de Queso: manchego, chorizo and stout beer fritter, Piquillo Relleno.

I couldn’t really taste the sausage in the fitters but these liquid-centered cheese balls were insanely good. I could eat a bowl-full. These were James’s tapas and I didn’t try the other two dishes.

Pato en Dos Texturas: poached duck breast, confit thigh, braised red cabbage, carmelized quince, parsnip puree, star anise sauce.

Perfect for the weather. I was mildly wary of duck minus its crispy skin but there were no disappointments. The breast strips were soft and tender but obviously not as meltingly so as the confit. The quince nearly mimicked chunky applesauce, star anise was a vivid aromatic touch and along with the tangy, sweet cabbage the dish was lifted out of the Spanish realm.

Cochinillo Confitado: confit suckling pig, granny smith apple puree, shitake mushrooms, wilted green leaf lettuce, truffle sauce.

I’d wanted to try this but I realized that it was essentially the same dish I had last March but with squares of suckling pig instead of pork belly. It went to James.

Bunuelo De Chocolate Y Crema Catalina: chocolate and creme filled fritter, orange and dried apricot puree, yogurt sorbet.

Our second fritters of the night. The little puffs were gone in an instant. I don’t think the original pastry chef, Caryn Stabinsky, is still around. According to their barebones website, Alex Ureña is listed as pastry chef. (2/13/07)

Sunday Night Special: Black Bean Shrimp & Braised Eggplant

I take back what I said not too long ago about Sundays not counting calorically. After last weekend’s Super Bowl (I just realized that Superbowl isn’t one smooshed word, and I’m not about to go back and fix it) Sunday bounty, I had to cool my jets this weekend with healthy Chinese inspired recipes from A Spoonful of Ginger, a practical cookbook that tweaks Asian classics while retaining the spirit of the original. I should really use it more often.

I tweaked Nina Simonds adaptation of steamed shrimp with black bean sauce and substituted scallops. I didn’t have plain black beans but a prepared sauce that already contained garlic so I added slightly less of that ingredient. You briefly bake the seafood in a foil-covered dish, then allow it to steam for about ten minutes. Of course, I could’ve just used a steamer, but it’s one less thing to worry about on stovetop in a cramped kitchen. Supposedly, fermented black beans are good for depression, stress and ridding toxins. It couldn’t hurt to eat them every now and then.

A curried pumpkin dish was suggested as a side but I thought a stewy eggplant braise would be better. I spruced up the recipe by adding a small handful of chopped cilantro and a drizzle of chile oil at the end. The two layers of chile heat really popped and the eggplant was way more unctuous than you’d expect with the tiny amount of fat that was used. Hmm, the side note accompanying this recipe is a little less appetizing than the relieving depression bit from the former. It says that eggplant is used to ease bowl movements with hemorrhoids in Chinese medicine. Good to know, huh?

Baked Black Bean Shrimp

2 pounds large shrimp (16 to 20 per pound), shelled and deveined
Shrimp Marinade:
3 ½ tablespoons rice wine or sake
2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger

1 tablespoon canola or corn oil

Seasonings:
2 tablespoons fermented black beans, rinsed and drained
2 tablespoons minced scallions, white part only
1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 teaspoon dried chile flakes

Sauce:
¾ cup chicken broth
2 ½ tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons rice wine or sake
1 tablespoon sugar
1 ½ teaspoons cornstarch

2 tablespoons minced scallion greens

Rinse the shrimp, drain, and pat dry. Using a sharp knife, carefully cut along the back and open each shrimp to butterfly it. Put the shrimp in a bowl and add the marinade. Toss lightly to coat, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 20 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F. Arrange the butterflied shrimp shell side down, with the flaps open, in 1 or 2 heatproof quiche or pie pans.

Heat a wok or heavy skillet over high heat, add the oil, and heat until very hot. Add the seasonings and stir-fry for about 10 seconds with a slotted spoon or spatula until fragrant. Add the premixed sauce and cook, stirring, to prevent lumps, until it has thickened. Then spoon the sauce over the butterflied shrimp and cover with aluminum foil. (Alternatively, you may place the fish pan in a steamer over boiling water.)

Bake the shrimp on the middle rack for about 8 to 9 minutes, or until they have become opaque. (Steam for 10 to 12 minutes.) Uncover the pan and sprinkle the minced scallion greens over the shrimp. Serve immediately with steamed rice and a vegetable.

Serves 6

Saucy Braised Eggplant

1 1/2 pounds eggplant, ends trimmed, and cut lengthwise into 1/2-inch thick slices
1 teaspoon salt

Seasonings:
1 1/2 teaspoons hot chile paste
1 1/2 tablespoons minced garlic
1 1/2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger

Braising Liquid:
1 1/2 cups chicken broth (vegetable broth can be substituted)
2 1/2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 1/2 tablespoons rice wine or sake
1 tablespoon Chinese black vinegar or Worcestershire sauce
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon cornstarch

1 tablespoon canola oil
2 cups red onion cut into 1/2-inch dice
1 medium red pepper, cored, seeded and cut into 1/2-inch dice
2 tablespoons minced scallion greens

Arrange eggplant slices on a cookie sheet lined with paper towels and sprinkle both sides with salt. Let them sit 1 hour, then pat them dry and cut into 1 1/2-inch-long pieces.

Prepare the Seasonings and mix the Braising Liquid ingredients in a bowl. Set by the stove.

Heat a large flame-proof casserole or Dutch oven. Add the oil and heat until hot. Add the chile paste and stir-fry for 5 seconds over high heat, then add the other seasonings and stir-fry until fragrant. Add the red onions and sauté about 1 1/2 minutes, then add the red pepper and sauté another minute. Add the eggplant cubes and stir-fry for 2 to 3 minutes.

Add the braising liquid, cover, and heat until boiling. Reduce the heat to medium, cover, and cook about 12 to 14 minutes, or until the eggplant is tender. Uncover, increase the heat to high, and cook until the sauce is reduced to a glaze. Transfer to a serving platter and sprinkle with the scallion greens.

Serves 6

Recipes from A Spoonful of Ginger by Nina Simonds. Knopf, 1999

Flor's Kitchen

Every so often I wonder whether it’s worth writing about restaurants that aren’t terribly exciting, new or novel. I mean, why bother. It’s not like I have endless amounts of free time to fill (though it frequently seems that way). But my original Shovel Time mission was mission-less. I was and am keeping an online dining journal not performing a public service or breaking restaurant news or god forbid going behind the scenes of anything or unearthing gossip (which is all the rage in the mid-’00s).

Which brings me to Flor’s Kitchen (which just closed its East Village location—oh look, I’m being newsy). There’s nothing remarkable about it, despite being one of the few Venezuelan restaurants in the city. It’s neither offensive nor amazing in looks or taste. It’s certainly cozy enough to serve as a satisfactory date place. It was teeming with couples of all ages, races and persuasions on my Friday night visit. The prices won’t kill you either, though you could easily spend $100 for two without realizing how you racked up three digits.

The only dish that I loved was the sweet and salty cachapa, a paisa cheese covered corn pancake that takes fifteen minutes to prepare. Our mixed filling empanaditas were fine enough (the garnish looked a little sad), the dipping sauce, which tasted like a thicker homemade Sriracha, was a stand out.

Part of the problem is my ambivalence towards rice and beans with stewed meats. I can’t generally get worked up over the Latin American mainstay, which isn’t to say I haven’t had good renditions. Is that blasphemy? You could enjoy Japanese food without adoring rice, fish and soy sauce, but it might be counter productive. I ate most of my pabellón criollo and it wasn't disappointing. I probably should’ve tried an arepa but thought that might be overkill with the cachapa.

I’d be curious to hear what a Venezuelan food lover thinks of Flor’s. Trendier Caracas Arepa Bar gets more press but that only means so much.

Flor’s Kitchen * 170 Waverly Pl., New York, NY

Tierras Colombianas

I’m not sure what it is with Colombians and excess (maybe it has more to do with my ordering style). Over the summer I became acquainted with potato chip, avocado, mayo, ham, bacon and tomato topped perros calientes. This weekend I met the bandeja campesina, an overflowing country plate. It makes me wonder whether a city platter would be heartier or more delicate.

I immediately liked Tierras Colombianas. The spacious all-booths set up and self-promoting paper placemats make me happy like a Latin Denny’s. Red foil paper and hearts were festively bedecking random surfaces. I particularly liked the cut out heart tucked beneath the wall art golden god like he’d crapped it out (ok, maybe he was just sitting on it). Romantic.

We ordered an arepa and chorizo appetizer despite anticipating massive entrees. Colombian arepas are smaller, paler and chewier than better-known Venezuelan versions. They don’t immediately give when cut with the side of a fork. The chorizo was tangy, green-speckled and herby and bursting with cumin. We ordered it to try a few bites, knowing it would likely end up in a doggie bag.

James’s bistec empanizado, breaded beef cutlet, which also appeared on at least half of other diners’ plates, was practically the size of a deflated football. But I got the whammy. There was nothing bucolic about the long crispy-fat strip of chicharron, thin grilled steak, maduros, white rice, soupy yellow-tinged beans, a third of an avocado, arepa and fried egg crowning the whole beautiful mess. A spoonful of genuinely spicy green salsa completed the picture.

Sure, the country plate is a couple meals in one, and that’s how I treated it. I skipped breakfast and made a late lunch and 1 am dinner out of it. Never mind that an ice cream sundae snuck in between those two feedings.

Tierras Colombianas * 8218 Roosevelt Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

Itzocan Bistro

Occasionally, I wonder why I rarely go uptown, and after four subways and over an hour standing, I remembered why. Bone-chilling weather and the F, J, 4 and 6 trains do somehow bolster the appetite.

And you could do worse than Mexican ingredients, French technique and Bryan Adams’s greatest hits (segueing into the best of Paula Abdul) serenading you while you eat. I started with a goat cheese flan with epazote and jalapeño. I had expected a more literal silky flan texture, but the queso de cabra disk was more crumbly like a cheesecake quiche hybrid. The crumbles were more suited to eating with toast and lettuce, anyway.

I really wanted the ancho crusted duck breast but I had convinced myself that seafood would be marginally healthier and suitable for the weather, so I chose the jalapeño and oregano dotted pozole with mussels, snapper and giant head on shrimp instead. It was certainly in a different class than a weekends-only, hominy-heavy soup you might find at a tacqueria.

Lately I’ve been austerely attempting wine or dessert not and but Itzocan’s sweets didn’t sound run of the mill and I was happy to see that they hadn’t gone molten on me. Thankfully, no soft-centered, Mexican chocolate, cinnamon spiced cakes were to be found. We did go the chocolate cake route, though, sampling a rich tequila flavored version with brown sugar ice cream. 

On the F ride back home I spied that recent Look Book guy with walrusy facial hair (I’m still not clear why he merited a meta second look elsewhere) doing a crossword from one of those paperback puzzle books. At least it wasn’t Sudoku, I guess. I hovered near his prime seat because I’d pegged him for someone who’d get off at Delancey and I was right. It’s one of the few skills I have, deducing who’ll get off sooner on the subway and positioning myself accordingly. I just hope I didn't pick up any bedbugs.

Itzocan Bistro * 1575 Lexington Ave., New York, NY

Eddie's Sweet Shop

After naively purchasing a silky teal-and-white Proenza Schouler for Target dress and thinking it would fit (I barely met the junior sizing restrictions when I was of appropriate age), it was already evening in Elmhurst. We’d already eaten a lunch that would suffice for dinner so we needed a non-edible distraction and decided on finding a movie. (In ‘94 a friend and I determined that a great punishment for a bet loser would be having to watch Nell on the big screen alone [out of curiosity, we ended up seeing it in the theater together and while non-good it didn’t live up to our punishing preconceptions]. Norbit strikes me as the modern version of this torture. But who am I to haughtily judge the black man dressing as obese black woman genre? I am fascinated how a lady so large as Rasputia has no cellulite. The more I think about it, the more I need to see Norbit—maybe on Valentine’s Day. I don’t have any plans for Feb. 14 proper.)

Neither of us had seen The Departed (which was intentional in my case) and it was still lingering at the moderately artsy/cheap theater in Forest Hills. I couldn’t picture where it was but as we started heading up Metropolitan Avenue I realized where we were and instantly remembered that Eddie’s Sweet Shop is right across the street from the movies. And miraculously there was an open parking spot on the corner, putting us spitting distance from both establishments.

We had 45 minutes until the 8:15 pm show time and I figured anyone who would’ve wanted to see this movie had already seen it so no stress on snagging seats (I was wrong, the theater was quite full. We were also easily the two youngest viewers in the audience. And for the record, old people are just barely less vocal and distracting than the rowdy teens who dominate the Court Street multiplex near me). We totally had enough time to split a sundae.

Eddie’s hadn’t changed a bit since my first and most recent visit nearly six and a half years ago (reminders of the swift passing of time completely freak me out). It was still manned by wholesome looking teens, old-timey and trinket-filled. The number of soda fountains with counter stools and spindly curlicue chairs is rapidly dwindling. Modernly garish Coldstone Creamery has more appeal, I guess. They don't burst into song at Eddie's, though they do play an '80s radio station. I honestly don't know which is more wrong. 

I find it hard to slow down and enjoy things properly so I struggled to savor my surroundings and scoops of ice cream. Surprisingly, it was James that said, “I don’t think I’m appreciating this,” which was an odd observation. I tried to concentrate and take in our shared creamy butter pecan, coffee chip and overflowing hot fudge before it melted. It’s funny that my initial inclination was to order a butter pecan and butterscotch sundae  since apparently that’s what I ordered on my last visit (see, this blog is good for something, after all). The perfect accompaniment was a short glass of water. I didn’t even have to ask, the young waitress offered, “I like water with hot fudge.” True, ice water and hot fudge is a great combo.

It’s frightening to think that my next Eddie’s visit could be in another six and a half years (I’ll be freshly forty…jesus christ). Though since the next NYC Trader Joe’s is bizarrely planned for a spot just a few blocks away, I’ll likely be back before 2013. (2/10/07)

Mojito

Is it fair to be suspicious of a poorly named, industrial-chic Cuban restaurant abutting the desolate Navy Yard, on the same block as one of the city’s scariest bars (don’t just take my word for it)? My initial concern was mediocre food but I later became more consumed with trying to interpret the vaguely sketchy shenanigans taking place around me.

The food was surprisingly un-bad, reasonably priced (most entrees were under $12) and the $8 mojitos were generous in size and potency. I felt tipsy after two, which is a rarity (I’m not a cheap date) and totally messed up the photos I’d taken.

It was difficult to not plow through the complimentary plate of squished and toasted garlic bread with three dips but I was pretending to be healthy and ordered a salad instead of something weighted down with rice and beans. A giant pile of lettuce covered with avocados, mango, grilled dark meat chicken, white cheese and fried onions is hardly austere, though I was unusually careful about only eating half (though I couldn’t bear to just leave half even though salads are pretty soggy and foul after a few hours. The thrifty gene in me still asked our sweet but spacey waitress to wrap up the remainders. Just the day before at Yemen Café, as frequently happens without warrant, James got all freaked out that our leftover louyabia and fateh we’d requested to go had been tossed in the trash. This has never happened in my life, though I shouldn’t have said that aloud on Thursday because Friday at Mojito I was to never see the rest of my salad again. Jinxed.) I also split an order of two empanadas, one chicken, one cheese, both more than edible.

Being in proximity to Pratt, projects and luxury lofts (Mojito is on the ground floor of the Chocolate Factory, which sounds vaguely dirty to me), the clientele is a total mixed bag. The tables were filled with a wonderful melting pot of African-American families, scruffy college kids and the mandatory white guy/Asian girl couple.

I noticed a tiny white guy in moccasin boots, who looked like a scrawny version of George on Grey’s Anatomy (I had to look that name up—that show is painful to watch) had been propping up the bar for most of our meal. He had a messy haired, white studded leather belt friend with him. At some point George left and came back in a bathrobe like he was the Howard Hughes of Wallabout (the revitalization-hyped neighborhood name that I just learned last week). Ok, and then I was like that’s cool that the two 300-pound black men who ordered take out, then ate out of round aluminum containers at the bar while staring down fellow diners were palling around with the artsy gay guys. Ah, sweet diversity. “Is that a housecoat?” was my favorite exclamation (it reminded me of a girl who used to call shorts short pants). At some point they all skulked into a back room, which I suspect leads into the condo complex.

In high school, whenever you’d see rockers (I attended an extremely hesher-heavy institution) hanging out with popular kids you knew something was up. Only drugs (and perhaps, consequently, sex) could bring the two worlds together. Clearly, Mojito is totally the place to be if you want to expand your social circle.

Mojito * 82 Washington Ave., Brooklyn, NY

NYC, We Have a Problem

I realize that over the years my focus has shifted. Lately, I write much more about food than I do about people and that makes me mildly sad. It’s harder to be candid in 2007 than 1997, and I don’t know if that’s a result of maturity or the evolution of the internet. Too many eyes, but there’s also more at stake. People just don’t appreciate bat shit behavior the way they used to, and NYC is surprisingly unforgiving of unprofessional quirks. Stalking and obsessing over humans is a surefire way to lose credibility yet scooping a new chef’s opening night menu or semi-scamming $320 dinners at Alain Ducasse is perceived as plugged in or hilarious (this New York Times article completely exemplifies why blogging about restaurants, particularly in a NYC milieu is so ick. Their whole M.O. is so not what I’m about that I don’t even know why I’m dwelling. It makes sites like Not Eating Out in New York even more relevant).

So, as I progress into object lover and lighten up with human fixations I’m thrilled to see that the delusional and lovesick still thrive in the rest of the country. I love today’s story about Lisa Nowak, a married astronaut who drove 900 miles in an adult diaper and disguise to kidnap the love interest of a fellow astronaut she believed she had a more than routine relationship with. Women like Lisa Nowak give me faith that the world hasn’t gone all effete and by the rules. Lisa Nowak could give a shit whether or not a restaurant is serving American prosciutto.

Buenos Aires

1/2 Apparently, Buenos Aires is a hot travel destination. Strangely, there were two separate articles (a 36 Hours and a Cultured Traveler) on the city in Sunday’s New York Times. They caught my attention since I’d recently eaten at an East Village restaurant named for the Argentinean capital. I’m definitely not an expert on the cuisine but the first thing that comes to mind is grass-fed beef. I’ll eventually branch out the more I sample this South American style but I’ve tended to stick with the parrillada in my few forays. I'm curious about matambre, which seems to be a jelly roll of  flank steak encircling a bunch of vegetables, hard boiled eggs and olives.

The mixed grill always ends up being more than you bargained for and a serving for one invariably feeds two. Even in Manhattan where portions tend to be smaller and prices higher, you still get quite a lot of meat for your money. I wonder if there’s a nouveau, or nuevo rather, rendition in the area with tiny cuts, unusual sides or stylish presentation. I kind of like the individual flame-licked table top grills you often receive; at Buenos Aires everything comes plated.

The bounty that appeared with their version of parrillada included skirt steak, ribs, pork sausage, blood sausage, sweetbreads and kidneys. I’m pretty sure that kidneys were not listed on the menu but they were most definitely on my plate. As expected, vivid green chimichurri is brought to the table, but a side of salsa also comes with the parrillada. I enjoy organ meats, especially morcilla. James does not so we rarely share one of these feasts (though he partook in leftover steak the next morning cooked with eggs and roasted potatoes. I let him have the pork sausage because despite liking hard cured charcuterie and blood sausage, I’m no fan of most squishy Italian-style links). He went for a simple filet mignon. You can choose from eight cuts of meat if you’re feeling single minded. Whether the beef is grass or corn fed, I’m not sure, though judging from the reasonable prices I’m guessing the latter. We got wonderfully crispy fries on the side and also split an order of baked spinach and cheese empanadas.

It’s easy to fall victim to meat overload but I was thankful for the padding after downing a few too many happy hour Makers Mark and sodas (and shots) at the new moderately cleaned up incarnation of The Continental. When was the last time you had $3 cocktail? Whisky and steak are perfect for fighting the temperature-in-the-teens chill.

Buenos Aires * 513 E. Sixth St., New York, NY

Sunday Night Special: Superbowl Snacks

Though sometimes I’m tempted to go a little overboard with ingredients and preparations, I decided that highbrow was no way to go on Superbowl Sunday. It’s just wrong, and with thirty or so guests (of varying acquaintance levels) crammed into a not large living room (and Rich who annually takes over our tiny kitchen with his big production Cincinnati chili), it’s also impractical. Crowd pleasing is wiser than challenging or exquisite. Originally, I wanted to only make Kraft recipes but I couldn’t bring myself to put Miracle Whip in a pecan-crusted cheesy football.

James manned the deep-fryer and made classic buffalo wings followed by a few batches of fried chicken as the evening wound down. We were thankful for the chocolate mousse cake brought from Bay Ridge’s Aunt Butchies. But I cracked it out a bit late, after people started leaving, and now I have nearly half the cake in the refrigerator (I thought my 2007 plan to slowly lose half a pound a week would be ridiculously easy, yet last week I gained weight. Why can some people peacefully coexist with baked goods and fried food while others lose their shit?).

I’ve wanted to make some version of bacon-wrapped dates for a while (ruamki too, but no one will eat chicken livers) but it’s not the type of thing you whip up for yourself. There appears to be an east west debate over this snack: A.O.C.’s version with parmesan or Red Cat’s take with a goat cheese and almond stuffing. The goat cheese sounded messier to prep so I went the hard cheese route but substituted manchego and used fresh jumbo dates from Sahadi’s that you could eat like candy (I totally don’t understand date haters—they’re definitely my favorite dried fruit). I also picked up a half pint of hummus and baba ganouj. Sure, I've made both from scratch before and considered doing so this Sunday along with some salsa, but really, during tv watching events involving lots of alcohol it's not worth the effort. Plus, Sahadi's versions are better than my homemade style, and tomatoes aren't in season, anyway.

At least one meatless dish seemed in order since I was expecting around five vegetarians. Keeping with the simple, non-fancy theme, I went with monterey jack and corn quesadillas. A little boring and inoffensive, though I spruced them up with a quick side dip using sour cream, lime juice and a chopped chipotle. Easy.

R.I.P. Gray Cat

Of the many rituals and traditions that go along with Superbowl Sunday (actually, I didn’t grow up in a sports watching family and the only routines I’ve become acquainted with as an adult involve drinking too much and eating stuff like chicken wings and chili) euthanizing your cat is not one that I’m familiar with.

A little over a year and a half ago, James brought The Gray Cat back with him from his parents’ home in northern Virginia. It was his college cat that his mom and dad took a liking to in the early ‘90s and adopted from him. In ’05 his mom (who’s more than a little irrational and difficult) decided he couldn’t be in the house anymore. I think the subtext was that he’d been peeing on things, was likely sick and her husband had just got out of the hospital after a kidney surgery and couldn’t deal with another elderly unwell creature. That’s just my interpretation.

So, we got the unnamed cat who turned out to be diabetic and needed daily insulin injections (I don’t even want to think about my diabetic diagnosed cat back in Portland who has been subject to the tough it out approach for the last four years). He was rickety and had a hard time getting up and down the stairs and would howl to be carried but he didn’t seem like he was at death’s door either. But at 16 this year, I knew it was only a matter of time. I think I kind of hoped that one day I might find him keeled over in the basement closet (his little lair he liked sleeping in) so we wouldn’t have to deal with the inevitable decision.

But yesterday he couldn’t walk or stand up without falling over and he wouldn’t eat or drink. He was never sprightly but this seemed like trouble so we took him to the emergency vet, kind of knowing he wouldn’t be back. For like $3,000 they could do all these procedures, but essentially his kidneys had failed, neurological damage had set in and his mouth was filled with sores. It upsets me when people like a woman at my previous job spend oodles of money on things like canine chemo just to have the pet die in a month. It’s fucked up financially and emotionally. Everyone has to deal with people and pet death eventually.

They kept The Gray Cat (officially listed as Nikolai, which I guess was his real name that never stuck. I don’t know these things because I’m a bad cat step-mom) overnight and this morning James went back and had him put to sleep. It was more his thing than mine. I know it’s just a cat, and I didn’t even know him that long but it’s still sad. At least he made it to 16. He was old enough to remember crap like Color Me Badd and Paula Abdul before she was slurring on TV. I was reading a pet magazine in the waiting room and poor Detective Fred, the cat who was deputized for acting as a decoy in unlicensed vet sting last year, had been hit and killed by a car. What the fuck? And he was only 15 months old.

I don't generally anthropomorphize animals (though I love the concept applied to food) but for reasons I can't put my finger on The Gray Cat reminded me of this columnist at work, Neil Graves, who always comes into the library (I'm trying to find a photo, but no luck). This guy is kind of slow and deliberate, quiet with dry humor but it's not much his demeanor, he resembled The Gray Cat, strange as that sounds. Um, he's also African-American which amuses me because I've never really thought of felines as being one race or the other. Now, no one better get all accusatory because I think a black man looks like an animal.

People really have a way of making cat heaven look incredibly creepy. I hope The Gray Cat went someplace else (no, I don't mean hell).

Pasita

I’ve never liked the sound of wine bars, even though I enjoy wine accompanied by snacks. There’s something about the concept that makes me think modern fern bar. I wonder why has no one revived that style (I suppose some TGI Friday’s are still rocking it) We skipped right over the ‘70s, are still hesitant about the ‘90s and can’t seem to progress beyond the decade in the middle.

Anyway, I wouldn’t necessarily call Pasita a wine bar though they do refer to themselves as such. They have a concise list of Spanish, Portuguese and South American wines but the food is equally interesting. It’s hard to ignore the wood-fired pizza oven in the room and almost everyone was partaking in the 12” pies.

I couldn’t help but notice that the three women sitting next to us were sharing one. Bah, my friend Sherri and I each got our own and finished them no problem. One champiñon: roasted mushroom, artichoke hearts, caramelized onions, ricotta salata and mozzarella, and one queso y queso: mozzarella, queso de nata (a creamy Cantabrian cheese), parmesan, goat cheese and rosemary. We also split a salad with mango slices and roasted grapefruit, which was mildly girlie. I know that if I had been out with James we would’ve ended up with something fried and starchy in addition to the pizzas. It’s best that I dine with others now and then.

With a bottle of Zolo Malbec from Mendoza, we had plenty so I didn’t delve into the Venezuelan tapas. And because I have a suspicious nature I wondered if pasapalos were really just an invention to cash in on diners’ seemingly endless desire for small plates, but they do seem to be a real thing, though possibly less sophisticated than those on offer at Pasita.

We finished with glasses of a sweet dessert merlot and shared some Il Laboratorio gelato. I thought we were going to get a single scoop of honey lavender, but we were brought all three options, including icy orbs of chocolate and cinnamon too. Viva excess.

Pasita * 47 Eighth Ave., New York, NY

Malagueta

I was semi-secretly relived that when I arrived in Astoria around 8pm, the restaurant had run out of the Saturday-only feijoada. I felt a little bad because I’ve never tried the Brazilian national dish and not many places in NYC do it, instead they frequently opt for the rodizio-style parade of skewered meat until you’re ill approach (which reminds me of what I think was my second Valentine’s Day celebration with James when he took me to Churrascaria Plataforma, which seems more wrong now than it did at the time. I’ve grown picky with age—I used to be thrilled to be taken out anywhere. Valentine’s days never end up being terribly romantic, at least in my world, but all-you-can-eat grilled beef certainly doesn’t help matters). I’d eaten Argentine parillada the evening before and had used leftover skirt steak and sausage enhanced with an egg and potatoes for breakfast (eating light is a tough concept for me) so I was meated-out for the rest of the weekend.

At Malagueta, a warmer, cozier place than I’d expected, I tried the moqueca de camarao, a Bahian-style shrimp stew with palm oil, onions, peppers and coconut milk over rice. More Afro than Latino. I always thought dende was one of those sure to kill you fats but at least they were being authentic. Sometimes I hate it when restaurants use olive oil when it had no place in the cuisine. The dish was fairly light, slightly New Orleans-ish and thankfully free of grilled meat.

For an appetizer, I had fried cheese-rice balls with an orange dip that’s similar to what accompanies a Bloomin’ Onion. That’s a good thing but I felt a little guilty so I split them with James even though he had a green pea soup of his own. I’m not sure how Brazilian these fritters were, but Malagueta isn’t purist. They use the term continental to describe some of their cooking, but that phrase has such derogatory connotations. James’s pork loin with mashed potatoes and bacon vinaigrette wasn’t like bad hotel food.

Everyone around us was mad for the chocolate mousse, to the point where diners waiting for seats were saying, “I hope you save some chocolate mousse for us” to the waitresses. Strange. I’m not nuts for pudding-ish sweets, too soft in the mouth, no texture. But we got the mousse anyway and well, it tasted like rich chocolate. No complaints.

Malagueta * 25-35 36th Ave., Astoria, NY

Sound Off

I thought podcasts and user generated content were all the rage (and stating that only reinforces how behind the web 2.0 revolution I am) but Fox 5 just discovered blogs this month. Except that they don’t quite seem to know what blogs are exactly. Perpetually brain damaged Rosanna Scotto (which reminds me—how old is Toni Senecal? Her face looks abnormally smooth and taut, while her neck is two shades darker and heading into wizened turkey territory. Sometimes when the light hits her at a certain angle she resembles Michael Jackson. Her age is suspiciously absent from her New York Times wedding announcement, too. And her currently being pregnant means zilch since the elderly are getting knocked up in 2007.) makes me violent every time she says, “send your blogs” during their Sound Off segment, which recently has covered very important topics like the sexy Harry Potter pics and whether The N Word should be banned (how it's possible to ban a word is beyond me). Two weeks ago sending viewer feedback via an email address was called, um, emailing. Last night I noticed they’d even designed a new graphic to reinforce this misguided concept. I work for Newscorp and I’m a researcher, perhaps I should get to the bottom of who decided that hitting send in Hotmail constitutes blogging.

On to print media. I’ve never understood why when you subscribe to a new magazine they invariably send you an old issue as your first. It’s now February so I don’t find it terribly useful to read about Christmas gifts, cute as they may be, in my recently received ReadyMade. I suspect this is an American bungling because I got my first copy of Olive, February issue, all the way from England in early January. Then again, I’m lucky if 60% of my subscriptions even make it into my hands. Sometimes I forget that Time Out New York isn’t bimonthly because I don’t think I’ve ever received four in a month.