MEMOIRS OF AN UBEREATER

The Ubereater Cooks: Grilled Veggie and Mozzarella Panino on Garlic Ciabatta

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 01:46:00 +0000

“Do you like to cook?”

Who hasn’t been asked this rather benign question at one point or another, and who hasn’t responded “yes” wholeheartedly as well. But what exactly does it mean to cook? Those who answer in the affirmative can run the gamet in terms of scope, skill, and experience. Someone who makes grilled cheese for dinner every night might “like to cook”. Another self-proclaimed “cook” may take great pride in whipping up a bowl of overboiled, steaming-hot “pasta-mush” doused with a jar of blood-red Prego. And yet another may spend 3 hours making Coq Au Vin with Parmesan crusted lemon-pepper asparagus and horseradish mashed potatoes, and be quite willing to assert his love for “cooking”. None of these examples is more right than the other. To cook is to create, and we all know there is nothing more subjective than creativity.

The point is, cooking represents something different to everyone, and in today’s food-centric society, the meaning of the word has become rather vague. Case in point: Rachel Ray “cooks”, but so does Daniel Boulud. And what does Gordon Ramsay do? To contend this assertion would undoubtedly imply that there are various degrees of “cooking” – which is something we all already knew and proves my point exactly. To avoid some of this confusion, these days I tend to cling to the more user-friendly, skill-blind phrase, “prepare my own food”. It’s straightforward, it’s simple, it inheres no presumption, and leaves no room for misinterpretation.

That said, as the newly resurrected Ubereater, I’ve morphed into a creature that is fully and completely engaged by, and enamored with preparing my own food. So while my growth spurt into an epicurean endeavorist owes its thanks to an initially undying need “to restaurant”, my post-adoloscent relationship with food is much more grounded, meaningful and intimate.

What I make is limited to nothing and defined by anybody. I cringe at the sight of a cookbook and recipes are about as useful to me as the Obama administration. I think about what I like to eat, and then make it. It doesn’t get any simpler than that.

In her constant search for light and delicious meals we can make during the week at night, Meghan recently threw out to me the idea of a grilled veggie sandwich with mozzarella cheese on “some good bread.” I obliged and we went from there.

What I ultimately created was Grilled Vegetable Panino that included alternatingly stacked layers of grilled red and yellow bell peppers, zucchini, and slices of vine-ripened tomato, draped with blankets of semi-sour mozzarella cheese. All this, on a beautiful piece of garlic and olive oil ciabatta from Trader Joe's.

What do you like to "cook"?

At Big Wong, It's All About Speed Not Size

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Tue, 25 May 2010 03:15:00 +0000

Earlier in the month I finally made my way back to my OTHER favorite Chinese restaurant in New York City. It is a charming little establishment on Mott Street known as Big Wong that’s been around more than 3 decades and continues to feed the masses with uncanny efficiency.

My first encounter with this Chinatown gem was a lunch excursion with old coworkers almost 2 years ago that left me full and satisfied and singing the praises of these cheap and delicious lunch dishes.

Who knows why it’s taken me until now to get back there, maybe it’s my inability to keep up, or my capricious relationship with chinese food, or simply the fact that my future wife, and defacto dining partner, still can’t seem to grasp the concept that Pineapple Fried Rice is not quintessential Chinese fare.

Whatever the reason, a couple weeks back, after watching the rather innane New York, I Love You, I get up off the couch and in a very Obama-esque manner (minus the professoral condescension) proclaimed, “This Friday we’re going to Big Wong.” I received no objection from my lady which makes me wonder if assertiveness may actually work.

Regardless, Das Ubereater has spoken.

5 days later, there we stood on a balmy Friday night, beneath Big Wong’s iconic, carnival-like yellow and red sign, half-way down Mott Street just south of Canal St, on what is arguably one of the filthiest, grimiest patches of urbana in all of the 5 boroughs. And we were in awe. At least I was, Meghan had already gone inside.

Big Wong’s interior is as breathtakingly mundane as its exquisitely Chinatown-ish exterior, profusely oozing nostalgia from every crack and crevass in its form, a condition that clearly stems from a blatant disregard for any sort of renovation or cosmetic upkeep. The aesthetics are only enhanced by the duo of wild men with cleavers chopping and dicing various meats at lose-a-finger speed behind an eye-level curtain of burnt-orange ducks that are thankfully protected by a glass window. This is all to your left as you enter the room. Dinner – as they say – is served.

As soon as you’re in Big Wong, you’re sitting. This restaurant is nothing short of a well-oiled machine that in its 30 year-history, has perfected the art of getting patrons in and out the door, give or a take a few unintelligible utterances in Mandarin or Cantonese. Two rows of tables line each side of the wood-paneled dining room that harks back to the olden days of Chinese food when Shrimp Toast ruled and Pu Pu Platters were the talk of the town. Down the middle of the narrow room runs the the open aisle that is the main thoroughfare used by a visibly disgruntled clan of servers in order to scurry between the front and back of the house, filling orders and delivering food all while barking at one another in various Chinese tongues. Whether they’re plotting to devalue the US Dollar through a mass debt dump, or asking for more water pitchers, either way it’s frightening – and exciting at the same time.

The atmosphere is pretty hectic, even when it’s not busy, as within seconds of stepping through the door, you’re (barely) greeted, promptly seated, and presented with all pertinent menus necessary for ordering – a process after which your server anxiously stands over you as you plan your meal. There’s an inherent expectation that you know what you want before you come to Big Wong, which might be unsettling for some, yet seems to make sense in some ways. When you think about it, why shouldn’t you?

We stuck to the program and ordered what I had come for – Pork over Rice (bottom left), and Duck over Rice (bottom right). Both the Pork and Duck preparations are served room temperature and as you would expect - over rice. Nothing wild here - the pork consists of boneless glazed encrusted slivers of tender pork atop a lukewarm pile of white rice. Again, not extravagant, but satisfying and filling through straightforward simplicity. The duck, though less plentiful and a bit more difficult to eat because of bones, is definitely more succulent and rich. Fans of traditional peking duck will probably prefer the pork at Big Wong, but for less than $6 bucks each, either plate is a win-win situation on my end.

Mixing things up a bit, the Shrimp and Pork Dumplings (Bottom left) were perfectly cooked, and slapped with a sweet oyster sauce that was incredible. My only complaint here is that there wasn't enough of it. But the vegetables (Bottom right), oh the vegetables, are really what turned me on to Big Wong. For a few bucks, you can order a side of "vegetables", though they say it could be anything, I've only ever gotten crunchy, crispy leafy greens doused in more of that sweet oyster sauce that would make a construction boot taste good. I'm ashamed to say I'm not sure exactly what type of greens they are, but next time I'll ask, I know they'll be dying to explain it to me.

Seeing that all of this food wasn't enough, I was feeling good and figured why not toss in a nice big burly bowl of Pork Dumpling Congee. This classic Chinese savory porridge is something I've come to really enjoy, and Big Wong's hits the spot. Large globes of boiled balls of ground pork wade stealthily in a vast pond of thin, soupy, opaque porridge. I was full by the time I got to the congee, but I made sure I left no "pork ball" unturned.

This trip to Big Wong was a memorable one, not so much for the look of painful indifference on Meghan's face, but instead for the simple, cheap, comforting food that hits your table in less than 3 minutes piping hot and begging to be eaten. As much I enjoy the opulence of a fine meal at Peking Duck House, the essence of Chinatown is best encapsulated by those eateries that are swift, efficient, and pointedly accurate at every stage of the meal, and do so with minimal communication aside from the occasional head nod or two.

I implore you to hit Big Wong if you haven't already. Sit down, take it all in, and of course ,enjoy the food.

If you do it fast enough you may just get a "thank you" from your server - but I wouldn't count on it.

Big Wong

Surfer Sundays at Ditch Plains is a Great Way to get (Lobster) Baked

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Wed, 05 May 2010 03:00:00 +0000

It's almost been a year since my maiden voyage into the world of the almighty Low Country Boil and I'm saddened to say I 've not had it since. That's not to say I haven't thought about it, and even pined for it, yet this is the unfortunate truth. Partly to blame is this mad mad city of ours where access to this mode of cooking seems hard to come by - until now!

Along my usual daily patrol of the food blogging universe, I came across an exciting tidbit of information. As it turns out, Ditch Plains, nearby West Village NY-style fish shack (and sister resto to Tribeca's Landmarc), has started offering a traditional Lobster Bake on Sunday's after 4 PM, deemed Surfer Sundays. For $30, you get a 1 1/2 lb lobster, corn, andouille sausage, and a potato, cooked as one entity obliviously reveling in its own juices.

I realize that technically this doesn't qualify as a Low Country Shrimp boil, but like your second-cousin Ruby from Boone County, WV, it's closer in relation than you may think. Come to think of it, isn't the bake the Yankee cousin to the boil? It would appear that way.

Be it a boil or a bake, the premise is the same - carefully use low, constant heat to cook quintessential summer goods to arrive at a delicious, butter-soaked, bib-warranting meal.

And so being the eager eaters that we are, we made our way to Ditch Plains on the inaugural Surfer Sunday at 4 PM to get our "bake" on.

In less time than that I had anticipated, our meal had begun, each of us ordering our own pot with the expectation, or really the fear, that one for the two of us would not be enough. First came the accoutrement, specifically the timelessly luxurious drawn butter and the more grounded house-made old-bay aoli.

Shortly thereafter, arrived our beloved Lobster Bakes. Two identical portraits of crustaceous beauty lay before us. The blood-red lobsters staring up at us as if to say "why me?", flanked on all sides by a girthy, fresh, canary yellow ear of corn, a similarly portly link of andouille sauage, and two baseball-sized potatoes, one above and the other below. Surely a sight to be seen, but more important, a presentation to be eaten.

Fully bibbed and claw cracker in hand, we wasted no time digging in. The lobster was cooked perfectly, and thanks to some help from the chef for pre-cracking the knuckles and claws, relatively easy to eat. Soft, succulent, sweet lobster meat is unlike anything else and when it's cooked the way it's supposed to be, resides in a culinary league of its own. Generous, check that, outright vicious dunks into the golden well of drawn butter were abound and plentiful, and even a bit messy. Good thing we had the bib.

The success in the bake here is that everything was left untouched. Corn as simple as it is sweet (at this time of year?), salty smokey sausage that snaps open, and potatoes sogged in the buttery, lemony residual pot juice. The old bay aoli was particularly addictive, offering up a nice tangy zing that was reminiscent of Tartar sauce. I've never liked tartar sauce and I usually use discretion with aolis, but this one was addicting and great for slathering on everything that was in front of me (including the fork by its lonesome).

This was a true ode to a classic - no extras, no twists, no interpretations. It's a bake, and a damn good one.

Though I'm no sure this guy shared my sentiments. At $30, the price is at the very least fair, and really in my opinoin a pretty good bargain. The quantity of food is just right, and you'll leave feeling not only full, but overtaken by a general sense of satisfaction.

A belly of butter and lobster will do that to you.

Ditch Plains (Map it)

Surfer Sundays: Every Sunday after 4PM

Torrisi's Italian Specialties: Come for the Turkey and Stay for the Eggplant Parm

noreply@blogger.com (The Ubereater) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 01:35:00 +0000

This past Saturday I celebrated my 29th birthday the only way I know how - eating. It was a day I'd been planning ever since Easter Weekend, when a post Hudson River run-lunch found me sweaty, soaked, sore and finally salivating over a roast turkey sub that far exceeded my wildest expectations and rather bluntly changed my life. So it was on Easter Sunday, as I walked home through Soho, amidst a school of smelly Spaniards, that I called my parents and said, "I know where I'm taking you next time you come to the city."

Fast-forward 3 weeks, and there we were, myself, my father, my mother, and my lovely wife-to-be, nestled snugly into a corner table at Torrisi's, mere minutes after its doors open to the public on a beautiful late April morn. Just footsteps from the sacred walls of Old St. Pat's on nearby Prince Street, like a dedicated priest bearing good tidings to his aging congregation, I was mentally prepping my culinary disciples for an experience that would be somewhat of an exorcism of everything that they once believed to be true.

Torrisi's Italian Specialties, in no more words than necessary, is what I've always been looking for and just didn't know it until now. A small, 18-seat parlor on the northern fringe of Little Italy dedicated to serving tried and true Italian American fare using the best American ingredients. If you don't believe them, take close note of the walls bedizened in packaged Progresso Bread Crumbs, and rows upon rows of unopened jars of New Jersey's own B&G peppers - here is your clue that you're into something good here.

Having arrived a few minutes after my parents, I already knew what to expect. Knowing my father, who, when it comes to food and waiting for it, has less self-control than Barney Frank at a Chuck E. Cheese's, I was expecting to arrive to find something already sitting on the table. Worse yet, I feared my father would be half-way into a sub and I'd miss all his juicy commentary.

Luckily this was not the case, sort of - I did arrive to my father having ordered, but was fortunate to have gotten there moments after our first masterpiece hit the table. What greeted me was a sight to be seen, an hommage to all things Italian American and a sparkling shrine to a realm of food that all but completely defined my culinary childood. It was indeed what we titled The Italian Sub, and it looked like this:

What we have here is what I venture to say is (half of) the best pure sub I've ever had. We bear witness to a same-day fresh Hero bread from neighborhood favorite Parisi's bakery cradling a mass of various salty ham and salami, draped delicately with a thin layer of provolone. What does it for me particulary at this stage in the game is the not-too-heavy portion of super-finely-shredded lettuce, paper-thin tomato and a smattering of sliced vinegary cherry peppers that finish off this work of art. I have always loved italian sandwiches, but often shunned the traditional "subs" that boasted shredded lettuce, tomato, oil and vinegar, and (gasp!) mayo mainly becuase too many Deli's in too many parts of the country have managed to ruin this ancient artform. But at Torrisi's, I've found salvation and am once again, a true believer.

The bread, the meat, the lettuce, the tomato, and the "deli spread" lathered on both top and bottom of the bread make this the best sub I've ever eaten. I'm not sure I can say anything else about it.

Had the meal ended here, I would've been more than satisified albeit still hungry. These days I sometimes still contemplate the true meaning of being an Ubereater, until times like this when I realize my amuse bouche is half of a 5-inch tall sub.

Next it was on to what I had been talking about all along: The Roast Turkey. You can get any sandwich you please at Torrisi's on either a round roll or a hero. I opted for the hero, and added roasted peppers to my mix. What I got, was what I had been dreaming about for weeks since my last visit. A beautiful heap of moist, 3/4 inch thick hunks of herb-blasted, house-made, falling- apart-on-itself turkey, shouldering thankfully a layer of roasted peppers, and more of that surgically sliced bouquet of lettuce and tomato. Oh and a tons of deli paste of course. This was dastardly delicious - juicy, crunchy, smooth, crispy - it has it all. It just has it all.

The turkey is unlike anything you've ever had. How could these sumptuous slabs of grainy, white-meat wonderfullness come from the same creature my family so readily banished from the Thanksgiving dinner table years ago. It's a question that needs no answer. And this is a sandwich that need not be spoken for any further.

Though caught up in the tumultuous turbulence of my toppling Turkey treat, I kept my whits about me enough to remember to order a nice heaping block of the eggplant parm, which has been taunting me from behind the glass-shielded countertop for way too long. It was my birthday and I'm freaking ordering it. Having mentally devoured this busty beaut from the moment I laid eyes on it, I could only hope it was half as satisfying as my beloved Turkey and the like. There was, as they say, only one way find out.

My order manifested itself in the form of this:

Like admiring the vast easterly view of the New York City skyline on that storied final approach into Newark Airport, this eggplant parm was simply breathtaking and easily the best I've ever had. Easily. Traditional to the nth degree, layer upon layer of thin, lightly-breaded slices of eggplant, interspersed with sweet red gravy spiked with fresh basil and a rogue piece of fresh mozzy, wears proudly the aftermath of gentle anoiting of grated Parmigiano. This is the eggplant parm we all dreamed of but never could actually attain. What do they do to the eggplant? God only knows.

It should go without saying then, that we couldn't stop eating it, which is why we ordered another piece. Though it doesn't surprise me knowing what I know now, this is another perfect example of how impeccably fresh ingredients treated properly make a classic favorite indefatiguably delicious.

For good measure, I also went ahead and splurged on a 1/2 lb of the house-made mozzy. I don't care who you are, or where you've been, or who you voted for, homemade mozzarella cheese is unlike anything you'll put in your mouth. Torrisi's is served as such, sliced into thirds and beached in a mixture of its own whey and a healthy dousing of extra virgin olive oil.

A succulent end to an overall spectacular birthday.

While it may be true that 2010 has been the most conservative for the Ubereater, it is also shaping up to be possibly the most fruitful and enlightening yet and I have Torrisi's to thank for that.

I think Mark, my main man behind the counter with whom I've gotten to know a bit after a few trips, sums it up best.

"Everything is good. These guys really know what they're doing."

He ain't kidding. And neither am I.

Torrisi's Italian Specialties- map it here

The Ubereater Hath Resurrected Himself

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 03:06:00 +0000

Wow.

It's been quite a while since my last post. And where the hell was I? I can only imagine the baited breath with which so many of you have been waiting to learn the truth behind life's ultimate question: What the hell has the Ubereater been doing?

To make a long story short, the answer to this question is everything and nothing. I suppose my unruly, unbecoming, rather dysfunctional relationship with food and of course eating it, has morphed into a bit of a different creature than it once was. In recent months I've graduated towards more cooking and less eating out, a decision borne not out of a growing displeasure with restaurants, but instead an intensifying closeness to making my own food. Let it be known the Ubereater is quite the cook.

Admittedly, trolling the melange of food sites, like Eater.com and Serious Eats, on a daily basis to keep up with the latest and greatest restaurants has become more tedious than tititallating. I've had an epicurean epiphany of sorts - who cares about how amazing the breakfast pizza is at Pulino's. In reality, who cares about Pulino's? The constant chatter about what's opening where carries the staying power of a magician doing card tricks in Washington Square. Keith McNally is not god and I really don't care if Mario Batali was seen crossing 6th avenue in this orange clogs. I walk by him twice a week in the morning and he appears no less unapproachable than the day before. It's time to separate the curds from the whey here.

What I'm really saying is that the Ubereater is back and completely reborne. Like Mickey Rourke without the facial plasticity, I'm back with more zeal than ever before. I'll always be the gnarly gastronome hell bent on never wasting a meal, but my resurrection finds me a more sage, more introspective culinary contemporary whose relationship with food is more gutteral than it ever was.

What does all this mean? Not as much as my verbosity may lead you to believe, other than that the new Memoirs of an Ubereater, will be more true to its name in that it will lean more towards editorial discussion (read errant, unabated rants) and further away from the previously "restaurant review" format. No longer can I live within the confines of a weekly obligation to post a "review"; neither my opinions nor the little logic around which they are loosely wrapped can thrive amidst those types of restrictions. This will truly be my Memoirs - a catalogue of culinary imaginations, insights, and reflections derived from a day to day existence still very much centered on food.

So there I've said it. The Ubereater is back! Keep your eyes open. It will begin...

From the Ubereater Kitchen: 3 Cheese Frittata with Asparagus and Balsamic Butter Mushrooms

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 04:22:00 +0000

As I work simultaneously on my new installment focused on some of the best Grandma Pie I've had in the city (on the UES no less!), I thought it proper to remind all you Eager Eaters out there that the very essence of Ubereating need not thrive simply in the dining room of others. The restaurant may tantalize the palate, but the home kitchen inspires it.

Philosophical mumbo jumbo aside, I recently made one of my favorite weeknight dinners - Frittata - easy, cheap, and as flavorful as you want it to be. Particularly here, mine boasted a trio of cheeses comprising Monterey Jack, White Cheddar and freshly grated Pecorino Romano. The addition of chopped asparagus and balsamic-butter braised white mushrooms would bring things to another level.

As is true with any Frittata, when it comes to incorporating veggies, it imperative you cook them almost all the way before mixing into the beaten egg. Otherwise you compromise both the texture of the vegetable and the flavor of the Frittata itself.

Needless to say, Frittata is most certainly a method more than a recipe. Do recipes even exist anymore, other than for baking? Quite simply, combine beaten eggs (mine uses 10 eggs) with properly pre-cooked veggies and diced cheese - mix thoroughly and cook in a 12in pan, constantly making sure the sides and bottom aren't sticking.
Once you're eggy masterpiece is beginning to rear it's beautiful head, and you think it's fairly set on its bottom, shove that baby under the broiler for about 8-10 minutes closely monitoring its ever advancing char on the top. This finishes the cooking process and allows you to revel in the the glory that is watching your once slimy, eggy mess transform into a slighly firm, and undoubtedly proud structure of salty, savory deliciousness.

Frittatas make a pedestrian, the egg, into a patrician of the highest order.

Making a Frittata is really more art than science. There is saying I once heard: "There are two kinds of people in this world - those who can cook eggs, and those who grew up eating omeletes that taste and feel like construction-boot shoe leather."

So so true.

This is the world we live in today.

Nothing a well seasoned Frittata can't fix.

Ofrenda: Village Mexican In Need of an Identity

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 03:30:00 +0000

It's no secret that I, the Ubereater, haven't been around lately. Thanks to the rigors of puppy fatherhood, I ended up taking an unintentional hiatus of sorts that saw more than 3 months go by without a post.

This, I realize, is unacceptable by the standards of my loyal eager eaters but in a country where Barney Frank can remain in public office, there are no boundaries, and these days, seemingly no consequences either. This is a rather odd way of saying the good news is, the Ubereater is back.

To get back into the swing of things, I want to write about my recent trip to village newcomer, Ofrenda - the latest to join the fray in downtown's recent wave of Mexican? eateries. (La Lucha and Dos Toros the main reason for saying such.)

Just north of the intersection of 7th Avenue south and West 4th Street, better known as Sheridan Square in these parts, Ofrenda resides in what seemingly is a peculiar culinary cul-de-sac in a part of the West Village. A bar greets you on the way into the small space, dotted with two and four-tops from front to back. Strangely, you'd really have no idea what type of food is served here mainly because the decor is so simple and ambiguous - and the instrumental lounge music is a bit deceiving. Diminutive, albeit tasteful light fixtures are all that adorn the painfully white walls. Not that I need all sorts of artwork to enjoy a meal, obviously I don't, but I can' t help but want to attribute the initial lack of identity to its naked surroundings.

Our moot dialogue regarding the decor was interrupted by a tray of complimentary Chips and Salsa. Aside from not being served hot (Jose Tejas Style), these chips were well salted and quite comfortable dredged in the joining tomatillo salsa that was really flavorful, though expectedly scarce according to my standards. You can never have too much and restaurants never give enough.

In keeping with our new found ability to control ourselves at the dinner table, we opted for only two entrees and two sides. The menu's span of various offerings struck me as slightly eclectic Mexican, straddling the fence between the familiar and the not so much. Mesclun salad with queso fresco, Chimichangas with crab and tamarind, and Sopa di sete vegetales (7 veggie soup) round out the appetizers, while perhaps more traditional presentations like my Chicken en mole, anchor the entree portion of the spread. Additionally, a handful of interesting sides are for the taking, including age-old refried beans (Frijoles refritos), and way more interseting green rice (Arroz con Verde).

Meghan's Callitos a la plancha, consisted of seared scallops in a Cascabel butter sauce, coupled with what the menu terms as "sweet potato hash" and sauteed asparagus. The scallops were a fair size, and cooked quite well, boasting a nice outside char, while remaining tender and buttery on the inside. The sweet potato hash, which was really what I would consider to be smashed sweet potatoes, was tasty, though a tad sweet. What really made this dish, was the Cascabel butter sauce, which was opaque, almost syrupy, and ever so sweet enough to make the most of the scallops.

On the lookout for something more familiar, I went for the Pollo en mole, and specifically the ancho chile mole. Three chunks of boiled chicken arrived smothered in a dark mahogany, super smokey, slightly spicy ancho mole that was rich and dense. Sauteed green beans and rice pilaf played a supporting role, but nothing to write home about. The chicken however, was tender, juicy and a sponge to the unctuous mole.
Our sides of refried beans and Arroz Verde (Below) were respectably flavorful - the refried beans arrived as a more starchy mass of burnt-end beans interspersed thoroughly with diced onions and crunchy tortilla strips. Quite different from the usual soupy slop you get, Ofrenda's preparation was noteworthy! Similarly the Arroz Con Verde, a simple but temperamental dish that can be divine or a starchy gooey messy, was well balanced in terms of citrus versus cilantro, and the inclusion of peas was much appreciated.
I don't want to necessarily say the food at Ofrenda is out of this world and simply a must try, but it would be dishonest of me not to recognize that the offerings here (no pun intended) are well executed and reflect a certain amount of care in their preparation. It would be even more unfair of me not to mention that this was only its second night open to the public, so I realize this restaurant's head has only begun leave the womb.

In the end, I didn't set to make my big return by poo-pooinga 2-day old restaurant that is earnestly in business, but I did make it a point to check out this spot with the intention of submitting my initial response to this new addition to the neighborhood. Having said that. I felt as though the biggest issue here is that there is still a bit of a disconnect between Ofrenda the restaurant and the food on the plate. Without question, the food was by no means "bad" or forgettable, and in fact on its own, has a lot of potential. Unfortunately, the germination of Ofrenda's identity as a eatery compromises the enjoyability of the food. I'm not saying that because the walls are white, the food isn't satisfying - I'm saying the overall experience is detrimental to what you're actually eating. I've had the best cheesesteak of my life 2 feet from a dumpster, and in a weird way the dumpster made that cheesesteak even better.

I think this could be Ofrenda's problem - it is a young establishment that seems not entirely committed to acquiring and adopting an identity. Perhaps in fear of going down the wrong road or in an effort to let business guide them down that road; either way this restaurant, which incidentally used to be Ostia! (the checks still say Ostia! at the top) needs to declare a path. Right or wrong, a distinct path or theme, as bad as that sounds, is always better than none at all. If it's small plates Mexican then go there (cue overpriced Guac!) - if it's traditional Mexican, then slap some sombrero's on the wall and do it right. If it's Mexican fusion then bill yourself as such and blare the lounge music. I fear Ofrenda as it is now, is a concept in the making, not quite finalized and not quite sure of itself.

Nevertheless, I recommend you check out Ofrenda, out of respect for the food and its inherent potential. Based on our meal, I thought the food was promising and though counter-intuitive when it comes to the world of dining out, I ask that you approach this infant eatery with an open-mind and with the understanding that this place still deserves the benefit of the doubt.

The question is, for how long?

Ofrenda
113 7 Avenue South
New York, NY 10014
(212) 924-2305

Ubereater Says: "Potential is there, but still without an identity and less than a week old, there is much progress to be made."

Bite of the Week - 8/31/2009 - The French Dip at Rutherford Grill

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 02:47:00 +0000

Eager Eaters!

Obviously this travel-packed summer has made it difficult to post as frequently and as usually as I do, or would like. Out of town weddings and extended weekends at the Shore have, in recent weeks, left me with no energy to actually write about what I've been eating. It's frustrating and I don't like it.

The goods news, of course, is that this upcoming weekend in Chicago will mark the end of this crazy, unpredictably inclement summer, thus allowing me to refocus my time and energy on posting as much as I can. Nevermind the fact that I'm getting a 14 week old puppy in a few days.

This is mind, I wanted to kick-start the Fall 2009 Ubereating season with the re-launch of the Bite of the Week series, a weekly installment that will feature delicious morsels offered all over the City - bites of deliciousness you should know about and should be eating, no questions asked.

In honor of the Summer of 2009 where most of my ubereating was done outside of New York City, I want to shed some light on the French Dip at Rutherford Grill in Rutherford, CA, a vibrant epicurean community that thrives in famed Napa Valley wine country.

The long and short of it is, as far as French Dips go, this was the best I've ever had in my life, period. Today's French Dip landscape is pretty bleak - you don't find it on too many menus any more, and if you do, it's usually an insult to not only to the art of roast beef, but the very bread it's sitting on.

That said, Rutherford Grill's is a perfect specimen. A heaping stack of house-roasted prime rib of beef, cooked rare, and sliced thin, grappled on top and bottom by a thick, dense baguette, the upper cap of which enjoys a light schmear of horseradish-mayo. Everything about this sandwich is on point - the tender, juicy meat that loves the throat-clearing kick of the horseradish, and of course the bread, which sops up the accompanying Jus as if it were some sort of edible Shamwow.

Wow is right.

Owned and operated by the Hillstone Restaurant Group, known in these parts as the people behind Houston's, whose menu, not surprisingly, offers a French Dip as well, we were pleased to learn we could get this prized plethora of meat right here in NYC. Having tried it after returning home, I have to say, while definitely enjoyable, it isn't nearly as dynamic as RG's version, which is bigger, fuller, and more flavorful in general. In Napa, $18 gets you this handsome sandwich, and a side of Very Wild Rice, another RG conconction that will blow your mind. I'll save this for another BoTW.

You're just going to have to go to Napa to get it.

Just an awesome display of sandwichdom...

Rutherford Grill (map it)

The Ubereater Goes West: San Francisco To Be Exact

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 21:29:00 +0000

I finally made it.

To San Francisco that is.

I had always wanted to check out the City by the Bay. And after years of listening to countless friends, unsightly strangers, misguided acquaintances, and just about any random person with a pulse tell me San Francisco is the culinary gem of the West Coast, and arguably, the entire country, I was finally going to find out for myself.

My knowledge of the San Francisco food scene over the years has been minimal at best. It was always my understanding that this Frontier-town, the culinary experience is almost exclusively dedicated to haute cuisine that caters to nouveau sensibilities. And then of course if you're not eating high-end French at Hubert Keller's much celebrated Fleur du Lys, you're probably at Whole Foods, Trader Joes, or even better, at a local Greenmarket buying uber-organic, hand-massaged fruits and vegetables from some anti-corporation, hemp-wearing hippie who hasn't showered (nor seen the need to) in at least a few days. And if you're not doing that, you're sucking down a vacuum cleaner bag-sized burrito in the Mission, celebrating the area's rich Mexican heritage.

I of course realize the hyperbole here is heavy, and given these opposite points of the spectrum, I can't seem to grasp why I maintain any preconceived notion of San Francisco food at all. What's more, the last time I checked shopping at Whole Foods, Trader Joe's, and local greenmarkets happens to be a popular pastime in New York City - a way of life these days for most in fact.

So what the hell am I talking about?

Is San Francisco just some impish hotbed for Nancy Pelosi-loving, Prius-driving twenty-something snobs named "Chase" and "Rory" sniffing wine and eating cheese while debating environmental policy? Or is it a city with gastronomic chutzpah - the kind of culinary cojones that make a guy who calls himself the Ubereater, proud?

I can't accept the idea that this sprawling peninsular metropolis of calming sinusoidal hills rising up, in concert, against the choppy waters of the cranky Pacific, plays host to a bi-polar culinary community rife with poisonous snobbery and ultra-liberal intolerance.

It just can't be...and thankfully it isn't.

That said, I managed to squeeze in a slew of meals in the swift 48 hours I spent in SF, so here we go.

Mama's on Washington Square (North Beach): Hungry, stiff, and anxious to make the most of our short time in the City, we began our journey at Mama's. Located across from peaceful Washington Square in the Italo-centric North Beach neighborhood, this charming corner spot was hemorrhaging a line of would-be customers by the time we arrived on a balmy Wednesday morning. Known for its magnificent portions and killer homemade pastries, we bit the bullet and waited over 40 minutes to get a table at this bustling glorified diner. The Pancakes (below left) are a busty, skyscraping stack of thick, doughy, airy goodness, topped with a handsome medley of fresh berries. My omelet, (below right) a heaping specimen stuffed with Pancetta, Mushrooms, Tomatoes, fresh basil, and Garlic Jack Cheese, was soft, full of flavor and quite fond of the massive amounts of Tabasco under which it would fall victim. Though a satisfactory start to our trip, I can't help but feel as though Mama's popularity is as much, if not more so, a function of its large portions rather than the stand-alone execution of its food. Our food was good, but we were more impressed with the value than the actual food itself, thus leading me to conclude that Mama's is worth the trip, but not the wait - notwithstanding the pastries, which are undeniably delicious.

In-N-Out Burger (The Marina): After an afternoon in and around Fisherman's Wharf, the better part of which I spent watching the now famous Pier 19 Sea Lions rumble amongst themselves in a blubbery orgical mess, I found myself strangely in need of an IN-N-OUT burger. This famed and still family-owned regional chain may very well be the undisputed king of the West Coast burger world, and at the very least, one of my personal favorites. As always, I went for a Double Double Animal Style, which in IN-N-OUT-speak means a double cheeseburger with pickles, extra special sauce, and grilled onions. What I actually got was a Double Cheeseburger the regular way (with lettuce, tomatoes,onions and pickles), which was still as scrumptious as ever.

Aziza (Richmond District): You'd think after a full breakfast, and some mid-afternoon burgers, we would've filled our eating quota for the day - but that simply wasn't the case. Some aggresive research prior to the trip landed me at Aziza, a romantic, mysteriously-lit Moroccan restaurant in the predominantly residential westerly neighborhood known as the Richmond District. On the recommendation of a good friend, we embarked upon the 5 course Tasting Menu that would end up being one of the more memorable of its kind in quite a while. Starting with Soup and Ending with Dessert, the meal was remarkable from beginning to end, highlighted first by the chef's spreads with Pita (Below left), featuring a piquillo pepper almond paste, a classic Tzatziki, and a perfectly executed hummus. As enjoyable, but undoubtedly more unique was the Basteeya (below right), a classic Moroccan dish consisting of a not-too-dense mixture of ground chicken, almonds, and various North African spices wrapped in Phyllo dough and baked until golden brown and crispy on the outside. Served warmed, dusted with confectioner's sugar, and a bit of cherry compote, this was an amazing compilation of sweet, savory and everything in between. Meghan loved it - which says it all really.

Our entire Aziza experience was impeccable from beginning to end, having afforded us with the opportunity to delve into the vast world of Moroccan food from the vantage point of the highly revered chef-owern Mourad Lahlou, who has not only challeneged Cat Cora on Iron Chef America, but even better, allegedely turned down an offer to have his own show on the Food Network.

My kind of guy if you ask me.

Dottie's True Blue (Tenderloin): After an evening of revitalizing sleep, we were up and out early to beat the crowds at downtown Breakfast legend, Dottie's True Blue. Nestled tightly on the northern fringe of the "Tenderloin", San Fran's seediest of neighborhoods, we were greeted not only by a line that was already 10 deep with eager customers, but also a handful of street dwellers and other dubious characters milling around the entrance to the halfway house next door. Having recently been featured on the painfully pedantic food network show, Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives, hosted by who has the be the most annoying person in the world, Guy Fieri, I was weary of what was to come. Needless to say, I would keep an open mind. Inside, Dottie's is a shoe-box - oddly shaped and familiarly cramped. We pounced on an opportunity to sit at the counter and watch the extremely dexterous line cook effortlessly process ticket after order. Our food was up in a jiffy and ridiculously delicious. Aside from the homemade cornbread, joined by a jalapeno jelly that was just insanely full of sweet hot pop, my scramble of chorizo and onions was just begging to be wrapped in the two giant tortillas that were provided. This was easily one of the best breakfast burritos I've ever had, and perhaps the most satisfying given the collection of hot sauces I used to dress it.

Dottie's is a long-standing institution in the Bay Area whose outwardly gritty surroundings and undeniably unrefined charm are perfect complements to food that is down-home, honest, and straight up full of flavor. Many had implored me to get to Dottie's, if nowhere else on my trip - now I know why.

Ours was a fruitful and educational, albeit short, journey through the hills of San Francisco, that allowed me to at the very least, gain an initial whiff of the overall food scene that governs this diverse metro area. Admittedly, I've only managed to nick the surface surrounding a deep and vast culinary world that would take years to navigate, but even so, I left San Francisco with a better idea of what makes this city tick, and its people eat.

It'd be cliche for me to say I left my heart in San Francisco, but let's just say, there is still unfinished business to tend to with regard to the culinary treats of the City by the Bay - and for that reason, I'll most certainly be back.

-The Ubereater

The Ubereater Goes International: Barcelona, Spain

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 10:20:00 +0000

Though it's been more than a month since I returned from the Iberian peninsula, my 7 day stint in Barcelona remains wildly fresh in my mind. In fact I think about the beautiful capital of Catalonia and the time I spent there, almost every day. Weeks later I find myself still reeling from painfully persistent, neck-burning Spanish sun while strangely mesmerized by the intoxicating stink of Jamon and Cider that has seemingly permanently permeated my skin. I can smell the memories.

It then probably goes without saying, that our week in Barcelona was a gluttonous one.

The culinary vagaries of this Catalonian crusade are, and always will be, embroidered securely to the tensile strings of my heart. Barcelona is a gorgeously honest ancient city whose dizzying labyrinth of narrow streets and cock-eyed alleys connected by expansive Plazas and Squares, in concert, breath life into the countless neighborhoods and districts that manage the pulse of this of this Mediterranean metropolis. Personality runs rampant here, be it by way of fashion, art, or most interestingly for me, food.

My initial impression of the food of Barcelona, and thus Catalonia, is that it is a cuisine of consistency in almost all respects. The streets are replete with tapas bars and bodegas that run the gamet in terms of size, scope, and cleanliness. Every corner proudly claims anchorage from a small bar, sometimes well kept, other times not, offering a standard array of Spanish, or more appropriately, Catalan, fare. There is no question that in terms of the food here, variety mostly lies in the "where" and not in the "what". This is not by any means a criticism of the cuisine, but more an observation that, if anything, is a testament to the powerful culinary tradition that surrounds and defines this ancient culture. At the same time, it is undoubtedly true that Barcelonins' love for tapas need not compromise their predilection for everything else from Snails to the middle-eastern favorite Doner Kebab.

Spanish cuisine is an enigma, and a tasty one at that.

So here are some of the highlights.

Bar Celta
First off, one of the first realizations you will come to in Barca is that 95% of the tapas bars share more or less the same menu. This is not at all a bad thing, but something you learn after only a few hours and most definitely an element to which you must acclimate yourself. Essentially, all tapas bars offer a common collection of classic Spanish small plates, one of the most popular being Patatas Bravas, the quintessential small plate consisting of fried or boiled salty potatoes topped with spicy red pepper sauce or tangy aoli, or sometimes both. There are as many versions of this dish as there are faces of Michael Jackson, which elucidates my point about Spanish cuisine being consistently variable as well as variably consistent. Philosophically speaking or not, the best Patatas Bravas I encountered on the trip are to be found at Bar Celta (Below) on Calle Merce in the Gothic Quarter. Unlike so many versions that feature potatoes that are way too crispy or just completely sogged with heavy, creamy aoli, Bar Celta's was a boiled version, salted perfectly and dressed mindfully with a light red sofrito-type sauce that complemented the potatoes instead of conquering them.

In fact, the highlight of our first day was without question our late night meal at Bar Celta, a small, bustling L-shaped tapas bar on busy Calle Merce that in addition to its 'Bravas, offered up some of the best tapas we would have all week. Included in that list is the Pulpa (Octopus) (below left), which is grilled briefly and served with nothing more than a moderate dusting of coarse sea salt and paprika. Another popular small plate found almost everywhere in the city are the Pimientos del Padron (below) right, Celta's version being one of the best I had while in Barca. These small, thumb-sized peppers are seared in a super-hot pan until wilted and then hit with a heavy dose of sea salt. Though generally on the mild side, these little bastards are unpredictably hot - in that every now and then you'll get one that will bite back, which is why I fell in love with pods from the very beginning. Celta's were soft, slightly crisped on the outside, and salted to the 9's, the way they should be.

Additional favorites from Bar Celta were the Grilled Cuttlefish (Below left), Croquetas de Jamon (below right), and the uber-ubiquitous, but strangely satisfying Pan Con Tomate (below center), Spain's classic offering of toasted bread rubbed with tomato and garlic. Painfully simple as well as painfully addictive.

Los Caracoles
After a couple food-filled days marked by bocadillos (sandwiches), bottomless patatas bravas, piles of pimientos, and baskets and baskets of pan con tomate, I began to wonder whether the Spanish table possessed room only for the almighty tapa. I realized that tapas will forever represent the backbone of Spanish culinary tradition, but this is a people as convivial as it is proud of its millenia-old heritage, and thus too vibrant and excited about life to take solace merely in its love for a thin slice of cheese on a piece of bread. There had to be something more - and at Los Caracoles, I found it.

Situated on the corner of one of Barcelona's busiest sections of the Gothic Quarter, Los Caracoles is a narrow, sub-terranean restaurant, packed with tourists and locals alike, that takes its name from its signature offering, Caracoles, which is the spanish word for snails, better known in the states by its French name Esargot. Equally as popular (and the real reason we checked out this place) is the spit-fire rotisserie chicken served in a variety of ways, cooked atop open flames that you have to pass in order to the get to the dining room. Given the circumstances, it was only right that we sample the Caracoles (below left), which come swimming in a pool of garlic-infused, buttery brown sauce. These alien-looking shell-dwellers taste and feel as you would expect them to - much chewier than clams or mussels (which you shouldn't be chewing anyway), and decidely more elastic than anything I've ever tasted. The Caracoles are all about the sauce, which was excellent to say the least. Nevertheless, I would venture to say most people wouldn't enjoy the texture of these little critters, let alone having to pry them out of their shells. That said, my chicken with garlic, a special for the evening, was an amazing compilation of spit-fire-crisped breast and thigh meat mixed with a tart, vinegar based melange of red peppers, mushrooms, and of course, lots and lots of garlic. This dish was outstanding and a pleasant respite from the all the tapas we'd been consuming over the previous few days, let alone the fact that it struck me as Iberian version of Chicken Murphy, only heavier on the garlic and lighter on the vinegar. Either way, it was one of the best dishes within one of the best meals we enjoyed on the trip.

Notwithstanding its keenness on catering to the tourist crowd (our menu was printed in 7 languages and there was live music), Los Caracoles remains recognizably authentic, and though crowded and loud, and perhaps even a little hectic, its spit fire chicken is as much a treat for homesick Americans as it is a comfort-food treat for native Barcelonins.

Bar Inopia
Much to our pleasure, we realized in the days leading up to the trip that our flat was directly across the street from one of Barcelona's most sought after dining experiences. Featured recently in On the Road Again, the pedantic-dialogue-infused PBS mini-series that follows Mario Batali, the New York Times "Minimalist" Mark Bittman, and anti-American Gwyneth Paltrow on a culinary road trip through Spain, Inopia has risen to fame within Europe's continually ascending culinary community.

I may poke fun, but Mario knows what he's talking about. (Or I wouldn't be eating at Otto 3 times a month like I do now.)

Open stricly for dinner every night at 7, Bar Inopia for the better part of the day, remains shuttered only to display its kaleidoscopic garage door that is in and of itself, wholly impressive. In fact it makes you want to eat there.
Having enjoyed increasingly widespread popularity and an ever-expanding reputation for its mix of traditional and non-traditional tapas, Inopia enjoys Babbo-like demand, drawing hoards of people from all over the world to see just what this swanky, svelte tapas bar is all about.

Unlike Babbo however, here reservations are nowhere to be found, and instead, people begin accumulating outside the "door" shortly before 7 pm. Having claimed the last high-table at 7:15, by 7:30 the place was packed to the gills, and was already managing a small mob gathering outside. At this point, I had fallen victim to an importunate desire to eat - what is going on here?

At the risk of sounding cliche', I can't help but describe everything about Inopia as sexy. The decor, the waitstaff, and most of all the food. Inopia is sleek and trendy, nobody can deny that, but even better, the food is exquisite and clean. Loud and a bid chaotic, Inopia's menu consists of an intriguing mix of uber-classic Spanish small plates and more unconventional creations that stray boldy from the Iberian sensibility entirely.

In terms of the former, we kicked things off with preserved squid packed in olive oil as well as its own ink, served just like that. This is one of the many classic preserved tapas found throughout Spain that come highly revered as some of the best bites in all of the land. It seems counterintuitive to rejoice in something "preserved" or that comes out of a can, but these morsels burst with flavor and and salt-borne texture that I can't begin to describe. Ours consisted of juicy, tender rings of squid sopped in olive oil and draped with thick, semi-sweet ink. Absolutely delicious to say the least.

We continued on with Inopia's take on Pimientos del Padron (below left), which aside from its arachnid presentation, was on par with Celta's version. Additionally, we opted for what at this stage in the trip had become the obligatory Patatas Bravas (Below right), which at Inopia, manifested itself as a neatly constructed patata pyramid, crowned with a rich ketchup red sauce and a dollop of garlic aoli that in my opinion may have been a bit too much. I prefer my 'Bravas' lightly dressed and these weren't that at all, though tasty and filling nonetheless.

Less traditional were the chicken morsels (below left), dusted with a corn-flake type breading and served with mustard. As delicious but far from non-traditional, the Inopia's Croqueta de Jamon were my favorite of all the plates - filled with ham and manchego cheese, lightly covered in breadcrumbs and fried until melted throughout, these bites went seconds after the hitting the table.

Our trip to Spain was probably one of the most extensive culinary experiences of my life to date having afforded me the opportunity to learn about a culture and the food that feeds it in the best way I know how - eating it. It has only been in the last decade or so that Spanish food, and more specifically tapas, has begun to really take hold in the United States. We, as Americans are as open a people as any when it comes to the various victuals of the world, yet it cannot be overlooked that our relationship and perceptions of Spanish food falsely end with tapas. And while we may have inadvertently tapped tapas as the ambassador to all things edible and Spanish in our country, the cuisine of the collection of communities we know today as "Spain" extends far beyond the realm of chorizo and potatoes.

More simply, with my better understanding of Spanish culinary sensisbility comes a more fervent appreciation for the pride and soul with which this country approaches its food. As Americans living in a land of borrowed cuisines, I can only implore anyone and everyone to make the trip to this beautiful country so you can fully comprehend the habits and breath of this unique cuisine.

Don't forget to have a bocadillo and a Cafe Cortado for me while you're at it.

As for you Espana - I'll be back soon.

-The Ubereater

P.S - On the 4th night of our trip we hit Barcelona's largest market, La Boqueria, to buy foodstuffs for a massive homecooked dinner. With famed Jones Sous Chef, known in these parts as The Uberchef, left to design the menu and of course cook it, we ultimately sat down to an unforgettable meal. Here are some pics to show for it:

Panzanella Cataluyna - The Uberchef's Catalan-inspired take on Italian Bread Salad: Green Peppers, Large Tomato Wedges, Red Onion, and Chunks of Manchego mixed with Spanish high-righ bread that is dressed with copious amounts of vinegar at the last minute before serving. Outstanding.

Pan Con Tomate - Our version of this classic (one of my contributions to the meal)

Pimientos del Padron -

Chicken braised in wine with potatoes

Roast beef tenderloin cooked medium rare

Roasted Chicken with garlic and herbs

The Full Spread

The Ubereater Hath Not Gone Anywhere!

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 10:17:00 +0000

Eager Eaters-

I realize you haven't heard much from me lately, so I wanted to shed some light on what I've been chewing on these days and what you can expect to read about in the near future. I may not be posting as much, but that certainly doesn't mean I've stopped eating.

July, like June, has been an unusually busy month for The Ubereater, but the wave of travel, both International and Domestic, has crested and crashed for now, thus allowing me to stop eating and start writing! Having said that, here is a list of what's coming down the pipe:

This week:
The Ubereater Goes International: Barcelona, Spain

Next Week:
A Froggy Day in London - Hopping in and out of Vietgrill
The Ubereater Invades San Francisco and Napa Valley
(Aziza, A16, Rutherford Grill, Auberge Du Soleil)

And Beyond:
Perilla
Continental (Atlantic City) - Jersey Shore Chronicles
Washington Inn and Union Park (Cape May) - Jersey Shore Chronicles
Cafe Cluny

Keep eating and keep reading!

Yours truly-

The Ubereater

It's Time to Give JoeDoe a Go...No?

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 11:42:00 +0000

After a week long journey through Barcelona and a somewhat impromptu business trip to London, June is shaping up to be my busiest, most hectic, and certainly most international month so far this year as the Ubereater. Equipped with oodles of information and new experiences, and now stateside indefinitely, I can focus on a tale originally meant for posting prior to my departure for Espana weeks ago:

"The Ubereater has to go!"

"We absolutely loved it."

"Amazing!"

When I first caught wind of East Village newcomer JoeDoe, it was by way of rave review from family and friends, who, with rather bumptious zeal, implored Meghan and me relentelessly to check out this downtown newcomer at our earliest convenience.

In fairness, and justifiably so, I often consume recommendations with deliberate focus and self-awareness. Experience has taught me that discrediting a recommendation, solicited or otherwise, is presumptuous; experience has also taught me that crediting a recommendation unwittingly is indiscriminate.

So with open minds and clear heads, Meghan and I headed East - it was time to give JoeDoe a go - no?

If you're anything like me, then you will immediately find JoeDoe's look and feel to be quite warm and cozy. The space is longer than it is wide, but allows for the full bar on one side and the row of tables on the other to share the space swimmingly. There is a decidedly earnest early 20th century vintage charm to the dining room, clad with a beautiful mahogany bar and a tastefully decorated brick wall. From the small kitcheonette in the back, Ming Tsai disciple Chef/Owner Joe Dobias, a tall, cap-hatted, line-backer of a guy, steers the ship with unwavering focus, while partner in business and life, Jill, manages the commotion on the Bow. Together, on its maiden voyage through some of Manhattan's murkiest, most unpredictable culinary waters, JoeDoe forges ahead - full-bore and with a purpose.

As I understand it (especially having now eaten there twice), the menu follows not one particular theme or cuisine, but is more a gallimaufry of gastronomy that showcases Chef Dobias' ability to create interesting and flavorful dishes using strictly locally sourced produce and meat that varies in availability from week to week. To that end then, the menu at JoeDoe is constantly changing, reshaped more often than not to reflect the bounty provided by surrounding purveyors and organic farms from Upstate and beyond, making for an eating experience that is entirely ephemeral and for me, quite exciting.

Apart from its self-evolving nature, or perhaps because of it, the menu is limited, but remains viable at the same time. Each assigned poetic names, a handful of appetizers and entrees employ a basket of ingredients familiar to the American table, in a variety of ways that range from quasi-traditional to unabashedly intriguing. We started off on the right foot with the Fresh Greens with Beet Dust, Flatbread, and Garlic Cream Cheese. This was an adventure for all the senses, starting with right-out-of-the-ground, al dente farm-fresh greens showered with nuggets of dried beet, partially canopying a expressionistic shmear of dastardly delicious home-made garlic cream cheese. Though delightful on its own, the garlic cream cheese was exploited to the fullest when given a swipe with a handle of the accompanying warm, crispy flatbread, seasoned liberally with salt and pepper. This was an outstanding start to our meal, if not a clear representation of what JoeDoe food is all about. Simple, fresh, and stimulating.

Though Meghan's food fetters made devouring her flatbread nearly impossible, I was soon distracted by the second appetizer, which I think, in hindsight, captured most effectively the Zeitgeist of pure JoeDoe. A first for me, my Corazon (below) arrived as large cubes of beef heart resting comfortably in a pungent tomatillo-based sauce of sorts, and topped with a bundle of tart spears of pickled rhubarb. Though historically my relationship with organ meat (known as the "fifth quarter" in culinary parlance) has been non-existent, something about this dish drew me in. The husky, dark, almost sanguineous chunks of "corazon", tasted unlike any protein I've had yet. Neither familiarly beefy, nor gamey, nor ferric as many often describe these functioning parts, instead, these morsels of myocardium were pleasingly crispy on the outside while surprisingly nimble and tender on the inside; apt to tear apart in a way that is reminiscent of properly cooked brisket. Of course the comparison to any sort of traditional beef product ends here. Much more commanding than "beef" of any cut or persuasion, this flesh, was dense, bold, and reassuringly resilient - and why shouldn't it be? This is the flesh that gives life! The novelty of this dish fell victim to its honesty as something totally different and completely delicious - and for that reason, among many others, I thoroughly enjoyed it.

For the main course, our hangar steak (below) was a tender one, cooked medium rare to perfection, sliced on the bias, and joined by a smattering of house-made sauce concocted from raisins among other things, to mimic, better yet, emulate, a classic homemade steak sauce. A sky scraping heap of fresh greens stoutly guards a trio of Chef Joe's Pastelicos (2nd below), salaciously sumptuous balls of creamy herbed mashed potatoes christened with a crisp-fried exterior. These were delicious and as equally welcoming of that homemade steak sauce to which we had taken such a liking. This was a plate bursting with bovinity and screaming of freshness, giving credence to every major food group the way we all envision but don't usually experience in reality. This, was a wonderful dish indeed.

Making my way up the food group pyramid at this point, and determined to finish things off properly, we hewed to the special request of family, and made it a point to check out the Wildflower Honey Custard Dessert. This unique offering paired slightly solidified custard with another, less buxom flatbread that wore a laquer of salty peanut crumbs and powdered sugar. The custard, an incredibly light, almost weightless cream, quite canorously coincided with its flatbread sidekick, which packed a rice-cake-like snap when broken down to be slathered with the lovely custard. As satisfying as it had described to us, we couldn't have thought of a better way to finish this stellar eating experience.

Having enjoyed this particular meal so much, we decided to come back with friends a couple weeks later to get a better feel for the rest of the menu, which was we expected, and much to my pleasure, had changed. The table selections that night ran the gamut, from Salmon to Duck to Sausage - all of which was prepared with the attention to detail and insight we had expected based on our first experience a couple weeks earlier. Good times and good food were had by all!

Unequivocally, I am a firm supporter of JoeDoe and the work of its eponymous founder and his family. I have tried, during my still short tenure as the Ubereater, to maintain an M.O. that revolves around highlighting and exposing New York City eateries and the people behind them. That is, those people who succeed in serving quality food with dogmatic consistency. As haute critics and nincompoops alike exercise their rights to cavil and complain as they always will, myself being one of them at times, I similarly retain my right to remain steadfast in my stance that JoeDoe is a restaurant whose good looks and even better food are overshadowed only by its potential to completely bust up the quiet block on which it sits. It is my hope that the hearts and minds behind JoeDoe remember that only the roars of disagreeability can drown out the harkening voice of its wonderful food, and amiable aesthetic, which does, and always will, speak for itself.

In the meantime, I'll continue to heed the call of JoeDoe.

JoeDoe (map it)
45 E 1st St
(212) 780-0262

Food: A
Service: A
Ambiance: A
In a thought: "An impressive meal that is visibly and palatably thoughtful."

Ruby's Burgers are the Gem of NoLita

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 10:35:00 +0000

As far as burgers go in the city, the landscape has more or less been mapped in its entirety thanks to a dogmatic (and often painfully unforgiving) blogosphere that proudly perpetuates New York City's obsession with the almighty hamburger. From the cult craze of the Shake Shack, to the unrefined charm of J.G. Melon, and everything in between, you would think it's more than fair to say that this city has addressed, reviewed, hyped, dismissed, scoffed, overanalyzed, and dastardly decried every burger there is to be had between the Hudson and East Rivers, from Inwood to Battery Park City.

Who isn't sick of reading about Pat LaFrieda and his famed "Black Label" brand? How many more Minetta Tavern reviews can we possibly stomach?

In essence, at this stage of the game, this brazen bastion of burger freaks has made it a point to let no bun go unflipped - if you will - leading itself to believe that the best, the tastiest, the most enjoyable patties have already been exposed, and thoroughly at that. The frontier hath been conquered so to speak, pilfered of any remaining value, and worse, mystery. Or hath it?

You would think anyway, but when my recent culinary crusades led me to a small, cozy little bodega of burgerdom in Nolita known as Ruby's Cafe, I knew I had struck gold.

Quietly pitched on a semi-hipster strip of Mulberry Street North of the Little Italy madness, Ruby's shares a rather docile block with higher end boutiques and soigne shoe stores. Around the corner from Lombardi's on one end, and a stones throw away from the tepid cesspool of superficiality anchored firmly at the corner of Lafayette and Prince at the other, Ruby's keeps a low profile on a notably untarnished portion of Mulberry Street.

Beyond its entrance-way and double-door windows that open up to the sidewalk, 5 picnic benches occupy 90% of the space, maximizing every last square inch available, and making for a snug fit for those bigs guys like me. A small, kitchenette in the back is where the magic happens, while the white-washed brick wall, and high-ceiling add character to an already personable space that is anything but small in the simplest sense of the word.

First and foremost, Ruby's is undoubtedly Aussie-run, something you'll learn right away from the accent of your server (which are all extremely friendly by the way.) The menu offers a limited selection of starters, pasta dishes and salads, all of which sounds good, but never enough to pull me away from the burger. That is why I come to Ruby's...for the burger.

The menu features 5 different burgers of varying moxy whose catchy nicknames smack loudly of Aussie charm and sensibility. Consistent among all 5 choices, and one of the greatest aspects to Ruby's burger, is the light and crispy grill-kissed ciabatta bread employed to coddle this wonderful creation The Bronte (below), which is Meghan's favorite (and mine too before I had the Whaleys), manifests itself as an oblong meat patty, topped with two slices of cheese, lettuce, tomato, and Ruby's signature sweet chili sauce, a vastly popular accoutrement in the Land Down Under that I can't seem to get enough of here in the State. All nestled neatly together on a delicious ciabatta roll, this is one of the best bites in all of Manhattan, no questions asked.

Though by no means the biggest burger I've ever had (far from it in fact), it is quite possibly the most intriguing and exciting on the palate. The ground beef, flecked heavily with bits of onion and parsley and herbs, is almost like meatloaf in texture and appearance, remaining sturdy and unified while remarkably tender. This, in tandem with fresh ciabatta that falls apart in your mouth and a heavy-handed dose of sweet chilli, makes for one of the best burgers I've had in the city.

Even more adventurous, and unequivocally pure Australian, is the Whaleys (not pictured), which boasts a pleasantly perplexing combination of beet, pineapple, lettuce and tomato, that is so regally topped off with a fried egg for good measure. Odd but awesome, and addicting from the beginning.

These are the types of burgers cravings are made of.

Without any question at all, Ruby's makes one of the best burgers in the city. And while I can almost guarantee purists near and far will go out of their way to reprimand me for making such a claim, I really couldn't care less. Puritanical guidelines and fusty rules are for the weak-minded, the nettlesome nebbishes of the hamburger world that spend their days debating ideal fat percentages and bun to burger ratios instead of venerating a burger like Ruby's for its ability to charm us with its wanton authenticity. You'd think such a heady crowd would embrace one of philosophy's oldest, and simplest adages, "It is what it is."

And what it is - is outstanding.

Furthermore, as an out and out burger fanatic and full-fledged carnivore, I am increasingly more inclined to celebrate the new and the unique as opposed to redundantly reveling in the old and revered. Ruby's burgers represent a path froward the meritocracy of a rickety hamburger hierarchy stabilized by tradition, and instead, toward a new day where flavor, format, and frivolity rule the realm.

Grab a burger at Ruby's and see if you don't agree mate.

Ruby's Cafe (map it)
219 Mulberry St
New York, NY 10012
(212) 925-5755

Captain Tim's Low-Country Boil: The South at Its Best

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Thu, 28 May 2009 12:00:00 +0000

Two weeks ago, I ventured south of the Mason Dixon line to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina's feisty, ever-expanding resort town that over the years, has become somewhat of hot-spot for all walks of life. Whether it be a cavalcade of Harley Davidson bikers looking to re-energize over a cold one, young families hankering for some precious beach time with their little ones, or querulous bachelors desperate to shed their hyperactive city lives for the torpor of the South Carolinian heat, Myrtle Beach manages to offer something for everybody.

And of course, it goes without saying, that in this "something for everybody", inheres a sprawling landscape of eateries that strive to satisfy every culinary craving under the sun. That's the good news. The bad news is that the majority of the eating options in Myrtle Beach exists in the form of national and regional restaurant chains that are anything but local. Obviously as the Ubereater this deeply saddens me mainly because as a true fanatic for the cuisine of the American South (I dream about biscuits weekly), it pains me to see this sort of mass commercialization in region of the country so famously proud of its roots.

I say this not as a gauche gastronomic gadfly looking to belittle the eating habits of this area, but more pointedly as an avid eater and true culinarian perplexed by the irony at play here. In fairness, I do realize this sort of development is not without purpose, and was most certainly a function of the local demand. There was a need - and the community met that need. I'm not out to vilify the Landry's and the Pizzeria Uno's of the world - these are legitimate establishments that are quite popular throughout the country - but it is extremely difficult for me to justify eating at these sorts of places when I travel to a part of the country that is otherwise teeming with timeless food treasures.

All this said, after some thorough investigation, it became clear that the if I were truly determined to get my hands on some classic southern grub, I would have to leave the flashing neon lights of Myrtle , and head to one of its less crowded neighboring communities - North Myrtle Beach to the north, or Murrell's Inlet to the south.

Having resigned myself to knowing that an authentic culinary tradition of the South was all but beyond my reach at this point, and realizing this trip was supposed to be about celebrating my friend's dangerously dwindling Bachelordom and not my quest for the perfect shrimp and grits, I accepted our less than ideal situation and moved on.

Little did I know that one of the best southern food experiences of my life would take place on a sail boat docked in a South Carolina coastal channel less than a mile from the Atlantic Ocean.

It was the idea of our group's ring lead to charter a boat for the day to enjoy the open water and if nothing else, simply get away from it all. We enlisted Myrtle Beach Sailing Charters, owned and operated by Captain Tim Hamilton, to navigate the complex network of narrow winding waterways that form the Carolinas' extensive channel system which slowly segues into the mighty Atlantic.

Included in our 6 hour tour, along with knocking back a few beers, basking in the sub-tropical sun, and listening to the feel-good rhythms of Bob Marley and Jimmy Buffet, was a hearty lunch to be prepared by our trusty skipper, who, as I would later learn, is as much as a chef as he is a captain.

After hopping overboard for 45 minutes or so, Captain Tim summoned us back to the boat. Our lunch, evidently, was ready. After finagling our way back on to the vessel, grateful I didn't break anything along the way, (it's always more difficult that it looks), we were greeted by a set table that contained no indication of what was being served.

Hungry, wet, sun-drunk, and still detoxing from the night before, I literally squealed like a pig when our jolly skipper announced that for lunch we would be enjoying his Low-Country Boil, a central pillar of the pantheon of the Southern table that has come to represent what I love so much about the food traditions of this part of the country. Much like Chili in the Southwest and Chowder in New England, Low-Country Boil is more art than science - a method more than a recipe if you will, that involves boiling in seasoned water and in proper sequence, potatoes, corn, sausage and either craw fish or shrimp, until amply cooked. The key here is the timing of the cooking, since each warrants vastly different cooking times.

This steaming pot of goodness is then drained and served family style, accompanied by drawn butter and hot sauce. It is a messy, dirty orgy of consumption that can be draining, but always satisfying. For an Ubereater, it is an out-of-body experience.

Captain Tim's version arrived on a gargantuan plate as a steaming hot mountain of low-country love, built with perfectly boiled, silky starchy new potatoes, ultra-sweet cobs of corn, massive hunks of juicy savory sausage, falling-off-the-bone chicken legs, and of course oodles and oodles of giant shrimp pulled from local waters. Serve with drawn butter, hot sauce (Texas Pete!), and some old bay seasoning, I was in my glory.

We attacked this heaping mound of deliciousness with reckless abandon, leaving no morsel unmolested and essentially clearing the plate in minutes. Like a pack of rabid dogs, we fought, albeit passive-aggressively over the last few tidbits of love on the plate ("You sure you don't want it?")
In the end, covered in butter and hot sauce, and self-dusted with old bay, we successfully devoured more than 3 pounds of shrimp, among all the other goodies camping out on the plate.

This was not only the best meal of the weekend, but one of the best meals I've had this year. As I told Captain Tim, and the rest of the guys that day, there could not have been a better meal awaiting our return from the water. Absolutely and utterly delicious, and entirely fulfilling in terms of both mind and body.

I want to thank Captain Tim for the wonderful time we had that day. As a skipper alone, his hospitality and genuine interest in making sure we were enjoying ourselves was quite appreciated. As a South Jersey-native, I like him even better, but more important, as a chef, his ability to make an already exceptional trip, even better with authentic, local, made-from-the-heart food, embodies the kind of experience I had hoped, and finally did, get, while in South Carolina. This is a true testament to the South's pride in their food, best exemplifed by Captain Tim's poigant mantra towards the culinary arts:

"Just get great ingredients, and don't f$%# it up!"

Can't argue with you there.

Thankfully, and as is usually the case, my culinary adventure to Myrtle was not all for naught, once again proving that beneath the veil of modernity, there will always rest a rich layer of culinary bedrock that will forever thrive on tradition, love, and an honest devotion to lovely food.

Myrtle Beach Sailing Charters

Bar Carrera: Getting to the Bottom of Tapas

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Fri, 22 May 2009 11:25:00 +0000

Let it be known that in 7 days, I will be getting my international travel on when I embark upon a week-long journey to Catalonia with Meghan, my brother the Uberchef, and 3 of my cousins, each much more worldly than myself. Though I plan to the spend the lion's share of this Iberian itinerary on a gastronomic gallivant of sorts in, out, and along the labyrinth of Barcelona's millenia-old streets, I have every intention of leaving the confines of the city proper at least once in order to explore the countryside. Be it along La Rambla, or at the foothills of Basque country, I can most certainly assure you that every waking moment of the day I'll be taking part in some sort of activity that relates to eating food and lots of it.

This should be no surprise coming from the guy who forwent a 30 minute wait at the Sistine Chapel so he could quaff Campari and crush multiple panini on an afternoon-long cafe crawl at the behest of perfect spring day in Rome.

Sorry Michaelangelo...there's always next time.

So as I conjure up ways to skip out on seeing the priceless architectural influences of Gaudi' and the like for some super-salty cured meat and hours-old fresh seafood doused in garlic and oil, I thought what better way to prepare myself for this upcoming journey to the land of the almighty Bocadillo than to dedicate my next post to an indisputably charming tapas bar. A tapas bar that is steadily making its way to the top of my Best of 2009 list.

I speak of Bar Carrera.

With its flagship East Village location enjoying a vibrant business, the masterminds behind Bar Carrera (and its predecessor Bar Veloce) made the wise decision about a year ago, to sprout a second location on the West Village corner of MacDougal and West Houston Street - mere yards from my humble, falafel joint-flanked abode.

Eager to celebrate my 28th birthday, Meghan and The Uberchef joined me at this titillating tapas bar for what would become one of this year's most unforgettable meals.

First off the vibe here is totally relaxed, made wholly possible by its Houston street entrance which slides open to introduce the restaurant to the sidewalk, creating an open-air dining experience that is perfect for a cool summer's night. Inside, a tiled wall on one side does its best to capture the scarce light that can be had from the votive candles that adorn the high-tables which run the length of the narrow space. To your right a handsome bar defends a charming exposed brick backdrop as well as a fully stocked wine shelf, anchored in the front by a large flat-screen TV that often has the Godfather Part 1 (or 2) on mute, This is simply outstanding in my book. Who wouldn't want to see a young Vito Corleone whack Don Fanucci at the San Gennaro festival while noshing on some thinly-sliced chorizo?! I know I would.

And speaking of food...

We commenced the meal with a pitcher of one of my favorite drinks in all of the City, Kalimotxo, a sanguine Basque concoction of red wine and cola, in what I purport to be about a 60/40 split, garnished with a fresh cinnamon stick that is as much there for flavor as it is appearance. Neither terribly tannic, nor troublesomely carbonated from the cola, this is a refreshing alternative to heavy reds that can slow you down on an evening when you need to be at your best. And we can't have that can we.

As the birthday boy my guests were so kind as to allow me to do most of the ordering, which at Bar Carrera is easy since you are leather-faced Nancy Pelosi-insane not to get 1 of everything - at the very least.

We began with the Chorizo (below), a sprawling plate of spicy, fat-flecked coins of the classic Spanish sausage. Salty and spicy and gone before you we knew it; there is no better way to whet the palate for what's to come.

As is customary with any tapas experience, the plates arrive in no particular order, and in a continuous flow. In this case, it was the Pan Con Tomate , that peculiar second cousin to Bruschetta that employs a slightly toasted brioche to bear the weight of a bold yet delicate relish that featured perfectly stewed tomatoes, graced with copious amounts of powdered olive oil. This is without question a must order and easily one of the plates you'll remember at the end of the night.
With our engines started we proudly dug into the paprika-dusted goat cheese (below right) which was accompanied by a remarkably delicious, oven-warm baguette for easy dipping. Neither complicated, nor presumptuous in presentation, this particular plate is Carrera's simplest, and yet easily one of its most popular -with much thanks to the bread of course.

Reveling in the simplicity of quality cheese and bread, out came one of the night's stars - the Patatas Bravas. Probably on every tapas bar menu in the country at this point, this classic dish has somewhat become the poster child for the overall tapas experience in this country, having quietly infiltrated the American palate quite successfully over the last 10 years while managing to avoid a commercial raping and pillaging of its authenticity a la Sushi - so far anyway. Like anything else you plan on putting in your mouth, popularity should beget quality, not compromise it, and while every establishment has its own take on this Spanish staple, Bar Carrera's is the best I've yet to encounter. As a mound of plump triangular morsels of buttery smooth potatoes fully clad in a crunchy, crispy layer of salty goodness, the Patatas Bravas is the kind small plate you wish was big - very big. A wonderful display of starchy stardom, made even better when dipped into Carrera's spicy, paprika-loaded aioli that is nothing short of addictive.

If you don't like these Patatas Bravas, then I can't help you.
Not letting up, we shifted our focus to the albondigas, or "meatballs" (below), which in this case consisted of hearty spheres of grassy lamb resting in a precariously precious puddle of tomato jus that was somewhere between a thick ragu and a rendered brodo. Four lovely slices of the baguette come to rescue in terms of affording you to chance to get every last bit of that wonderful broth off the plate. God only knows the meatballs were long gone before that.

In the interest of serving my self-righteous birthday need to order everything the menu, we were next graced with the Chorizo Stew (below). This hearty, robust tomato-based elixir was jam-packed with bulbous bits of zingy chorizo and garlic that made for a great topping for the ever so crucial bread with which it comes. If you like Giambotta, you'll absolutely love this.
Getting a bit more decadent with things, the Pork Belly (below), caramelized with juniper sugar, was succulent, sweet, and salty all at once.
Near the top of the tapas Totem pole, perhaps even above Patatas Bravas, sits Gambas con Ajillo, or Shrimp with Garlic. Best described as the Spanish Tapas world's take on Shrimp Scampi, Carrera's version wisely takes few, if any liberties in adding its own flare, and instead does right by its classic form: incredibly fresh shrimp flash sauteed in garlic and oil, then doused in that same oil, and of course more garlic. Teeming with minced garlic and ample amounts of oil for the always obligatory dipping, this plate makes my top 5 of the night.

After a couple lamb meatball plates that were tasty and somewhat effective in numbing my indifference towards lamb in general, came the final two plates of the night, which also happened to be the best 2 plates of the night.

First, the Jamon Bocadillo (below), is a sensual, almost erotic combination of paper-thin cured ham and cheese on a thoroughly buttered, semi-sweet brioche bun. Warmed through just enough to encourage full-on intercourse between the cheese and the ham, this sandwich (you actually get 2) is not only one of the best plates at BC, but probably one of the best bites in all of the city - especially at $6. And while I rarely exercise such literary liberalness and coronate anything truly "craveworthy", the Jamon Bocadillo at Bar Carrera is one of those culinary treasures that is always on my mind. It both aids me in getting through the morning while simultaneously making my afternoon seem endless.

As heartbreaking, and even more lascivious in layout is the Egg in a Blanket (below), a yolky, oven-kissed package of serrano ham, egg, and manchego cheese nestled comfortably in a crunchy mini-brioche. I unconditionally adore this particular dish, first for its complex collective flavor drawn from simple ingredients, and second for its incredibly varied texture that ranges from crunchy to smooth to crunchy again in one bite.

Notwithstanding my upcoming trip to Barcelona, Bar Carrera, as its own entity, in its own light, has come to represent what today's New York dining scene is all about for me. Salty - sweet - spicy - delicious and affordable. Furthermore, my birthday dinner, which was my 3rd trip to this wonderful establishment, fully affirms my feeling that Bar Carrera is one of those eateries where its identity is transcended by its genuineness - where an eater, or better yet, an Ubereater, can appreciate quality food, that is made with the utmost of care. Thankfully, the BC folks have stayed true to the Spanish tradition and chosen to highlight and promote this wonderful age old culinary experience as opposed to bastardizing it. For that, I am greatly appreciative.

My affinity for Bar Carrera runs much deeper than my qualifying it as a superb tapas bar (though it is), in that I am wholeheartedly flattered by the notion that a handsome tapas bar in Greenwich Village won't just have you pining for Patatas Bravas, but urge you to realize that nothing tastes better than honoring the tradition of an ancient culture.

Though the Jamon Bocadillo and the Egg in a Blanket do come awfully close.

Bar Carrera (map it)
Food: A
Service: A (you check off what you want at the table and bring it to the bartender)
Ambiance: A (romantic, charming, and relaxing)
I love swine - flu or not!

This Smith is One of a Kind

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Tue, 05 May 2009 03:40:00 +0000

What is so appealing to me about the Village, and why I enjoy living here so much, is that it is a neighborhood of nested neighborhoods that can change over the course of a block. Easily one of the best examples of this is my street - that is - MacDougal Street. Noted as much for its notoriously shady pipe shops, raucous bars, and late-night eats, as it is celebrated for its 60's Beatnik heritage, this modern-day hotbed of collegiate debauchery is what I consider to be downtown Manhattan's very own Bourbon Street. The vibe is young, gritty, and often times, rather dirty.

Yet just beyond its southerly intersection with equally as storied Bleecker Street, there exists a a very different MacDougal - a MacDougal Street that, void of the all-too-near infectious scourge of vespertine violence and indiscriminant immaturity, has managed to thrive in an environment of pure civility. And there, lives a wonderful American restaurant by the name of Smith's.

Prompted by an article I read online about the newest recession-themed dinner deals in the city, I learned that Smith's has recently begun serving a Chicken Dinner special Monday and Tuesday nights for a fixed price of $35. Hungry, eager to try something new, and glad to have found another restaurant that will satisfy Meghan's eternally insatiable need for Roasted Chicken, we set out on our 50 yard journey down MacDougal Street.

Sitting at the end of a semi-European-themed row of eateries that line the western side of the street on the south side of Bleecker, Smith's is a quiet confident bookend to a street that is, if anything, outrageously bipolar.

The space is unequivocally long and narrow, with a tight cluster of tables and chairs in the front that gives way to a slightly wider dining area in the back that has been neatly outfitted with handsome wooden booths. Votive candle-lit tables add a traditionally romantic feel that complements quite well the sleek dark floors and intriguing mirrored ceiling. This place is as classy as it is comfortable, and refreshingly unpretentious. We all know how I feel about pretentious.

Still, I must wonder whether its mastery in geometry will overshadow its gastronomy.

Having come with a goal in mind, we went ahead and ordered the Chicken Dinner for 2, which, for a mind-blowingly fair $35, affords you a large salad, a whole roasted chicken accompanied by a side of sauteed mushrooms and cheesy polenta, and a bowl of Chocolate Mousse to cap the meal. Given the fact that most deals of this nature in New York are valueless pranks that force well-intentioned customers to accept laughably meager portions for a marginally lower price, we were justifiably wary yet hopeful as always.

After noshing on a helping or two of some tasty olive bread and hummus (above), the salad arrived as a colorful, multi-textural mix of various lettuces, grape tomatoes, zucchini, radish, and shaved carrots, dressed modestly in a house vinaigrette. Though not groundbreaking in terms of concept, its fresh, cold, crisp respect for seasonal veggies makes this a great way to start things off.

The timing here is undoubtedly noteworthy, as evident in the arrival of the Bird and his almighty sides just moments after finishing the salad. Piping hot and liberally seasoned, this even-keeled hodge-podge of tender and moist Oyster, Crimini, and Chanterelle 'shrooms (below left) is pleasingly al dente and thankfully unscathed by any kind of overpowering broth. If you truly love the earthy, terrestrial umph of the 'Shroom, this side will more than certainly satisfy your palate. Similarly satiating, yet far more decadent, is the creamy polenta (below right), wearing a sturdy oven-borne crust that proudly, albeit temporarily, guards its cheesy, silky sweet insides. As far as polenta goes, this is one of the better I've had in a long time. Suffice it to say I was already impressed with the meal and I hadn't tasted the Bird yet.

And how about that Bird!? The star of the show here of course was the Bird, or more specifically, a our chicken, which arrives as a sizzling, crackling, pile of poultry, seconds-out-of-the-oven and seemingly sprouting giant sprigs of rosemary from every orifice imaginable. The white and dark meat was extremely moist thanks to a divinely seasoned skin uber-infused with the woodsy aroma and coniferous zing of fresh rosemary in tandem with a heavy-handed (and much welcome) dose of salt and pepper. Plump and buxom, tender and more than willing to come off the bone, never mind the recession dinner special, by itself this is one of the best roasted birds you'll find anywhere in the city.

In awe of not only the quantity, but even more so the quality of the food here, we barely had a chance to fully digest the unprecedented value before the gargantuan bowl of Chocolate Mousse gently touched down between us on the table.

It can't be.

Though not usually keen on dessert, as a part of the $35 dinner, I couldn't help but see whether they'd go through the motions on the last leg here, or wrap things up with a bang. Not surprisingly, the latter was true, as we went on to enjoy a jaw-droppingly deep dish of frigid, yet smooth and creamy chocolate mousse.

It probably goes without saying that that $35 Chicken Dinner at Smith's is one of the best deals in the city, period. In fact, the term "Chicken Dinner" doesn't even come close to capturing the acuity and rustic elegance that defines the food involved here. From beginning to end, this meal encompasses incredibly well executed, astoundingly delicious food that does not miss a beat. What's most encouraging is that, unlike so many other places, especially in this economy, Smith's has gone out of its way to acknowledge its customers in the most genuine of ways, offering value without foolishly ignoring the most important element of quality. This is a selfless, not to mention undeniably wise approach to not only getting people in the door, but more important, making sure they stay there, and ultimately, come back.

Not long after our initial couple of visits, we were eager to try the regular dinner menu, and we did just that on a recent Friday night. It was time we try the rest of Smith's on for size. The Kansas City Rib platter, a special for the night (below) is a heaping stack of sinisterly salted, falling-off-the-bone pork ribs sprinkled with deep fried jalapenos and accompanied by bread-crumb-crusted mac and cheese. As a devout disciple of cooking things low and slow, I must say Smith's ribs were right on point, making them the only ribs at this stage in the game that I'd order outside the sacred confines of Hill Country, Blue Smoke and the like - and that's the truth.

Sticking with the protein theme, Meghan's Bohemian Steak, a 1960's precursor to the Hangar Steak (according to our server), was as tasty as one, boasting a remarkably crispy char, yet remaining tender at the obligatory medium rare level of doneness. A dab of house-made steak sauce (which I adore), and onion-crusted potatoes gave this dish a decidedly retro feel with modern flavor. Another winner.

And for those of you out there like me, who feel absolutely nothing for the painfully ubiquitous, over-produced french fry, I encourage you to opt for the Garlic Fried Potatoes, which is Smith's' take on the classic Steak Fry. Large, skin-on fingers of light golden-fried potatoes, proudly sport a crispy, super-seasoned exterior that fervently contrasts a fleshy, moist, starchy inside that is exactly the texture it should be. Served with a tangy, pickle-flecked remoulade reminiscent of the hallowed Shack Sauce, only thicker, this is the only side of fries I'll be ordering from now on. Impeccably delicious as far as I'm concerned.

If ever I've felt so compelled to recommend a restaurant for its ability to couple culinary honesty and economic courtesy, it would be now - and the restaurant would be Smith's. It's as simple as that.

Smith's
79 MacDougal Street (map it)
phone: 212.260.0100
Food: A (generous portions that offer elevated flavors)
Service: A (attentive, constant, helpful)
Ambiance: A- (the minus because it can get a little hot in there)
In a thought: "One of my top 5 new favorite places of 2009. The kind of spot you can get to once a week."

Sausage and Peppers Done The Ubereater Way

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 11:09:00 +0000

There comes a time in every man's life when he's faced with a decision - that being whether or not venture into the world of conjuring up his very own version of the over-attempted, oft-butchered Sausage and Peppers Sandwich. I'm not talking about the lunch buffet crap you see in Midtown, where rubbery thumb-sized turds, almost fully submerged in a pool of oil, struggle valiantly for surface exposure beneath a canopy of cooked-to-shit onions and peppers that disintegrate to the touch. That's garbage in a pan.

I'm talking about real Sausage and Peppers - done the right way - done the Ubereater way.

In terms of format, I wholeheartedly believe that sausage and peppers belongs on a roll, as a sandwich with a condiment or two, or many. Throughout the years, I've noticed that a good portion of the general public seems to like its Sausage and Peppers as is, sans roll - au naturale if you will. Why? This makes no sense to me. Why does the majority of people I've encountered in culinary circles, fail miserably in seeing the beauty in a perfectly constructed sausage sandwich? There are no truer colors than those of that which a person eats, and people that don't eat sausage sandwiches chill me to the bone, much like people who put ketchup on a hamburger. These are Nancy Pelosi's and the Janet Napolitano's of the culinary world - and they should be avoided at all costs.

It then goes without saying that carefully crafted sausage and peppers should be enjoyed fully jammed into a hollowed-out roll and doused in a series of a crucial condiments (which I'll get to later).

My personal grievances aside, my innate love for Sausage and Peppers usually comes to a head in the dead of summer, when I head south to the Seaside Heights boards (on multiple occasions) to demolish as many of Midway Steak's beautifully crafted version as possible.

As is usually the case, after a long, hot, sweaty summer spent sucking down sausage sandwiches hunched over a garbage can at the Shore, I reluctantly relinquish my infatuation with these babies for another year, thus adjourning another successful summer session by anti-climatically downing 4 or 5 from my favorite stand Lucy's, at the San Gennaro feast in late September.

All that said, this year, I got the itch early, and on the first semi-summer-like day in April, I decided to have my first sausage sandwich of the season.

And now...I'm in love again....

Contrary to how it sounds, I grew up eating my parents' sausage sandwiches almost as often as we got them at the Shore. I was lucky enough to have great parents insofar as they were able to teach me (among other things) the ropes in terms of what a sausage sandwich could, and should really be.

For this I am truly grateful.

I wanted to share my inaugural sausage sandwich for the 2009 season with you below - and talk about what is necessary to make one the right way - the Ubereater way.

First of all, if anyone ever says, "I love sausage, peppers and onions", stop talking to them, turn around, and swiftly walk in the other direction. Why? Because someone unaware that although always included, the "onions" are never overtly mentioned in referring this sandwich undoubtedly hasn't a clue as to what constitutes excellence and what does not. These are most certainly the same people that refer to a plain pie as "cheese pizza".

"We'll have one cheese pizza please." Tell me that doesn't make your blood boil.

That said, the first step is to procure the best quality sausage you can get your hands on. If you're not going to do this, then forget it. All sausage is not the same, and if your sausage and peppers outing starts with a trip to A&P, then why are you even bothering?

Though in the past I've gone with always reliable Faicco's on Bleecker, I've grown quite fond of Pino's on Sullivan St, just south of Houston. At $5.50/lb, this hole-in-the-wall butcher, one of the few remaining gems of the Village neighborhood of yesteryear, serves some of the most affordable high-quality sausage in the city in a much less commercial environment than nearby Faicco's.

Now that the pork side of this equation has been solved, move forward by letting it come to room temperature on the counter. I never, ever put fridge-cold sausage directly on the heat. It doesn't cook properly, and its intestine casing won't crisp properly. Don't do it.

With your sausage coming to room temp, you can turn your focus to the peppers and onions, which should be roughly chopped to 1/4-1/2 inch-wide pieces. I always make it a point to use green bell peppers and white onions, and nothing else. Not Vidalia, not Yellow, not Spanish - just simple white onions. I find they caramelize better, aren't too sweet, and take rather kindly to the floods of the vinegar in which they will ultimately find themselves. I realize many people like to use red bell peppers as well, but I can't help but they have a tendency to bring too much sweetness to the party here and that's not what I'm looking for.

After sweating the peppers and onions out for a good 10-12 minutes on low heat, it is imperative that you begin the "vinegaring" process. Sausage and Peppers does not, and cannot, exist without the liberal use of vinegar. Once semi-soft, I'll braise the concoction in red wine vinegar for another 10 minutes or so, until most of the liquid is absorbed, the onions are opaque, and the peppers are beginning to give up their firmness. After some vigorous mixing, and the obligatory use of salt and pepper, you can take the veggies off the heat and refocus your efforts on that beautiful sausage.

First and foremost, DO NOT butterfly the sausage links and put them face down on the heat. This is the culinary equivalent of wearing socks with TEVA sandals. This behavior is only tolerable just prior to serving, but certainly NOT in the beginning. This will only ensure that your sausage comes off the grill burnt, charred-tasting, and absolutely juiceless.

That said, I like to cook the links to about medium rare, since they will cook from the residual heat after being plated. I know most people will probably disagree with me here in the name of outdated social expectations that rally around the 1950's folklore of trichinosis, and other pork-centric illness crazes of the mid 20th century, but I do believe, that sausage, and all pork for that matter, should be cooked at most until pink in the middle. Too many Americans grew up eating mom's Shake N' Bake pork chops, that tasted as supple and moist as shoe leather. This pains me to no end.

Anyway, once cooked to my liking, I'll dismount the piping hot links into a nice Italian soft roll, with the "meat" of the bread torn out. I am a huge proponent of hollowing out the roll, first because it increases the stuff-capacity of the bread two-fold, and secondly, because without doing this, the soft flesh of the bread will get soggy too quickly.

I will proceed to build my sandwich by starting first with the two pieces of hot sausage, then draping a heavy-handed dose of my vinegar-braised peppers and onions. At this point, I will splash this thing of beauty with more red wine vinegar and hit it with a little bit of black pepper before the ultimate pies de resistance: Tabasco.

The sausage sandwich is not complete without a health dose of my favorite condiment in all of tarnation. (second picture below).

So there it is, Sausage and Peppers Ubereater-style - the right way.

Oh, and don't EVER, EVER put red gravy on your sausage sandwich. EVER. You'll thank me for it.

-The Ubereater

The Uberchef Spotlight: Rethinking Gnocchi Bolognese

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 21:16:00 +0000

As I mentioned in my Buddakan piece a couple weeks back, my brother is a sous chef for the Starr Restaurant Organization, specifically at Jones in Center City Philadelphia. He has worked his way up from line cook to sous chef in a year's time, and has enjoyed great success in influencing the wildly popular menu at Jones.

He has been known to comment on my blog posts under the handle "Uberchef", an apt appellation for a guy who has an incredible vision in the kitchen.

Though he rarely documents his work outside of the restaurant (or inside for that matter), he did manage to do so recently when he compiled a most illustrious take on a classic Italian meat sauce which he concocted in the confines of his own home test kitchen.

He labels his fine work as such: "Gnocchi Bolognese with ground beef, chunk sausage, zucchini, and Brussels sprouts."
He also adds, "Eat your heart out Bobby Flay." You tell him little bro!

The addition of velvety zucchini with the crunchy bitterness of the Brussels, together add a complementary dimension to a dish that can often get lost in a miasma of overpowering meat flavor. Bravo!

I am hoping to continue to highlight the Uberchef's work on a more regular basis going forward. Let me know if you'd like to see more, and if recipes and methods would be of use to you as well. The Uberchef's repertoire is insanely impressive and he is often reinventing and renovating classic dishes to better reflect his culinary sensibilities.

Ti amo fratellino! Buon lavoro!

Defonte's Sandwiches Are My Heroes

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 05:28:00 +0000

Having first expressed my discontent with the New York City sandwich scene back in July, I have since been inclined to continue to lament our City's inability to consistently produce an Italian sandwich that isn't overpriced, or impish, or just downright disgusting.

In a way, I had almost given up on the entire ordeal, accepting the fact that the City simply would not succumb to my innate need for a dynamic combination of meat, cheese, and other Italian goodies on an undoubtedly superior roll. In fact, for all intents and purposes, I had resigned myself to knowing that if I wanted a sandwich of this sort, I'd have to head to my New Jersey homeland to get it.

My longing for a sandwich that embodies culinary greatness by being greater than the sum of its parts, has never waned. Perhaps it this need for synergy that is the bane of my quest for finding greatness in a sandwich in New York. Unfortunately it seems as if the sandwich culture in this town lives at both ends of a spectrum that on one end starts at deplorably inedible, and concludes on the other with the most exquisitely unenjoyable. More clearly, you're either slouched in the corner of a dingy Midtown Subway eating your Friskie's-filled $5 foot-long on your lunch hour, or instead waiting 25 minutes or more on a precious Saturday morning for a $13 designer sandwich at Alidoro that is served with a hearty side of major attitude. The sandwich world is eerily analogous to Capitol Hill, irrationally and inexplicably disgusting on one end to the point of true amazement, and egregiously self-involved and overtly righteous on the other. But where is the happy medium? Where are those moderate sandwiches that understand the need to address the rational importance of quantity while continuing to keep an eye on quality?

Regardless of its inherent flaws, the sandwich-sucking culture here has chosen its favorites and though each appreciable in its own right, neither the haute construction at Alidoro, nor the old world charm at Parisi's, nor the sloppy succulence at the Crosby Connection, succeeds in achieving overall greatness in quality and quantity together. Even Sullivan Street Bakery's Panino, as dream-worthy as it is, remains tragically tiny as far as I'm concerned.

In a city where you can get literally anything and everything, my search for the simple satisfying sandwich produces nothing. Why must we toil amid a world of mediocrity when we live in a city built on a foundation of superiority? When will this end?

The answer is NOW.

Low and behold, my prayers have been answered in the form of Defonte's, Manhattan's savior of all things sandwiched.

Located in the otherwise culinarily challenged Gramercy Park neighborhood, this long-awaited sister outpost to the 87-year old Red Hook landmark location, sits at the corner of 21 street and ever-humming 3rd Avenue. Flanked rather ironically, by a Subway just three doors down, the sandwich spectrum I mentioned above could not be more apparent in this juxtaposition of undisputed brilliance and the appalling incompetence.

This corner shop is long and narrow, with very little seating thanks to a glass-cased counter that runs the entire length of the shop. The ordering process maintains an "every-man-for-himself" feel regardless of how crowded it is, as an army of "sandwichistas" stand at the ready to take your order while the owner big Nicky continually chants, "Who's next!" This is the kind of service I love - friendly, attentive, and reliable - a far cry from the fascist single-file line forming that plagues so many deli's and sandwich depots in the city today.

Already, I knew I was gnawing at the loaf of greatness.

When you are ready to order, the giant wall-mounted blackboard menu behind the counter lists about 23 sandwiches, each uniquely named and given a number that you use to submit your order. Given the menu system and my experiences eating here, it is clear this is not a "build-your-own" format in any way. While usually this would bother me, the sandwich combinations on the menu are so astoundingly astute that it obviates any knee-jerk inclination to add modifiers (aside from adding extra cheese and other assorted accoutrement for a $1.50) In fact, most, if not all of the sandwiches feature no more than 4 ingredients (excluding lettuce, tomato, and onion in some cases). Colorfully endearing names like the "Joey Bishop" and the "Valentino Special" make it that much more difficult to commit to only one, a compelling argument for making recurring visits to this heavenly haven for those hankering for a hero. Roast Pork? Roast Beef? Eggplant Parm? This isn't going to be easy.

For a guy like me, this is the stuff nightmares are made of; so my solution was simple: I would have to make multiple visits. If it were 4 years ago, I would've probably labored through all 4 at once in a painful, stomach-busting act of uncouth disregard for personal hygiene (and impending indigestion), but as a more sage member of the culinary world, I know better than that.

In light of this wisdom, I proceeded to visit Defonte's 4 times over the course of 10 days, each time ordering a different sandwich for maximum enjoyment. Each visit was as memorable and unique as it was delicious, making my effort to fully assess the scope and depth of what these classic Brooklyn-borne sandwiches are all about, somewhat easy for me. The story of my eatinerary, in the order of consumption, was as follows:

Day 1: The Italian Stallion (#3)

As a Defonte's virgin, I thought it best to deflower myself with this traditionally Italian concoction of prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, fried eggplant, and roasted peppers - plus, it may have very well been named after me. My immediate reaction to this behemoth of a sandwich was utter disbelief - the thing was absolutely huge compared to any of the sandwiches I've tackled elsewhere in the city. I was embarrassingly enamored simply by its size, but even more so, by how spot-on delicious this husky hero was. As I would find out to be the case with everything at Defonte's, my maiden sandwich was carefully constructed presenting itself as a neat stacking of prosciutto atop house-made mozzarella atop laser-thin fried eggplant, atop a bed of tart roasted red peppers, cradled effortlessly by what is probably the best sandwich bread I've ever had. The bread, for lack of a better word, is perfect, remaining crispy and sturdy on the outside while simultaneously supple and only slightly absorbent on the inside. The fried eggplant is nothing like what you'd expect, is one of the most remarkable foods I've had in my time here in NYC. Somehow, someway, Defonte's version employs paper-thin slices of eggplant surrounded by a smooth outer crust that makes me wonder if these are battered instead of breaded given their rounded exterior. Either way, the fried eggplant is phenomenal and easily is one of Defonte's most remarkable house-made ingredients (among the many they offer).

In the end the Italian Stallion was not only a wonderful introduction to Defonte's as a general entity, but also a comforting and quite promising indicator that I've finally found a sandwich that respects itself to the fullest, and on all fronts. It's been a long time since I've ooh'ed and ahh'ed when I bit into big sandwich like this - a long time.

Day 2: The Pork Hero (#34)

Coming off my overtly orgasmic experience with the Italian Stallion my first time around, I headed back on Day 2 to extend my love affair with all things Defonte for yet another round. I prepared myself for another toothsome tryst with that bread, and that eggplant. Oh the eggplant. After some quiet deliberation, I went for what I thought to be the most intriguing creation on the menu - the Pork Hero, or as it's known at Defonte's, the number 34. It is with this sandwich that I would come to fully fall in love with everything this classic sandwich shop represents as a member of the culinary community.

As broad-shouldered and rotund as the 'Stallion was, the Pork Hero was an even bigger, more massive work of art. This taller and wider high-rising compilation of thinly-sliced roast pork (cut to order), swiss cheese, that mesmerizing fried-eggplant, and an amazing house-made Giardiniera known as "hot salad" in the Defonte's world, made for one of the best sandwich experiences I've ever had, if not THE best in New York City. The roast pork is juicy, and cooked perfectly, and thankfully not too lean, resting on a blanket of crunchy, semi-bitter fried eggplant, then draped by a modest amount of Swiss cheese that adds a subtle tang to creation. Of course pies de resistance here is the homemade "hot salad" which is both the bed layer as well as the topping to this dazzling display of sandwichdom. This home-made menagerie of coarsely chopped pickled veggies that includes hot peppers, cauliflower, celery, and carrots, is Defonte's take on your typical Giardiniera. Without a doubt, this "hot salad" is one of the best food items I've ever sampled in my entire life and notwithstanding how perfectly it fits into the Pork Hero, would do just as fine as its own entity, if not any other sandwich you could possibly brainstorm. I want to put this stuff on everything. Literally...everything.

Needless to say, my sophomore sitting at Defonte's was a raving success. The Pork Hero was better than I ever could've imagined, offering the perfect combination of crispy, crunchy, tart, and tangy to ameliorate the buttery jus-soaked slices of lovely roasted pork. This sandwich is a MUST, and by far my favorite of the four I tried.

Day 3: The Valentino Special (#2)

Still reeling from my ecstatic experience with the Pork Hero, my third trip saw me order the Valentino Special (#2) which combined fried eggplant, provolone, and roasted peppers. Again, yet another excellent creation, though not nearly as formidable as the Pork Hero or the Italian Stallion; still thoroughly enjoyable nonetheless.

Day 4: The Hot Roast Beef (#20)

On my fourth trip, I opted for the Hot Roast Beef, which from what I understand, has emerged as Defonte's claim to fame in its storied (and long overdue) arrival on the other side of the East River. Knowing I'd be getting homemade roast beef with Defonte's own mozzarella on spectacular jus-sopped bread, I had no qualms whatsoever about the dynamic awesomeness of this hot sandwich. It probably goes without saying at this point, but the house-made, juicy medium-rare roast beef was incredibly tender, flavorful, and pleasingly pink. If anything, I would've liked it to be a bit more salty than it was, but regardless, the tenderness of the vibrantly pink meat against the crunchy eggplant, and the slightly sour fresh mozzy made for one tasty sandwich.

At the end of the day, or in this case, 10 days, I have not a doubt in my mind that Defonte's is the answer Manhattan's ailing sandwich problem. After years of paying too much for too little, die hard sandwich-lovers like myself can finally rest knowing an unquestionably legit sandwich has arrived to calm our nerves and fill our stomachs.

Defonte's is a stand-up establishment, run by genuine people that truly care about the quality of their food. You aren't successful for 87 years any other way. Having eaten here numerous times, I've had the chance to get acquainted with Nicky, the owner, and Liz, the Queen of the operation. Both Nicky's constant running of the shop, and Liz's classic "How ya doin baby?" at the register are but 2 more reasons why Defonte's represents the sort of culinary comradery and dedication to tradition that Manhattan could use much more of these days.

My deeply rooted love for Defonte's and all it represents can be best described in a short dialogue I had with Nicky on my 1st trip in. After inhaling my Italian Stallion, and crunching up the wax paper wrapping with gleeful approval, I took a long hard look at the menu board, and for a short second, seriously considered getting a second sandwich. I blurted to Nicky, "I'd get another one, but I don't want to be a cafone."

A self-effacing comment to which he quickly replied, "That's ok. We like cafone's here."

Need I say more?

In the end, here is my ranking of the sandwiches I've had so far:

1) Pork Hero
2) Hot Roast Beef
3) Italian Stallion
4) Valentino Special

Defonte's (map it)
Food: A (Everything I've had has been of the utmost quality)
Ambiance: A (Unpretentious, neighborhoody, and welcoming - real people serving real sandwiches)
Service: A (Quick check-out, even when it's busy - Nicky and company do a good job to avoid backups thanks to an endless work force and constant attention to who's coming in)
Embedded Value: A (most sandwiches range from $8-$11 , but are well worth it given the size and quality of the ingredients - all in all a fair price for Manhattan these days)
In a thought: "The triumphant savior of Manhattan's deteriorating sandwich culture. If the sandwich scene in Manhattan were today's American society, Defonte's would be Barack Obama, but better - since here, the goods taste even better than they sound."

Big - Bold - Beautiful - BUDDAKAN

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 12:02:00 +0000

For as much we laud New York City's myriad hole-in-the-wall establishments for their subtle, honest (and much appreciated) approach to great food, we can't help but do so against a backdrop of culinary grandiosity. After all, the extreme if not over-indulgent eating experience as we know it today, got its start in this great city - borne out of a New York food culture addicted to excess and pining for prestige.

And it is thanks to the fervent development of the large-scale eating concept that small-scale, 30-seat spots can flourish. These are the two sides to the culinary experience in New York City - the Ying and the Yang of our collective yen for the best of what there is to eat.

While the constant rumblings of the self-enamored blogosphere would have you believe that the proliferation of locavore, uber-organic, shoe-box operations across the 5 boroughs are where it's at in New York City, I would disagree. It's not that I decry the legitimacy of the small joint - how can I when Little Owl's meatball sliders are on my mind daily - it's just that too many, for too long have come to adopt this notion that quality is inversely related to quantity. An assertion that implies that none of us has never eaten at a tiny spot with boring food and abhorrently inattentive service, nor marveled at the unforgettably impeccable experience provided by a triumphant dining establishment.

It just simply isn't true and there may be no better an example than almighty Buddakan.

Easily the most dramatic, most soigne outfit in Philly-based Stephen Starr's eponymous restaurant organization, Buddakan remains one of the most elusive reservations in the city to this date. Let it be known that, my brother, who comments frequently on here as the Uberchef, is a sous chef at Jones, Starr's wildly successful comfort food concept in center City Philadelphia.

So with an insider by my side, and an equally as discerning set of taste buds, we set out to conquer Buddakan, one dumpling at a time.

Sharing the block with Chelsea Market on 9th avenue between 15th and 16th streets, Buddakan is, for a lack of a better term, utterly huge. With its dark slate exterior, minimal signage shrouded in what has to be purposefully insufficient lighting, this warehouse-type structure is ominous in appearance and almost Fascist in design - but in a good way. Commanding constant attention from its perch over bustling 9th avenue, I am reminded of Milan's main train station, Milano Centrale - vast, square, enthralling yet intimidating and still strangely welcoming at the same time.

Contrary to pop culture's advice, at Buddakan, you do want to go into the light, you absolutely do. This is a decision for which you will be greatly rewarded.

Beyond the giant Double Doors, a small "white" room leads you to main room anchored by a "front desk" of hostesses that I would compare to a hotel concierge.

Once you "check in", your cacophonous culinary journey begins at the jam-packed bar area that is as much a weigh station for the clearly hungry as it is for the overtly thirsty. Amidst the steady tide of trance beats and lounge tracks, clamorous bar chatter and an overall positive, zen-like energy envelopes the room. This onslaught of sight and sound subsides as quickly as it initially consumes you as the metronomic vibe of the bar swiftly transitions to a cathedral dining room, to which access is granted only by navigating the grand descending staircase. As beautiful as it is treacherous for those who've had a few drinks at the bar, the stairs are a portal to the next stage of this culinary journey.

And yet as much as I'm impressed with the dashing ornaments that adorn the walls, and the lavish light fixtures that barely illuminate the space, I obviously remember that I've come to Buddakan for the food. Let's not forget that.

As is the case with Starr's flagship concept of "Global Tapas" featured at Philadelphia's epic Continental, the pace and cadence of the meal at Buddakan is constant, capricious, and entirely exhilarating. You never know what you're getting, and when, which makes it easy to forget what you even ordered to begin with. It is for this reason that no two meals at Buddakan can ever be truly the same - and that in and of itself, is a wonderful attribute to this downtown demon of delectation.

And so the meal begins...

We were first regaled with the King Crab Sui Mei (below left), Buddakan's twist on a Dim Sum classic, pairing succulent king crab with oil-glistened strips of roasted red pepper in a dumpling-type format. Albeit less exciting, just as satisfying were the pork pot-stickers, which arrived as you'd expect, accompanied by a tart soy vinegar for dipping. This sort of luxury sistered with simplicity represents the exact culinary dichotomy of style and flavor that makes the entire Buddakan experience that much more enthralling than your usual night at the dinner table. The Sui Mei, though small in stature, scream with flavor, while the much less flamboyant pot-stickers are just as successful in imploring you to reach for another bite, if not more so. But that would defeat the purpose of what Buddakan is all about. At a meal designed to accentuate variety, your worst enemy is the need for quantity. In saying that, I reluctantly move on.

Equally duplicitous, and without question thoroughly more indulgent, was the next culinary coupling comprising the Boneless Spare Ribs (Below left), and the Lobster Spring rolls (Below right).

The Boneless Spare Ribs were the perfect mix of sweet, tangy, and tender, and disappeared from the table in less than a minute. That said, the Lobster Spring Rolls, while undoubtedly tasty and rich in lobster goodness, seemed all too predictable in presentation. Disappointed in the quantity (yes in this case quantity matters), and looking for more, my vacuous discomfort was remedied, at least in part, by a dipping sauce that was probably too spicy for everyone else at the table but me. Points for that.

On to the Hoisin Glazed Pork Belly (below left), which was probably my favorite dish of the entire night. Thick, bacon-like slabs of fatty, salty pork belly ensconced in a viscous sheath of tangy Hoisin sauce, sit comfortably on a bed of crisp cabbage. The accompanying steamed buns, in their familiar "flopped-over" shape, are light, airy, and "deflatable" in a sort of cotton candy way, and are an excellent vessel for enjoying the crunch of the cabbage against the salty tartness of the pork. At this stage of the meal, I would venture to say the pork belly was the fan favorite and was going to be tough to beat.

Conversely, probably the most disappointing, most mundane dish of the night, was the Lobster Fried Rice (below right). Having enjoyed incredibly decadent Lobster Mashed Potatoes at Continental last summer, which stills warrant discussion from time to time, we were only being fair in maintaining high hopes that Starr's culinary klan would do similar justice to fried rice, an even more hackneyed food stuff that has managed to infiltrate the ever-devolving American diet.

Unfortunately, the Lobster Fried Rice, which boasted crispy scallops and celery on the menu, was tasteless, dry, and downright inexplicably boring. To say the lobster was used sparingly here would be as gross an understatement as saying President Obama tends to be long-winded. For those morsels that did make it to the final plating, they were diminutive and forgettable, perched atop a bed of rice that did nothing for the lobster, or me for that matter, and didn't seem to resemble fried rice in any way shape or form. In fairness, my dislike for the dish is exacerbated by the fact that a lackluster rice situation would've been mitigated by the presence of sumptuous, obscenely succulent hunks of Lobster. In this case, no such hunks existed, and for as much as this plate costs, that's simply a shame.

Having handled just the small plates portion of the meal and now past my disappointment in the lobster friend rice, we rounded out the night with two large entrees. First, the Szechuan Crusted NY Ribeye (below), a handsome hunk of meat wearing a spicy crust, hacked into 6 sizable pieces, and dabbling its "toes" in a tangy pool of dark jus. Golden brown "Turnip Fries", fish-stick like in form, are a much welcome low-carb alternative to the plate, paying homage to the hearty, earthy richness of this under-appreciated root vegetable by surrounding it with a little crunch for good measure. This dish is a true exemplar of Buddakan's undeniable ability to take the familiar and make it pleasurably unfamiliar.

Along the same lines of creativity, the grilled Pork Tenderloin (Below) was delicately grilled, and sliced in similar fashion to the Ribeye, joined by Chinese bacon and "Beijing eggplant". Tender, properly cooked, and sopped in an incredible sweet jus, this dish just solidifies my feeling that Buddakan's respect for protein is of the utmost importance in its quest for injecting Asian flare into American tradition.

As is the case at most, if not all, of the restaurants in Starr's ever expanding empire, dining at Buddakan is a regal experience that provides a feast for all the senses. Long before its Sex and the City cameo, this monster in the Meatpacking District has successfully brought meaning to the term "Asian Fusion", using smart flavor combinations in tandem with careful moderation to create intelligent food that is not only pretty, but exceptionally flavorful.

I applaud Starr Restaurant Organization for making Buddakan an epic experience that is without effrontery. Pop culture fuels an overall perception of large-scale dining in New York that has all but written off the possibility of an extraordinary yet straightforward meal in an even more extraordinary setting. Through Buddakan, lives on the fighting spirit that will always remind us that in the biggest city in the world, big, quite honestly, is often better.

Size does matter and I'd be wary of anyone who tells you otherwise.

Buddakan (map it)
75 9th Ave, New York, NY‎
(212) 989-6699‎
Food: A (beautiful food with even more beautiful flavors - save for the Lobster Fried Rice)
Ambiance: A (extravagant and opulent but comfortable at the same time)
Service: A (impeccable, attentive, accommodating at all times)
In a thought: "At Buddakan, you can't help but think bigger is better."

Minetta Tavern First Look: Everything Old is New Again (And Expensive!)

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 11:52:00 +0000

Given the fact that I essentially live across the street from Minetta Tavern, I have, albeit rather nonchalantly, been keeping tabs on its progress. Easily the most anticipated opening of the year thus far, this fully renovated landmark, the latest brainchild of Keith McNally, the man behind the brunch bombshells Balthazar, Pastis, and Schiller's, has caused quite a stir within the culinary community.

That said, there are perks to living on MacDougal Street that span far beyond being able to crush a $4 Falafel at Yatagan's at 3 in the morning - and one of them is knowing when Minetta Tavern would finally be open to the public. Tonight it was. And I was there.

There is nothing on the the outside of the new Minetta that would indicate it's actually open. The old neon sign still hangs precariously over the corner of Minetta Lane and MacDougal, shining brightly as if completely unaware that it not only proudly introduces New Minetta, but also celebrates Old Minetta.

Inside, the space is dim, tight and quaint. Old time jazz and parlor music hums in the background amidst bustling chatter at the regal mahogany bar that lines the narrow front room of long narrow space, neither separating itself from the dining room area in the back, nor ignoring it either. The black and white checkered floor agrees with the black-paneled walls which are covered thoroughly with pencil-sketched caricatures of various male and female personalities from yesteryear.

The decor is impeccable - focused and relevant without seeming "themed" or deliberate. It actually feels cool in here. I was beginning to feel at home as I reveled in knowing that so much effort had gone into making something new, feel old, in a new way.

Keeping it short, Meghan and I ordered the Minetta Burger and the Pat LaFrieda "Black Label" Burger respectively; hers (the 1st picture below), a more buxom, rotund, and generally impressive specimen than my own, arrived topped with an oozing melange of cheddar and caramelized onions, on a flaky, brioche-type bun. Meanwhile, my "Black Label" Burger (2nd below) was remarkably small, almost diminutive, arriving on the same type of buttery flaky bun that in this case, completely overwhelmed the ridiculously small patty.

In all honesty, the "Black Label" Burger although tasty and cooked medium rare as I had requested, was WAY undersized, and entirely hidden by the large doming bun. At a whopping $26 dollars, I actually was astonished at how small and impish the thing was. Of course the sprawling helping of pommes frittes that accompanied it didn't help in this department either. That in mind, Meghan's Minetta Burger, almost 40% cheaper at $16, packed 100% more punch in terms of flavor, texture, and overall ability to satiate the mind and body. No doubt a far better burger for a much better price.

Ounce for ounce, penny for penny, the Minetta Burger destroys its super-uber-gourmet counterpart. Furthermore, and I don't think I'm being unreasonable here, If I'm going to spend $26 on a hamburger, it had better change my life in some way shape or form, otherwise I just feel stupid and cheated. Sadly, Minetta's incarnation of the now famous La Frieda "Black Label" burger meat, despite all its hype, severely misses the mark. I blame this not on the meat itself, but the overall presentation and extent to which it is used. I implore Mr. McNally to be a bit more liberal with his portions and discard the "less is more", check that, "less is enough" approach. It's frustrating and unnecessary - and of course incensing when you have to cough up almost $30 for it. Mind you I say this after blowing $18 bucks on 2 poached eggs perched atop Polenta at Balthazar on Sunday. I may be a little bitter - it was good, but once again not worth the money.

That said, outside of the burgers, the rest of the menu is categorically French, featuring a handful of classic Bistro dishes that seem more haughty than hunger-inducing, though the steaks from the "Grillade" sound promising. To that end, the entire ambiance is unequivocally French, almost too French in fact. I generally appreciate the bistro feel, as well as the extremely accommodating staff, yet I wonder if the new Minetta is a bit too prissy for its own good, maybe trying too hard to cull the calls of the elite with foie gras and steak tar tar, without simultaneously offending the earthly desires of the traditional downtowners who seek nothing more than a burger that will make them feel good about themselves.

In the end, I must return to Minetta in the near future. Having been its unofficial soft opening I can only expect that adjustments to the menu and modifications in the portions will take place, hopefully inducing change for the better.

In the meantime, this be the last time I spend $26 on a burger. That much I can assure you.

Minetta Tavern
113 MacDougal St (@ Minetta Ln)
212-475-3850

Food (Burgers): B (Only had the two burgers on the menu, both of which were good, neither of which was amazing)
Ambiance: B- (Old-fashioned speakeasy meets French Bistro that seemed just a tad stuffy for the 'hood)
Service: A- (attentive, if not overly attentive, bordering on obsequious- though we did feel as though they were miffed by our decision to pass on cocktails - that I didn't like)

Artisanal Sin: Doubting Di Fara Pizza

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 02:16:00 +0000

Brooklyn's almighty Di Fara Pizzeria makes an exceptional pie that is, for lack of a more elegant expression, overrated.

There I said it.

I realize that within the Church of New York Pizza, this comment is pure blasphemy; perhaps the culinary equivalent of Sinead O'Connor's infamous "Pope picture-tearing" incident on Saturday Night Live many years ago.

Regardless of persuasion, nobody was fond of her behavior and as it pertains to the pizza at Di Fara, I'm not so sure the situation is any different. The unconditional adoration and worship for Di Fara's world renowned pies has been accepted as doctrine, employing an overt dogma against which no eater, much less an ubereater, shall ever dare speak.

Initially, it seems silly to compare being critical of Di Fara to the public denunciation of an ancient religion. However when you consider the countless articles, awards, honors, magazine covers, message board discussions, web sites, and office debates that worship at the alter of this 45-year old pizzeria, the analogy clearly holds water.

That said, despite whatever deluge of nasty comments and incisive invective spewed my way by die hard pizza puritans in response to what I have to say, I must, in the name of true ubereating, stand by my position - a position which asserts that Di Fara, albeit superior to the 98% of pizza out there, is, at this stage in the game, moderately overrated.

Now let me explain.

First and foremost, it behooves me to make the distinction between the pizza itself as its own (edible) entity and Di Fara's the institution as an overall experience. The former is the subject of my critique, while the latter is as inspiring and uplifting as I could have ever imagined.

To be frank, I find myself much more enamored with Di Fara the experience than Di Fara the pizza.

Beyond the revolving-door restaurant scene of Manhattan, this eternally saluted pizza parlor on the corner of Avenue J and 15th street in the South Brooklyn neighborhood of Midwood, has managed to rule New York pizza for more than four decades. Very few eating establishments, if any, have been able to enjoy for so long, the elusive combination of unwavering critical acclaim and rabidly loyal public support the way Di Fara has. This pizzeria is the proverbial Crown Jewel of a New York food empire that is perpetually infatuated with its past while constantly wary of its future.

Only 9 miles from Houston Street on Avenue J, replete with Kosher food stores and Eastern European restaurants and bakeries, Midwood feels like another world, a fifth dimension of sorts, unamused and disinterested with the Manhattanite machinations and malaise that preoccupy so many of us on the other side of the East River.

Inside, semi-turquoise green walls add contrast to the mosaic of magazine covers, newspaper clippings, and feature articles that celebrate the rich history and accomplishments of this immortal pizzeria. The severely weathered floor, too, is yet another bold reminder of the extent of history you're working with here.

Nostalgia aside, without question the overall Di Fara experience, however extraordinarily classic and honest it may be, is quite the bizarre endeavor for even the most seasoned of restaurant goers like myself. Getting from ordering to eating is an interesting journey to say the least and unlike anything I've ever seen.

Having arrived at noon on a Sunday, I walked into an almost entirely empty room, where owner, founder, and sole pizzaiola, Domenick DeMarco, and his nameless assistant were milling around behind the L-shaped counter - neither acknowledging each other nor my friend and me upon our entrance. The assistant rather quietly mumbled something without any sort of eye contact that indicated he would take my order, which he then scribbled on a blank notepad before requesting my initials as the call letters for the pie.

Now - you wait. For how long? Well nobody knows - except for Mr. DeMarco of course.

At Di Fara there is minimal communication between the buyer and the seller which means you pretty much stand there and watch Mr. DeMarco work his magic. And what magic it is. I am inclined to liken the entire ordering and waiting portion of the experience to the DMV - everybody is there for the same reason, yet no one really looks like they know where to go or what to do next. You are truly at the behest of the people running the place. Sadly, at Di Fara, the same is true.

My dining partner and I closely observed (along with everyone else) as this laconic older man, still hindered by a recent knee injury (and wearing a brace to prove it), shuffled laboriously between making pizza at one station, dismounting pies atop the front counter (where the final cutting takes place), and feverishly monitoring the works in progress in the ovens. It was tedious, mesmerizing, and relaxing to watch all at the same time. Mr. DeMarco is so deliberate and gingerly in his movement that you can't help but become enthralled with his stilted self-discipline to concentrate on one pie, and one pie only at any given time. I marveled at the sight of the man shredding and grating cheese specifically for each pie.

In fact I almost forgot about wondering which pizza was mine. Almost.

It wasn't long before the the crowd started to build, and what had begun as two distinct populations soon became one, as those posturing to "transmit" their order and those waiting for their prized pie, ultimately merged into a gelatinous, overly attentive pizza-pining mob. The docile atmosphere swiftly morphed into an "everyman-for-himself" environment in which looming impatience seemed to be getting the better of the majority of those standing in wait. I constantly repositioned myself to be able to shamelessly eyeball every pie that came out of the oven...with the hopes of it being mine of course.

Finally, when the pie was ready, Mr. DeMarco slowly extracted his famous work of art from the oven and proceeded to make the treacherous 5 foot trip to what I call the "cutting counter". There he divided his piping hot creation into 8 slices, cutting one half into 4, then cutting the other half into another 4 - an unusual method compared to the traditional 4 sweeping cuts across the diameter of the pie. At this point, I thought the pie was ready for the taking, but no...it wasn't. Instead it had to undergo a series of three finishing steps.

First, Mr. DeMarco, using a decanter he had to have stolen from the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz, applies a haphazardly heavy-handed does of extra virgin oil all over the pie. This I just absolutely loved - it brought a smile to my face.

He then retrieves a cluster of tightly packed basil from his work station across the way and uses a pair of shears to create basil clippings that are spread unevenly across the surface area of the pie.

Lastly, comes the pies de resistance: Mr. DeMarco christens the pie with a heaping handful of grated cheese, takes a good look at his creation, smiles ever so slightly, and then like a proud father watching his son score his first touchdown, nods his head with genuine approval. The pie is now officially "confirmed", and thus fit for immediate consumption.

Baptized, anointed, blessed, whatever it was, it was ready to be eaten, and we wasted no time.

In short, the pizza was delicious and gone in less than 5 minutes. What I truly loved about Di Fara's round pie is the gluttonous oiliness of it all. I've always loved my pies on the oily side, and Di Fara's post-operative application of extra virgin is much appreciated.

Furthermore, the combination of freshly snipped basil and fresh grated cheese is quickly enveloped and cooked by the residual heat of the pizza, allowing for the basil to wilt and release its aromatics while the cheese begins to loses its consistency and mesh with everything else on the pie. The most remarkable aspect of the Di Fara pie is that, because of Mr. DeMarco's extremely manual creative process, no two slices, let alone two pizzas, are the same. One slice may be super-infused with fresh basily goodness, while another may have suffered (enjoyed) a wollop of grated cheese. Two very different slices from one very incongruous pie.

I have not a doubt in my mind that Di Fara's round pie is one of the best to ever pass my lips. Yet as I enjoyed this artisanal classic, I couldn't help but feel a little underwhelmed. Given its marked oiliness, Di Fara's is an extremely wet pie which made for a couple sloppy slices whose crust completely gave out under the density of the melted cheese and red gravy. A thicker, more robust crust would remedy this immediately, giving the pie not just a solid foundation, but a better platform on which to showcase these ridiculously fresh ingredients.

Along the lines of the crust, I felt as though the dough was a bit tasteless, or at the very least, lacking the necessary yeasty punch that elevates the pie as a whole. In fact, I thought the dough was a non-entity in the grand scheme of things, arriving decidedly dry and burnt. Now in fairness, I've always failed to see the rationale behind a well done pie, but regardless, the dough around the perimeter was too cracker-like and crunchy. Again, I think Mr. DeMarco's creations would benefit greatly from a marginally thicker, more risen crust that would add an element of doughiness that this pie sorely needs.

All that said, probably the most salient reason for my mild disappointment was pie's inability to fully satiate me. Having eaten 4 slices in about 2 minutes, I just didn't feel that surge of satisfaction when it was all said and done.

Because of this intangible emptiness, and in light of the library of coverage and commendations dedicated to extolling the perfection of Di Fara's round creation, I couldn't help but feel as though the pie was overrated. Undeniably wonderful, but inexplicably unsatisfying.

Everything Di Fara represents as a pizzeria, and more broadly, an eating institution, is what I love about spending every free second of my time experiencing and consuming the best of what this city has to offer. While I truly wanted to be able to unequivocally crown this sacred pie THE best pizza in New York, my intuition just would not allow it. It's far too easy to agree with greatness than to question it.

It may not be the most popular of suggestions, but I would ask New York's learned pizza community to consider the possibility that years of incessant recognition, oodles of accolades, and draping swaths of loving praise have left us drunk on Di Fara, effectively all but entirely muting the modern culinary realm's much needed yet oft-missing voice of objectivity.

Even so, while I'm certainly not drunk on Di Fara's, I still wouldn't mind being full on it.

Di Fara Pizza (map it)
1424 Avenue J, Brooklyn NY 11230
718-258-1367

The Deal:
Pizza: A-
Service: N/A (there is none)
Ambiance: C (If it weren't for the smell of pizza dough and the anticipation in the air, I'd deem it depressing)
In a thought: Despite easily destroying 99% of pizza that's out there, Di Fara's won't keep you up at night. Artichoke Basille will."

At Belcourt Culinary Justice is Served

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Despite having previously vilified the implicit superficiality of brunch as an overall concept, I have actually come to very much enjoy eating a late breakfast, or what is in my mind, an early lunch designed for those of us who like the option of eating something breakfast-like in minutes approaching high noon. In fact, I'm beginning to realize that instead of self-righteously dwelling on its snooty social connotations and supposed culinary shortfalls, I should revel in Brunch's astounding flexibility as perhaps our most accommodating, albeit man-made, meals of the day.

Why, in the name of the Lord, did I ever lament the likability of this hybridized meal that before Noon, affords me the option to either pony up to a bib-worthy burger, or attack an artful plate of perfectly cooked eggs accompanied by the usual cured meats and other sweet and savory accoutrement? For a guy like me, whose specific culinary wants and needs are unscrupulously independent of the time of day, Brunch has been waving the white the flag in front of my face for a quite a while now, and I've simply failed to see it. Obviously, this popular meal comes in peace - presenting itself as friend, not foe.

That said, I strongly believe the initial ruse that may have spurred the entire idea of brunch (cosmeticized, if not complicated versions of traditional breakfast food offered at lofty prices), has been all but completely eradicated by our city's astute and endlessly demanding culinary community that will no longer stand for such gastronomic guise. As this culinary coup d'etat runs its course, "Brunch" as a fixture in our weekly routine, has undergone a marked rebirth which has rendered a meal once revered for its majesty, a more accessible, down-to-earth, yet still other wordly version of its old self. This is a transformation in the right direction - progression and not regression it seems.

Given its transition from haute to humble, brunch is working its way toward grabbing the title of most exciting, or most satisfying meal of the day, thanks to an increasing number of restaurants, both established and up and coming, looking to showcase their fare through more far-reaching, conductive mediums to which today's culinary society enjoy carte blanch access. As food of all varieties, exotic and otherwise, achieves unprecedented levels of accessibility across all ranks of society, a period of "prandial proliferation" has clearly taken shape. Brunch menus across the city are growing up fast, reinventing themselves by doing away with the fusty, hackneyed, hand-me downs of generations prior, like Eggs Benedict and Quiche Lorraine, for a more germane gallimaufry of gastronomic goodies that are light, locally-borne, and in more and more cases, made from scratch...the right way.

Easily the most pointed exemplar of this growing trend is the East Village's soft-spoken Belcourt, whose simple, succinct, fresh-centric food makes for a Brunch experience that falls in my top 3 of all time.

Bold statement indeed, but it's the truth.

Stationed at the corner of 4th street and 2nd avenue, Belcourt's sea green signage adds much needed color to a somewhat transitional section of the southwestern East Village that generally speaking, feels more "proudly unemployed Lower East Side", than "Daddy pays my Rent" East Village - (you can head north to St. Marks Place for that).

Much like the wrought-iron street-side window treatments, an acoustically imperfect, micro-tiled, sun-drenched dining room full of commingled tables and chairs, together create an element of gritty intrigue and comfort that immediately bodes well for things to come. Thanks to floor-to-ceiling french doors, the room is rife with natural light, which helps highlight the beautiful marble counter near the entrance, on which vibrant bowls of fresh citrus and other fruits stand at the ready. Just going on looks, Belcourt passes with flying colors, managing to aesthetically please without seeming disingenuous. A great start to say the least.

On the flip side, and what's most telling about this fairly young spot, is amidst this backdrop of regalia and Iberian instinct, is a young, insightful approach to food that could not be more refreshing.

Remarkably, Belcourt's brunch offerings comprise an artfully even-keeled collection of traditional favorites, rich classics, and ethnic standouts that emphasizes farm-fresh quality without sacrificing variety. The menu is high-end without being haughty, smart without being smarmy, and most of all, accommodating without being patronizing. Whether you crave the Saturday morning simplicity of Eggs your Way with a side of Sausage, seek the subtle sweet and salty symbiosis of a classically prepared Croque Madame with house-cured lamb and Mornay Sauce, or need to enjoy the opulence of Oysters with Shallot Mignonette, Belcourt manages to covers all its culinary bases - and well at that.

Impossible to miss about this impressive fare is the fact that the term "house-made" pops up almost on every line of the menu, from the trio of sausage, to the ricotta, to just about everything else. It is always a treat to experience food made the old-fashioned way - with love and pride - when it's at its best.

After equivocating for far too long, I made the difficult decision to pass on the burger (which boasts zucchini pickles, spicy ketchup, and a home-made bun - in and of itself a reason to return), and instead, elected to go with eggs, specifically the shirred eggs - a wise decision to say the least.

Officially referred to as "shirred", which is culinary parlance for the process of baking eggs until set, Belcourt's creation arrives as a sort of casserole-like concoction of mapled-cured bacon, earthy mushrooms, and fresh spinach, bound together by a trio of sunny-side up unshelled eggs cooked until almost fully set, and dressed with a last-minute showering of finely shaved tangy Manchego cheese (Below). The perfectly cooked eggs give each bite an element of yolky, runny goodness, that is counteracted by the semi-firm set whites that contribute form and structure to the dish. Obviously for those last few bites, the accompanying slice of crunchy grilled bread is the perfect solution for sopping up any remaining deliciousness at the bottom of the still-warm ramekin. This was simply exquisite.

Curiously complementary to my eggs, given its more savory ways, was the duo of house-made pork sausage patties served with tart, tingly, winy Dijon mustard for dipping. Char-grilled and sporting the cross-marks to prove it, the coarsely ground , loosely assembled pork patties are slider-like in shape and gladly crumble into toothsome tender morsels of well-seasoned pork, fat, and various other spices that are used minimally.

The puckering tartness gained from a healthy dunk in the Dijon is a nice way to handle the meatiness of the fresh pork, a flavor combination that smacks violently of the kind of German comfort food you wish you ate more often. At least that's how I feel. These patties are the exact reason why I love house-made sausage, or anything pork-related for that matter, showing themselves as thoroughly artisanal, incongruous, oblong discs of damned deliciousness. It's actually criminal that all this flavor and texture comes with a mere $5 price tag. I can't say I was ever a huge fan of this type of pork with mustard (no...Hot Dogs obviously don't count), but this sort of coupling of texture and flavor, of salt and tart, is the kind I would look to enjoy in the confines of my own kitchen- it's that good.

On the sweeter side, and just as satisfying, were the buttermilk biscuits, which arrive as bumpy, freakishly fibrotic still-oven-warm morsels of crusty dough topped with a restrained (let's call it skimpy) dollop of house-made ricotta cheese and blueberry preserves. These unusually airy biscuits were exceptional on all fronts except for one...quantity. We literally almost fought over the few remaining crumbs wallowing in the semi-sweet mix of preserves and ricotta. Unlike so many versions out there today, Belcourt's are super buttery without being so flaky that they completely disintegrate to the touch and thus become impossible to eat without looking like an idiot.

Brunch at Belcourt is undoubtedly akin to the way we should all live our lives. It is an eating experience that revolves around food that asserts the importance of being as genuine, true-to-form, and honest on the inside as on the outside. Between fresh ingredients, proper execution, and an undeniable love for quality food, Belcourt's culinary contribution spans well beyond the confines of our finicky food world, teaching us a valuable lesson:

Not only shall food be indulgent and decadent without being indiscriminate, but so shall our lives.

Belcourt (map it)
84 E 4th St, New York, NY‎
(212) 979-2034‎

Food: A
Ambiance: A
Service: A
In a thought: "Brunch as I had always imagined it would be."

Basking in the Sun Ray Pizza: North Jersey's Beacon of Pizza Individuality

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 12:00:00 +0000

Since I've been on somewhat of a pizza kick lately, and I'm always looking to provide due recognition to the many Pizza Pie's around which my childhood seemed to revolve as a growing boy in North Jersey, it's time I say a few words about an operation that is as humble as it is delicious. And so I'd like to honor Sun Ray Pizza for more than a decade of consistently spot-on pies that truly thrive in a league of their own.

Mere yards away from the local NJ Transit train tracks in the historic Passaic County town of Little Falls, Sun Ray feels like another world despite being only a mile away from the non-stop, all too familiar action of nearby Willowbrook Mall. Attached to the back of an Italian restaurant that has seen a few name changes over the years, this tiny pizzeria's expansive, loyal customer base has always obviated any need to ditch its peculiar, almost aloof location on an industrially zoned road outside the town center, for a bigger, for marketable space.

This is quite remarkable considering Sun Ray, over course of its 10+ years of existence serving the surrounding area, has remained a strictly take-out only establishment. Understandably then, you would expect this place to be tiny and outfitted accordingly. In fact, in the traditional sense of the word, it would be inaccurate to call Sun Ray a pizzeria; it's more of a pizza purveyor, a Just-In-Time warehouse designed to field an incessant flow of ad-hoc telephone orders for their dastardly delicious pizza pie. There are no booths, no stools, no gumball machines, no nothing - except for two refrigerators full of soft drinks, a lonely chair nestled in the corner, and a counter for transacting.

In keeping with its quiet, confident self-schema on the outside, the group of guys that work here on the inside, are a pretty tight-lipped bunch, not only with the customers, but among themselves as well. You walk-in, tell them your order # (which they give you over the phone), and then you wait in quiet, as you observe the team of 4 behind the counter put on a spectacular juggling act that involves tending to an ever-ringing phone, organizing and tagging pick-up orders, and making sure not to over cook the goods in the oven.

What's more enjoyable along the course of this wait, is the unbelievably soothing, almost hypnotic aroma of yeasty dough that permeates the entire store. Here, the name of the game is the 24-slice sheet pie, which is cooked on a large tray, but is split in half and placed into two boxes for transport.

Watching the skilled man behind the counter carefully check the doneness of my pie, before artfully dissecting and dismounting this rectangular work of art into two boxes, still makes me giddy after all these years.

The pie itself is probably unlike anything you've had. In terms of girth, Sun Ray's sheet pie falls at the midpoint between Sicilian and Grandma-Style - neither boasting the doughy, chewy bulk of the former, nor offering the cracker-like, buttery, flaky crunch of the latter. In essence, this polygon of pizza perfection could be considered a true hybrid, a new species of pie not yet officially classified by the pizza powers that be the rule of this fanatical community.

The outer crust is of medium width wearing a light-brown char on the outside that provides enough crunch to remind me of a traditional sweet pie crust -- buttery, but not flaky by any means, and yet able to avoid that waferish texture. Beyond the perimeter, and toward the middle, the dough assumes more of a "thin crust" identity, packing a bit more crunch than chew, acting as a perfect platform for a sweeping layer of slightly burnt cheese that is eerily satisfying coupled with a more moderate, albeit sufficient, dose of sweet red gravy.

Though we always get a sheet pie, we usually opt for half pepperoni. As a rule of thumb, I don't like to oilify my pie with uber-salty 'roni as I liken it to putting salt directly on pasta, but Sun Ray's is one of the few pies out there that reaches the next level in the presence of this almighty cured meat product. This is probably because Sun Ray employs giant, thinly-sliced saucers of salty sumptuousness to adorn its sheet pies, instead of the traditional carrot-stick variety chopped into thick "buttons" that end up recoiling and burning in the oven. Without question, Sun Ray is the only pizza I eat today with pepperoni on it. And that's a fact.

A closer look at the pepperoni pies demonstrates Sun Ray's liberal use of dried herbs in its melted melange of red-gravy and cheese, an additional flavor profile that cannot go unnoticed. (Below)
When it comes to pizza, I have always felt as though there exists a pie for every occasion. In a North Jersey culinary arena that supports its fair share of pizza joints, I was fortunate growing up to have at my disposal a collection of pies varied enough to suit whatever mood I happened to be in. Sun Ray's sheet is truly unique, to the point where comparing it to anything else in the area would almost be unfair. It is unlike anything else, nor does it want to be anything else other than a delicious, crunchy, chewy, sweet and salty conglomeration of pepperoni-infused greatness.

And I can certainly tell you I'm always in the mood for that.

Sun Ray Pizza (map it)
(973)257-0304

Pizza: A (You can't NOT like it)
Ambiance: N/A
Service: N/A
In a thought: "Quiet confidence makes for a loud, boisterous pie that smacks of individuality."

The East Village's Luzzo's Pizza Pie Leaves Much to Be Desired

noreply@blogger.com (The Übereater) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 12:30:00 +0000

We all know my affinity for the almighty Pizza Pie and everything for which it stands. It is both pedestrian and regal; down-to-earth while remaining extraordinary, and possesses an unmatched ability to satiate my mind and my body in a way no other morsel of deliciousness can. But this is old news at this point; what isn't (old news) is my continuing efforts to check off from my list of "must-visit", every once-talked-about pizza joint in the City.

It seem as though I find myself dragging my feet when it comes to keeping up with New York's pizza scene. I can't say I do a good job of staying on the cutting edge of the next great slice, and much of that is probably due to my absolutely hating having to brave the long lines and overcrowded dining rooms that usually come with a new, buzz-worthy joint.

My relationship with pizza is a strange thing. While I absolutely love engaging in a disgusting, upper palette-singeing, stomach-bloating, crust remnant-piling extravaganza that is as uncouth as it is euphoric, at the same time, I have to be in the mood for this sort of slovenly stint of selfishness in order for it to actually happen. As the Ubereater, eating pizza is serious business, an epicurean endeavor not meant to be taken lightly.

It is for this reason that I have yet to check off of my short list a handful of pizza joints that dominate the daily dialogue among the city's learned culinary circles. I am of course, referring to ageless classics like Brooklyn fixtures Di Fara's and Grimaldi's, as well as renowned newcomers like Franny's in Park Slope, Lucali in Carroll Gardens, and East Village juggernauts Artichoke Basille and Una Pizza Napoletana. Beyond the typical Lombardi's-John's-Patsy's realm, these drive the conversation, and yet I've only eaten at one (Artichoke).

What's interesting is that once you get past these household names, the scene in the City gets a little murky as you wade in a pool of second tier pizzeria's that seem to garner a mixed response among the community. Outside of the direct spotlight, it is these spots that enjoy an element of anonymity marked by ambiguity that is both a blessing and a curse - a blessing to be able to operate under the radar - a curse to not to be able to get the radar's attention. A perfect example is Luzzo's in the East Village, a chat-worthy establishment in the pizza-centric EV that has seemingly disappointed as many as it has impressed. (Though I'm starting to believe that I overestimated the latter.) In the mood, hungry, and open-minded, I finally had the opportunity to experience Luzzo's, in all its apparent ambivalence. I can finally scratch it off the list...and for good at that.

Occupying a tiny sliver of partially gentrified 1st Avenue, Luzzo's is missable if you're not looking for it. Aesthetically, this Italian-run business has all the trappings of charming pizzeria - tall wooden booths running along each side of the narrow space, ample, somewhat rustic artwork tastefully dressing the walls, and an overall coziness to the surroundings. Without question, thought was put into what's going on here, on a visual level anyway. Still, and I'm being picky here perhaps, but the decision to blast a local rock station over the sound system as opposed to some nice Bocelli, or Italian Rock like Eros Ramazzotti was a bit annoying. Not that this is something that would prevent me from enjoying the pie (the pie would be the culprit for that), but nevertheless, it was duly noted. It is never my intention to be picayune about these sorts of things, but I really don't need to hear Bon Jovi's "It's My Life" at ear drum-popping levels while I wait for my pie. The song was already annoying to begin with.

And what about that pie?

In short, it was alright I suppose, at least first, but realistically, Luzzo's is a huge let-down. Our large "Salsiccia", which was tomato, mozzy, basil, and obviously sausage, did not warrant its $22 price tag. (Below)

At first glance, the pie is enticing, if not completely promising sporting a well-charred crust, large pads of mozzy, asysmmetrically distributed globules of sausage, and a moderate dose of red gravy, highlighted by a few sprigs of fresh basil. All in all, a comely creation, but as we all should've learned, comeliness comes next to tastiness...sometimes.

To its credit, the Salsiccia was generously topped, though somewhat all for naught. The main problem here is that the dough is essentially tasteless, and without any defining texture or character. It is neither yeasty, nor floury, nor crunchy, nor flaky, but simply there. It was almost as if the dough was a complete afterthought, failing to act as the foundation of flavor for the pizza. What's more, though its use is always appreciated, the mozzy, and the whole pie in general, was grossly undercooked, making for a mushy mouth feel.

To be fair, you may hear me say I love my pies slightly undercooked, and in certain establishments I do, but Luzzo's dough is not nearly eccentric enough to exhibit itself if taken out of the oven a few minutes early.

To that extent then, I would submit that the Luzzo's pie, left in the oven for a few more minutes, would be a drastically better piece of work, boasting a crunchy crust, and more thoroughly cooked components, that together do a much better job of coming together.

As is usually the case, vetting the middle-of-the-road pies in the City can either be mind-blowing and self-satisfying, or entirely underwhelming. As I said before, these second-tiers players bear the onus of not only decrying the constant criticism from many for being overrated, but also fighting to garner the retro-active credit for being grossly underrated.

In an East Village pizza scene that is only getting more competitive, I had hoped Luzzo's pie would be grounded and honest enough to afford itself the luxury of not even bothering with the spotlight-sucking likes of Artichoke and Una Pizza Napoletana. A sturdy, "dirtier' pie, in a simple, trattoria-type setting (kill the rock music), offered at a reasonable price ($20+ is a bit much) would've been just what the EV needed to dilute the growing effrontery of Una Pizza Napoletana's self-involved DOC "masterpieces", and Artichoke's egregious disregard for time management. But Luzzo's doesn't do this, and instead, serves a "fashion" pie: easy on the eyes, until you put it on, or in this case, in your mouth.

Quite a mistake when you realize that, unlike just about every other facet of NYC, when it comes to Pizza, good looks on their own, just won't cut it.

Luzzo's (map it)
Pie: C+ - Handsome, but lacking flavor, and texture, too salty
Ambiance: C - Comforting at first, then a bit grating thanks to blasting music
Service: A - Courteous, swift, and attentive
In a thought: "Easily encouraging at first, and as easily disappointing after."